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Far From The Madding Crowd
By
Thomas Hardy
Contents
CHAPTER I - DESCRIPTI=
ON OF
FARMER OAK--AN INCIDENT
CHAPTER II - NIGHT--T=
HE
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 - RECOGNI=
TION--A
TIMID GIRL
CHAPTER VIII - THE
MALTHOUSE--THE CHAT--NEWS
CHAPTER IX - THE HOME=
STEAD--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 SAI=
NTS' AND
ALL SOULS'
CHAPTER XVII - IN THE MARKET-PLACE
CHAPTER XVIII - BOLDW=
OOD IN
MEDITATION--REGRET
CHAPTER XIX - THE
SHEEP-WASHING--THE OFFER
CHAPTER XX -
PERPLEXITY--GRINDING THE SHEARS--A QUARREL.
CHAPTER XXI - TROUBLE=
S IN THE
FOLD--A MESSAGE
CHAPTER XXII - THE GR=
EAT BARN
AND THE SHEEP-SHEARERS
CHAPTER XXIII - EVENT=
IDE--A
SECOND DECLARATION
CHAPTER XXIV - THE SA=
ME
NIGHT--THE FIR PLANTATION
CHAPTER XXV - THE NEW
ACQUAINTANCE DESCRIBED
CHAPTER XXVI - SCENE =
ON THE
VERGE OF THE HAY-MEAD
CHAPTER XXVII - HIVIN=
G THE
BEES
CHAPTER XXVIII - THE =
HOLLOW
AMID THE FERNS
CHAPTER XXIX - PARTIC=
ULARS OF
A TWILIGHT WALK
CHAPTER XXX - HOT CHE=
EKS AND
TEARFUL EYES
CHAPTER XXXII - NIGHT=
--HORSES
TRAMPING
CHAPTER XXXIII - IN T=
HE
SUN--A HARBINGER
CHAPTER XXXIV - HOME =
AGAIN--A
TRICKSTER
CHAPTER XXXV - AT AN =
UPPER
WINDOW
CHAPTER XXXVI - WEALT=
H IN
JEOPARDY--THE REVEL
CHAPTER XXXVII - THE =
STORM--THE
TWO TOGETHER
CHAPTER XXXVIII - RAI=
N--ONE
SOLITARY MEETS ANOTHER
CHAPTER XXXIX - COMING
HOME--A CRY
CHAPTER XL - ON CASTE=
RBRIDGE
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 GU=
RGOYLE:
ITS DOINGS
CHAPTER XLVII - ADVEN=
TURES BY
THE SHORE
CHAPTER XLVIII - DOUB=
TS
ARISE--DOUBTS LINGER
CHAPTER XLIX - OAK'S
ADVANCEMENT--A GREAT HOPE
CHAPTER L - THE SHEEP
FAIR--TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE'S HAND..
CHAPTER LI - BATHSHEB=
A TALKS
WITH HER OUTRIDER
CHAPTER LII - CONVERG=
ING
COURSES
CHAPTER LIII -
CONCURRITUR--HORAE MOMENTO
CHAPTER LIV - AFTER T=
HE SHOCK
CHAPTER LV - THE MARCH
FOLLOWING--"BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD".
CHAPTER LVI - BEAUTY =
IN
LONELINESS--AFTER ALL
CHAPTER LVII - A FOGG=
Y NIGHT
AND MORNING--CONCLUSION
In reprinting this story for a new edition I am
reminded that it was in the chapters of "Far from the Madding Crowd,&q=
uot;
as they appeared month by month in a popular magazine, that I first venture=
d 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 loc=
al,
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, a=
nd
that there were objections to an invented name, I disinterred the old one.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The press and the public were kind
enough to welcome the fanciful plan, and willingly joined me in the anachro=
nism
of imagining a Wessex population living under Queen Victoria;--a modern Wes=
sex
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 o=
f 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 "T=
he
Wessex Labourer," the article turning out to be no dissertation on far=
ming
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-count=
ry
has, by degrees, solidified into a utilitarian region which people can go t=
o,
take a house in, and write to the papers from. But I ask all good and gentle read=
ers to
be so kind as to forget this, and to refuse steadfastly to believe that the=
re
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, wher=
ein
the scenes of the present story of the series are for the most part laid, w=
ould
perhaps be hardly discernible by the explorer, without help, in any existin=
g 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 pu=
lled
down these twenty years; also most of the thatched and dormered cottages th=
at
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 valent=
ines
as things of serious import, the shearing-supper, and the harvest-home, hav=
e,
too, nearly disappeared in the wake of the old houses; and with them have g=
one,
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 legen=
d,
folk-lore, close inter-social relations, and eccentric individualities. For these the indispensable condit=
ions of
existence are attachment to the soil of one particular spot by generation a=
fter
generation.
T.H.
February 1895
=
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 Su=
ndays
he was a man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered by hi=
s 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 Commun=
ion
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 though=
t 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; w=
hen
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--t=
he
mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dress=
ed
in that way. He wore a low-cr=
owned
felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for securit=
y in
high winds, and a coat like Dr. Johnson's; his lower extremities being enca=
sed in
ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each f=
oot
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, wh=
at
may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to sh=
ape
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 small=
er of
its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though t=
he
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 a=
nd
observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the gl=
ass
of his neighbours' windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the gr=
een-faced
timekeepers within. It may be
mentioned that Oak's fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewh=
at
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 thr=
owing
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 the=
se. In
his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tar=
ried
on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of t=
he
boy. His height and breadth w=
ould 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 m=
anner
of showing them. And from a q=
uiet
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 bowin=
g of
the shoulders. This may be sa=
id 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 speakin=
g of
one. He was at the brightest =
period
of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separa=
ted:
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 t=
he
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 r=
idge
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 wag=
gon
was laden with household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the wh=
ole
sat a woman, young and attractive.
Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, when t=
he
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 gir=
l,
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 motionl=
ess,
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-clos=
ed
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 can=
ary
up and down the perches of its prison.&nbs=
p;
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 part=
ed 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, an=
d 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 s=
uch 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 necessa=
ry
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 pi=
cture
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.&n=
bsp;
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 f=
air
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 prob=
able
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 actio=
ns
was so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any p=
art
in them at all.
The waggoner's steps were heard returning. She put the glass in the paper, an=
d 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 vehicl=
e 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 st=
ill
remained between him and the gate, when he heard a dispute. It was a difference concerning two=
pence
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, a=
nd
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 hear=
d his
words, and looked down.
Gabriel's features adhered throughout their fo=
rm
so exactly to the middle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugline=
ss
of Judas Iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, th=
at not
a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of distinctio=
n or
notoriety. The red-jacketed a=
nd
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 hands=
ome
maid," he said to Oak.
"But she has her faults," said Gabri=
el.
"True, farmer."
"And the greatest of them is--well, what =
it
is always."
"Beating people down? ay, 'tis so."<= o:p>
"O no."
"What, then?"
Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely
traveller's indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her perfor=
mance
over the hedge, and said, "Vanity."
=
=
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 occup=
ant
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 smo=
te
the wood and floundered through it with a sound as of grumbling, or gushed =
over
its crowning boughs in a weakened moan.&nb=
sp;
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 m=
id-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 con=
cealed
bore some reduced resemblance to features here. The thin grasses, more or less coa=
ting
the hill, were touched by the wind in breezes of differing powers, and almo=
st
of differing natures--one rubbing the blades heavily, another raking them
piercingly, another brushing them like a soft broom. The instinctive act of humankind w=
as 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 cathe=
dral
choir; how hedges and other shapes to leeward then caught the note, lowerin=
g 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 even=
ing
the Bear had swung round it outwardly to the east, till he was now at a rig=
ht
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 s=
tar
called Capella was yellow, Aldebaran and Betelgueux shone with a fiery red.=
To persons standing alone on a hill during a c=
lear
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 p=
ast earthly
objects, which is perceptible in a few minutes of stillness, or by the bett=
er
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 necessa=
ry
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 pow=
er
to spread high or wide. It ca=
me
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 mi=
ght
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 pa=
ss
as an approximate pattern. Th=
e hut stood
on little wheels, which raised its floor about a foot from the ground. Such shepherds' huts are dragged i=
nto
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 hund=
red
sheep. Previously he had been=
a
bailiff for a short time, and earlier still a shepherd only, having from hi=
s childhood
assisted his father in tending the flocks of large proprietors, till old
Gabriel sank to rest.
This venture, unaided and alone, into the path=
s 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 cl=
early. The first movement in his new prog=
ress
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 s=
eason
to a hireling or a novice.
The wind continued to beat about the corners of
the hut, but the flute-playing ceased.&nbs=
p;
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 noo=
k of
the field for nearly twenty minutes, the lantern light appearing and disapp=
earing
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 mercuria=
l 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, e=
ven
by the wan starlight only, revealed how a portion of what would have been c=
asually
called a wild slope had been appropriated by Farmer Oak for his great purpo=
se
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, recommenc=
ed,
in tones that had more mellowness than clearness, owing to an increasing gr=
owth
of surrounding wool. This con=
tinued
till Oak withdrew again from the flock.&nb=
sp;
He returned to the hut, bringing in his arms a new-born lamb, consis=
ting
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 bl=
owing
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, cover=
ed half
the floor of this little habitation, and here the young man stretched himse=
lf
along, loosened his woollen cravat, and closed his eyes. In about the time a person unaccus=
tomed
to bodily labour would have decided upon which side to lie, Farmer Oak was
asleep.
The inside of the hut, as it now presented its=
elf,
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, flun=
g associations
of enjoyment even over utensils and tools.=
In the corner stood the sheep-crook, and along a shelf at one side w=
ere 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 triangu=
lar
shelf across the corner stood bread, bacon, cheese, and a cup for ale or ci=
der,
which was supplied from a flagon beneath.&=
nbsp;
Beside the provisions lay the flute, whose notes had lately been cal=
led
forth by the lonely watcher to beguile a tedious hour. The house was ventilated by two ro=
und 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 i=
t 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-wes=
t;
far away through the plantation Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid th=
e 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 consciousne=
ss
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. Hum=
an
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 wh=
en 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 pus=
hed
through its lower boughs to the windy side. A dim mass under the slope reminde=
d 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 na=
iled
to posts and covered with tar as a preservative. Through crevices in the roof and s=
ide
spread streaks and dots of light, a combination of which made the radiance =
that
had attracted him. Oak steppe=
d up
behind, where, leaning down upon the roof and putting his eye close to a ho=
le,
he could see into the interior clearly.
The place contained two women and two cows.
"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 caug=
ht 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.&qu=
ot;
"Well, my hat is gone, however,"
continued the younger. "It went over the hedge, I think. The idea of such a slight wind cat=
ching
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 littl=
e 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 she=
ep
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 aerial position, he felt himself
drawing upon his fancy for their details.&=
nbsp;
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 fir=
st 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 v=
oid
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 hero=
ine of
the yellow waggon, myrtles, and looking-glass: prosily, as the woman who ow=
ed
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 O=
ak
returned to his flock.
=
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>CHAPTER III - A GIRL ON HORSEBACK--CONVERSATION<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
=
The
sluggish day began to break. =
Even
its position terrestrially is one of the elements of a new interest, and fo=
r 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 nig=
ht
before. Gabriel instantly thought of the hat she had mentioned as having lo=
st
in the wind; possibly she had come to look for it. He hastily scanned the ditch and a=
fter
walking about ten yards along it found the hat among the leaves. Gabriel took it in his hand and re=
turned
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 oth=
er
side of the hedge. Gabriel was about to advance and restore the missing art=
icle
when an unexpected performance induced him to suspend the action for the
present. The path, after pass=
ing
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 groun=
d,
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 o=
ut
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 a=
ble to
follow her. The tall lank pony
seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under the level bo=
ughs.
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 ado=
pt 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 unattaina=
ble
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 saddl=
e,
though hardly expected of the woman, and trotted off in the direction of
Tewnell Mill.
Oak was amused, perhaps a little astonished, a=
nd
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.<= o:p>
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 conception=
s 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 s=
ame
pattern, the highly-finished features being generally too large for the
remainder of the frame; that a graceful and proportionate figure of eight h=
eads
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 pla=
ce,
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. Ray=
s of
male vision seem to have a tickling effect upon virgin faces in rural distr=
icts;
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 red=
uced
at the same time to a chastened phase of itself. Yet it was the man who blushed, th=
e 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.&quo=
t;
"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 &qu=
ot;acres"
is omitted by the natives, by analogy to such old expressions as "a st=
ag
of ten.")
"I wanted my hat this morning," she =
went
on. "I had to ride to Te=
wnell
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 wi=
th
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 ey=
es
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 redde=
n 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 up=
on
the breeze, and looked. She h=
ad
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.&nb=
sp;
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 si=
n,
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 experie=
nced
in that direction.
The acquaintanceship might, however, have ende=
d 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, ev=
en
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 us=
ual
watch upon the cowshed. At la=
st 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 l=
ittle
more to the south. Then the w=
ind
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 bei=
ng
always on the side away from the wind.&nbs=
p;
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 cl=
osed
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 night=
s,
Oak decided to get up, open the slide, and then allow himself to fall aslee=
p. He fell asleep, however, without h=
aving
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 howlin=
g, his
head was aching fearfully--somebody was pulling him about, hands were loose=
ning
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 fin=
gers
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, "s=
ince
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 h=
ut. 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, broug=
ht 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 dres=
s,
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 attemptin=
g 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.&nb=
sp;
"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 sa=
w 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 t=
he
milk over you, as there was no water, forgetting it was warm, and no use.&q=
uot;
"I wonder if I should have died?"
Gabriel said, in a low voice, which was rather meant to travel back to hims=
elf
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 a=
unt's,
but not yours."
"I would just as soon not tell it--rather
not. There is no reason eithe=
r 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 t=
ell
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, a=
nd
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 oppo=
site
extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person.=
"I am sorry," he said the instant af=
ter.
"What for?"
"Letting your hand go so quick."
"You may have it again if you like; there=
it
is." She gave him her ha=
nd
again.
Oak held it longer this time--indeed, curiously
long. "How soft it is--b=
eing
winter time, too--not chapped or rough or anything!" he said.
"There--that's long enough," said sh=
e,
though without pulling it away. "But I suppose you are thinking you wo=
uld
like to kiss it? You may if y=
ou
want to."
"I wasn't thinking of any such thing,&quo=
t;
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.
=
=
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 se=
nse
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 w=
ere
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 h=
er
were deepened without any corresponding effect being produced upon
herself. Oak had nothing fini=
shed
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 --Sig=
nifying
nothing--
=
he
said no word at all.
By making inquiries he found that the girl's n=
ame
was Bathsheba Everdene, and that the cow would go dry in about seven days.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He dreaded the eighth day.
At last the eighth day came. The cow had ceased to give milk fo=
r that
year, and Bathsheba Everdene came up the hill no more. Gabriel had reached a pitch of exi=
stence
he never could have anticipated a short time before. He liked saying "Bathsheba&qu=
ot; as
a private enjoyment instead of whistling; turned over his taste to black ha=
ir, though
he had sworn by brown ever since he was a boy, isolated himself till the sp=
ace
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 w=
ish
for more, and an occasional gleam of silvery sunshine, Oak put the lamb int=
o a
respectable Sunday basket, and stalked across the fields to the house of Mr=
s.
Hurst, the aunt--George, the dog walking behind, with a countenance of grea=
t 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.&=
nbsp;
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-d=
oor
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 th=
is
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 c=
ement,
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 commence=
ment
of Oak's overtures, just as he arrived by the garden gate, he saw a cat ins=
ide,
going into various arched shapes and fiendish convulsions at the sight of h=
is dog
George. The dog took no notic=
e, for
he had arrived at an age at which all superfluous barking was cynically avo=
ided
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 o=
f Commination-service,
which, though offensive, had to be gone through once now and then to fright=
en
the flock for their own good.
A voice came from behind some laurel-bushes in=
to
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. No=
body
appeared, and he heard the person retreat among the bushes.
Gabriel meditated, and so deeply that he broug=
ht
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 Somebod=
y,
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, w=
ith
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, follo=
wing
her to the fireplace. "I=
've brought
a lamb for Miss Everdene. I t=
hought
she might like one to rear; girls do."
"She might," said Mrs. Hurst, musing=
ly;
"though she's only a visitor here.&nb=
sp;
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.&nbs= p; In short, I was going to ask her if she'd like to be married."<= o:p>
"And were you indeed?"
"Yes.&nb=
sp;
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, pok=
ing
the fire superfluously.... "Yes--bless you, ever so many young men.
"That's unfortunate," said Farmer Oa=
k,
contemplating a crack in the stone floor with sorrow. "I'm only an every-day sort o=
f 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 pi=
ping
note of more treble quality than that in which the exclamation usually embo=
dies
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 h=
er
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 a=
way
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 co=
me.
"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 al=
l--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 he=
ld out
his hand to take hers, which, when she had eased her side by pressing it th=
ere,
was prettily extended upon her bosom to still her loud-beating heart. Directly he seized it she put it b=
ehind
her, so that it slipped through his fingers like an eel."
"I have a nice snug little farm," sa=
id
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 wit=
h,
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&quo=
t; in
a tone to show her that it was the complacent form of "a great deal.&q=
uot;
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 overtake=
n him
at a point beside which stood a low stunted holly bush, now laden with red
berries. Seeing his advance t=
ake
the form of an attitude threatening a possible enclosure, if not compressio=
n,
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 ma=
rry
you."
"Well--that IS a tale!" said Oak, wi=
th
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 tho=
ught
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 aga=
in;
"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!&q=
uot;
"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 t=
he
back of her head, across the bush.
"You shall have a piano in a year or two--farmers' wives are ge=
tting
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 g=
igs
for market--and nice flowers, and birds--cocks and hens I mean, because the=
y be
useful," continued Gabriel, feeling balanced between poetry and
practicality.
"I should like it very much."
"And a frame for cucumbers--like a gentle=
man
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 fi=
re,
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 b=
erries
between them over and over again, to such an extent, that holly seemed in h=
is
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.&qu=
ot;
"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 th=
ink I
had won my battle, and I should feel triumphant, and all that, But a husban=
d--"
"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 mi=
nd
being a bride at a wedding, if I could be one without having a husband. But since a woman can't show off i=
n that
way by herself, I shan't marry--at least yet."
"That's a terrible wooden story!"
At this criticism of her statement Bathsheba m=
ade
an addition to her dignity by a slight sweep away from him.
"Upon my heart and soul, I don't know wha=
t a
maid can say stupider than that," said Oak. "But dearest," he contin=
ued 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 st=
ill
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 smalln=
ess,
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 t=
hat
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 ge=
nuine
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 sign=
ify
archness. "It wouldn't do, Mr Oak.&nb=
sp;
I want somebody to tame me; I am too independent; and you would neve=
r be
able to, I know."
Oak cast his eyes down the field in a way impl=
ying
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 farm=
er
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 a=
nd
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 ris=
ing
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 tha=
t, 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 enoug=
h 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.
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."
=
=
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 i=
ts
character.
It may have been observed that there is no reg=
ular
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, thou=
gh
effectual with people of certain humours, is apt to idealize the removed ob=
ject
with others--notably those whose affection, placid and regular as it may be,
flows deep and long. Oak belo=
nged
to the even-tempered order of humanity, and felt the secret fusion of himse=
lf
in Bathsheba to be burning with a finer flame now that she was gone--that w=
as
all.
His incipient friendship with her aunt had been
nipped by the failure of his suit, and all that Oak learnt of Bathsheba's m=
ovements
was done indirectly. It appea=
red
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 di=
scover.
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 compo=
nent
of the grey had faded, like the indigo from the same kind of colour in Turn=
er'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 desc=
riptions
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 ha=
ve
been the image of his mother, for there was not much resemblance between him
and George. He was learning t=
he
sheep-keeping business, so as to follow on at the flock when the other shou=
ld
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 Hi=
ll was
a chalk-pit, from which chalk had been drawn for generations, and spread ov=
er
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, l=
ane,
or garden. Gabriel then remembered that he had left the two dogs on the hil=
l eating
a dead lamb (a kind of meat he usually kept from them, except when other fo=
od
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 i= n 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 sou= nd 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, how= ever distant, that all is well in the fold.&nbs= p; In the solemn calm of the awakening morn that note was heard by Gabr= iel, beating with unusual violence and rapidity. This exceptional ringing may be ca= used 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.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The experienced ear of Oak knew th= e sound he now heard to be caused by the running of the flock with great velocity.<= o:p>
He jumped out of bed, dressed, tore down the l=
ane
through a foggy dawn, and ascended the hill. The forward ewes were kept apart f=
rom 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There were the fifty with their la=
mbs,
enclosed at the other end as he had left them, but the rest, forming the bu=
lk
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 be=
en
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 follow=
ed
through the hedge. They were =
not in
the plantation. He called aga=
in:
the valleys and farthest hills resounded as when the sailors invoked the lo=
st
Hylas on the Mysian shore; but no sheep.&n=
bsp;
He passed through the trees and along the ridge of the hill. On the extreme summit, where the e=
nds of
the two converging hedges of which we have spoken were stopped short by mee=
ting
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 faintne=
ss he
advanced: at one point the rails were broken through, and there he saw the
footprints of his ewes. The d=
og
came up, licked his hand, and made signs implying that he expected some gre=
at
reward for signal services rendered.
Oak looked over the precipice.
The ewes lay dead and dying at its foot--a heap of two hundred mangl=
ed 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 be=
en
that his flock ended in mutton--that a day came and found every shepherd an
arrant traitor to his defenseless sheep.&n=
bsp;
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 t=
he
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.&n=
bsp;
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 cov=
ered
his face with his hands.
Stupors, however, do not last for ever, and Fa=
rmer
Oak recovered from his. It wa=
s as
remarkable as it was characteristic that the one sentence he uttered was in
thankfulness:--
"Thank God I am not married: what would S=
HE
have done in the poverty now coming upon me!"
Oak raised his head, and wondering what he cou=
ld
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 st=
ar
to a phosphoric streak upon the water.&nbs=
p;
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 runni=
ng
after sheep, the more he ran after them the better, had at the end of his m=
eal 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 t=
hat
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 un=
toward
fate which so often attends dogs and other philosophers who follow out a tr=
ain
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.
=
=
Two
months passed away. We are br=
ought
on to a day in February, on which was held the yearly statute or hiring fai=
r in
the county-town of Casterbridge.
At one end of the street stood from two to thr=
ee
hundred blithe and hearty labourers waiting upon Chance--all men of the sta=
mp
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 t=
heir
hats; thatchers wore a fragment of woven straw; shepherds held their
sheep-crooks in their hands; and thus the situation required was known to t=
he
hirers at a glance.
In the crowd was an athletic young fellow of
somewhat superior appearance to the rest--in fact, his superiority was mark=
ed
enough to lead several ruddy peasants standing by to speak to him inquiring=
ly, 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 anyb=
ody who
wants one?"
Gabriel was paler now. His eyes were more meditative, and=
his expression
was more sad. He had passed t=
hrough
an ordeal of wretchedness which had given him more than it had taken away.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He had sunk from his modest elevat=
ion 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 whi=
ch,
though it often makes a villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity whe=
n it
does not. And thus the abasem=
ent
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 t=
he 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-pl=
ace,
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 o=
bscure
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 st=
em
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 aga=
in
hurried off to the centre of the town, and stood on the kerb of the pavemen=
t,
as a shepherd, crook in hand.
Now that Oak had turned himself into a shepher=
d,
it seemed that bailiffs were most in demand. However, two or three farmers noti=
ced him
and drew near. Dialogues foll=
owed,
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 bey=
ond
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 matu=
red,
and wait for a chance of using it.
Gabriel wished he had not nailed up his colours as a shepherd, but h=
ad
laid himself out for anything in the whole cycle of labour that was require=
d 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 op=
portunity
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
moment's sorrow. Oak could pi=
pe with
Arcadian sweetness, and the sound of the well-known notes cheered his own h=
eart
as well as those of the loungers.
He played on with spirit, and in half an hour had earned in pence wh=
at
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.&q=
uot;
Weatherbury!&=
nbsp;
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 t= he Weatherbury quarter. Moreover, the Weathe= rbury 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 Weatherbu= ry that night on his way to Shottsford, and struck out at once into the high r= oad which had been recommended as the direct route to the village in question.<= o:p>
The road stretched through water-meadows trave=
rsed
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 level=
s the
dead and dry carcasses of leaves tapped the ground as they bowled along hel=
ter-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, retaini=
ng
their places if Oak kept moving, but flying away if he stopped to look at
them. He passed by Yalbury Wo=
od
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 coul=
d 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, see=
med to
have been left there for the night, for beyond about half a truss of hay wh=
ich
was heaped in the bottom, it was quite empty. Gabriel sat down on the shaft=
s of
the vehicle and considered his position.&n=
bsp;
He calculated that he had walked a very fair proportion of the journ=
ey;
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 be=
en
in his life. Inward melanchol=
y 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, a=
morous
and pastoral, he fell asleep, shepherds enjoying, in common with sailors, t=
he
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 roa=
d at a
rate rather considerable for a vehicle without springs, and under circumsta=
nces
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 d=
ilemma
(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 calculatio=
n 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, sitti=
ng
with their legs outside the waggon, one of whom was driving. Gabriel soon found that this was t=
he
waggoner, and it appeared they had come from Casterbridge fair, like himsel=
f.
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 wa=
s 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 l=
ook
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 goin=
g 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 wi=
sh
for."
"D'ye tell o't! A happy time for us, and I feel qu=
ite a
new man! And how do she pay?"
"That I don't know, Master Poorgrass.&quo=
t;
On hearing these and other similar remarks, a =
wild
thought flashed into Gabriel's mind that they might be speaking of
Bathsheba. There were, howeve=
r, no
grounds for retaining such a supposition, for the waggon, though going in t=
he
direction of Weatherbury, might be going beyond it, and the woman alluded to
seemed to be the mistress of some estate.&=
nbsp;
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 crunch=
ing
jangle of the waggon died upon his ear.&nb=
sp;
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 f=
ire.
Gabriel again mounted the gate, and, leaping d=
own
on the other side upon what he found to be ploughed soil, made across the f=
ield
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, lig=
hted
up to great distinctness. A r=
ick-yard
was the source of the fire. H=
is
weary face now began to be painted over with a rich orange glow, and the wh=
ole
front of his smock-frock and gaiters was covered with a dancing shadow patt=
ern
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 aboun=
ding
rays. He came up to the bound=
ary
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 wi=
th a
quiet roar, but no crackle. B=
anks
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 move=
ment
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 form=
s,
from which at intervals sparks flew in clusters like birds from a nest.
Oak suddenly ceased from being a mere spectato=
r 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 o=
ne,
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 c=
ame 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, Bil=
ly
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 th=
at,
far from being alone he was in a great company--whose shadows danced merril=
y up
and down, timed by the jigging of the flames, and not at all by their owner=
s'
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 wo=
rk
with a remarkable confusion of purpose.
"Stop the draught under the wheat-rick!&q=
uot;
cried Gabriel to those nearest to him.&nbs=
p;
The corn stood on stone staddles, and between these, tongues of yell=
ow
hue from the burning straw licked and darted playfully. If the fire once got UNDER this st=
ack,
all would be lost.
"Get a tarpaulin--quick!" said Gabri=
el.
A rick-cloth was brought, and they hung it lik=
e a
curtain across the channel. T=
he
flames immediately ceased to go under the bottom of the corn-stack, and sto=
od
up vertical.
"Stand here with a bucket of water and ke=
ep
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 an=
d 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 digg=
ing
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, hol=
ding
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, wh=
ilst
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 sti=
ll
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 patt=
ern. Round the corner of the largest st=
ack,
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 dist=
ance
from the fire, that the horse might not become restive.
"He's a shepherd," said the woman on
foot. "Yes--he is. See h=
ow 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, m=
a'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."<= o:p>
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 wou=
ld
have followed. 'Tis that bold=
shepherd
up there that have done the most good--he sitting on the top o' rick, whizz=
ing
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.&qu=
ot;
"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 horsebac=
k,
"go to him as he comes down, and say that the farmer wishes to thank h=
im
for the great service he has done."
Maryann stalked off towards the rick and met O=
ak
at the foot of the ladder. She
delivered her message.
"Where is your master the farmer?" a=
sked
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 t=
he
world, shepherd."
"That's she, back there upon the pony,&qu=
ot;
said Maryann; "wi' her face a-covered up in that black cloth with hole=
s 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. Gabr=
iel
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?"
=
=
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 s=
he
had nearly forgotten it.
"Yes," she murmured, putting on an a= ir of dignity, and turning again to him with a little warmth of cheek; "I= do want a shepherd. But--"<= o:p>
"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 b=
ailiff,"
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 Ashtore=
th
of strange report was only a modification of Venus the well-known and admir=
ed, 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?"<= o:p>
"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 bei=
ng
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, mov= ing past Oak as a Christian edges past an offertory-plate when he does not mean= to contribute. "If you foll= ow on the road till you come to Warren's Malthouse, where they are all gone to ha= ve their snap of victuals, I daresay some of 'em will tell you of a place. Good-night to ye, shepherd."<= o:p>
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 g=
irl
of Norcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here. But some women only require an eme=
rgency
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.&nbs=
p;
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When abreast of a trunk which appe=
ared
to be the oldest of the old, he became aware that a figure was standing beh=
ind
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 carele=
ss
position.
It was a slim girl, rather thinly clad.
"Good-night to you," said Gabriel,
heartily.
"Good-night," said the girl to Gabri=
el.
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.
"I don't know where the Buck's Head is, or
anything about it. Do you thi=
nk of
going there to-night?"
"Yes--" The woman again paused. There was no necessity for any con=
tinuance
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 noticeabl=
e 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 eye=
s to
the feet of the girl; and for the first time he saw lying there a bundle of
some sort. She may have perce=
ived
the direction of his face, for she said coaxingly,--
"You won't say anything in the parish abo=
ut
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 po= or, and I don't want people to know anything about me." Then she was silent and shivered.<= o:p>
"You ought to have a cloak on such a cold
night," Gabriel observed. "I would advise 'ee to get indoors.&quo=
t;
"O no!&n=
bsp;
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 acc=
ept
this trifle from me. It is on=
ly a
shilling, but it is all I have to spare."
"Yes, I will take it," said the stra=
nger
gratefully.
She extended her hand; Gabriel his. In feeling for each other's palm i=
n the
gloom before the money could be passed, a minute incident occurred which to=
ld
much. Gabriel's fingers aligh=
ted on
the young woman's wrist. It w=
as
beating with a throb of tragic intensity.&=
nbsp;
He had frequently felt the same quick, hard beat in the femoral arte=
ry of
his lambs when overdriven. It
suggested a consumption too great of a vitality which, to judge from her fi=
gure
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 f=
ancied
that he had felt himself in the penumbra of a very deep sadness when touchi=
ng
that slight and fragile creature.
But wisdom lies in moderating mere impressions, and Gabriel endeavou=
red
to think little of this.
=
=
Warren's
Malthouse was enclosed by an old wall inwrapped with ivy, and though not mu=
ch
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 that=
ched 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, c=
omfortable
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 faci=
al 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 cur=
ved
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 ma=
ltster.
This aged man was now sitting opposite the fir=
e,
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 la=
den
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 degr=
ee
expressed by contracting the flesh of their foreheads and looking at him wi=
th
narrowed eyelids, as if he had been a light too strong for their sight. Several exclaimed meditatively, af=
ter
this operation had been completed:--
"Oh, 'tis the new shepherd, 'a b'lieve.&q=
uot;
"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, th=
ough
we don't know yer name."
"Gabriel Oak, that's my name,
neighbours."
The ancient maltster sitting in the midst turn=
ed
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 me=
n 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 ac=
cord
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 ther=
e and
your father were sworn brothers--that they were sure--weren't ye, Jacob?&qu=
ot;
"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 mileston=
e in
a bank. "But 'twas Joe h=
ad
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 assumi=
ng 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, an=
d 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 d=
rap 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 t=
he 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 sensi=
ble
drinker the cup was no worse for that, being incontestably clean on the ins=
ide
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 giv=
en
toper feel ashamed of himself when he sees its bottom in drinking it empty.=
Jacob, on receiving the order to see if the li=
quor
was warm enough, placidly dipped his forefinger into it by way of thermomet=
er,
and having pronounced it nearly of the proper degree, raised the cup and ve=
ry
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 th=
ink of
giving such trouble to neighbours in washing up when there's so much work t=
o 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.<= o:p>
"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!--h=
is
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 sign=
s of
approaching him in its gradual revolution among them.
Having at this moment reached the end of a wis=
tful
gaze into mid-air, Henry did not refuse.&n=
bsp;
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 Hene=
ry,
was a crimson man with a spacious countenance and private glimmer in his ey=
e,
whose name had appeared on the marriage register of Weatherbury and neighbo=
uring
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,&=
quot;
said Jan.
"Ay--that I will, 'tis my only doctor,&qu=
ot;
replied Mr. Clark, who, twenty years younger than Jan Coggan, revolved in t=
he
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 J=
acob
Smallbury. "Why, ye've h=
ardly
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,&qu= ot; 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!"<= o:p>
"Poor feller," said Mr. Clark.
"'Tis a curious nature for a man," s=
aid
Jan Coggan.
"Yes," continued Joseph Poorgrass--h=
is
shyness, which was so painful as a defect, filling him with a mild complace=
ncy
now that it was regarded as an interesting study. "'Twere blush, blush, blush w=
ith me
every minute of the time, when she was speaking to me."
"I believe ye, Joseph Poorgrass, for we a=
ll
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?" [a]<= o:p>
[Transcriber's note a: Alternate text, appears in all three editions on hand: "=
;'Tis
a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul," said the maltster. "And ye have suffered from it=
a
long time, we know."
"Ay, ever since..."]
"Oh, ever since I was a boy. Yes--mother was concerned to her h=
eart 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, an=
d 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 peop=
le in
the face from morning till night; but 'twas no use--I was just as bad as ev=
er
after all. Blushes hev been i=
n the
family for generations. There=
, 'tis
a happy providence that I be no worse."
"True," said Jacob Smallbury, deepen=
ing
his thoughts to a profounder view of the subject. "'Tis a thought to look at, t=
hat 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, recoveri=
ng
from a meditation. "Yes,=
very awkward
for the man."
"Ay, and he's very timid, too," obse=
rved
Jan Coggan. "Once he had=
been
working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had had a drap of drink, and lost his w=
ay
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 narrativ=
e,
like time and tide, must run its course and would respect no man. "And as he was coming along i=
n 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 cry=
ing
'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 'Jo=
seph
Poorgrass o' Weatherbury, sir.' No,
no; what's right is right, and I never said sir to the bird, knowing very w=
ell
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 w=
ere
lost by Lambing-Down Gate, weren't ye, Joseph?"
"I was," replied Poorgrass, as if th=
ere
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 confide=
nce
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 Belov=
ed 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 Af=
ter
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 indu=
lged
in by all, and during its continuance each directed his vision into the ash=
pit,
which glowed like a desert in the tropics under a vertical sun, shaping the=
ir
eyes long and liny, partly because of the light, partly from the depth of t=
he
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 b=
osom
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 goin=
g to
keep on the farm.
"That's about the shape o't, 'a
b'lieve," said Jan Coggan.
"Ay, 'tis a very good family.&=
nbsp;
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-manne=
red
as to drink only a thimbleful, which would have been insulting the man's ge=
nerosity--"
"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 ha=
ve 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.&=
nbsp;
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 Farm=
er
Everdene's kitchen. Not a sin=
gle
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. Fathe=
r,
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-hundred=
s 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 suppose=
d 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,' sait=
h I in
my hurry, but he were of a higher circle of life than that--'a was a gentle=
man-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, af=
ter
a while. Understand? 'a didn'=
t want
to be fickle, but he couldn't help it.&nbs=
p;
The pore feller were faithful and true enough to her in his wish, but
his heart would rove, do what he would.&nb=
sp;
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 tha=
t a
happy Providence kept it from being any worse. You see, he might have gone the ba=
d 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 chi=
me
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-pl=
ate 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 b=
ut
high things," added Billy Smallbury.&=
nbsp;
"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 c=
hiel
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 ironic=
al
knowledge.
"A queer Christian, like the Devil's head=
in
a cowl, [1] as the saying is," volunteered Mark Clark.
[Footnote 1: This phrase is a conjectural emendation of the unintelligible expressi=
on,
"as the Devil said to the Owl," used by the natives.]
"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 Gabr=
iel.
"True enough," said the man of bitter
moods, looking round upon the company with the antithetic laughter that com=
es
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 a=
ge,
can ye, father?" interposed Jacob.&nb=
sp;
"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,&quo=
t;
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 exaggera=
ted
form for emphasis, and elongating his gaze to the remotest point of the ash=
pit,
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 d=
on't
mind the year I were born in, but perhaps I can reckon up the places I've l=
ived
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 there=
from
to Norcombe, and malted there two-and-twenty years, and-two-and-twenty year=
s I
was there turnip-hoeing and harvesting.&nb=
sp;
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 a=
t 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 t=
he
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 a=
ge at
all to speak of?"
"Sure we shan't," said Gabriel,
soothingly.
"Ye be a very old aged person, malter,&qu=
ot; 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 drink=
ing
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 g=
reat trouble,
neighbours, and was driven to it. =
span>I
used not to be so poor as I be now."
"Never mind, heart!" said Mark
Clark. You should take it car=
eless-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 si=
nce
Christmas," said Jan Coggan.
"Come, raise a tune, Master Oak!"
"Ay, that I will," said Gabriel, pul=
ling
out his flute and putting it together.&nbs=
p;
"A poor tool, neighbours; but such as I can do ye shall have and
welcome."
Oak then struck up "Jockey to the Fair,&q=
uot;
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 comfo=
rt
for us to have such a shepherd," murmured Joseph Poorgrass, in a soft
cadence. "We ought to fe=
el
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!" da=
shed
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 Jose=
ph
had said.
"Yes," added Joseph, beginning to fe=
el
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,&q=
uot;
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 lik=
e 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 ou=
t,
with the ghastly grimace required by the instrument, the chorus of "Da=
me 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 b=
ad
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 l=
et
Bathsheba see him playing the flute; in this resolve showing a discretion e=
qual
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 th=
ere'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?" inqu=
ired
Coggan. "You used to bid=
e 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 wi=
th Jan
Coggan, who had offered him a lodging.&nbs=
p;
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 h=
e 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, Henrey?" asked Ja=
cob
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 Everd=
ene
got home she went out again to see all was safe, as she usually do, and com=
ing
in found Baily Pennyways creeping down the granary steps with half a a bush=
el
of barley. She fleed at him l=
ike a
cat--never such a tomboy as she is--of course I speak with closed doors?&qu=
ot;
"You do--you do, Henery."
"She fleed at him, and, to cut a long sto=
ry
short, he owned to having carried off five sack altogether, upon her promis=
ing
not to persecute him. Well, h=
e'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 Hene=
ry
was obliged to drink there and then from the large cup till the bottom was
distinctly visible inside. Be=
fore
he had replaced it on the table, in came the young man, Susan Tall's husban=
d,
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 repli=
ed,
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 ringi=
ng 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They wouldn't be so concerned if s=
he
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!" sugges=
ted
Billy Smallbury, with a vivid sense of detail.
"Well--Miss Everdene wants to speak to on=
e 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 exte=
nded
into the air.
"Are any of my men among you?" she s=
aid
anxiously.
"Yes, ma'am, several," said Susan Ta=
ll'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," conti=
nued
Bathsheba. "For any love=
r of
hers might have come to the house if he had been a respectable lad. The most mysterious matter connect=
ed
with her absence--indeed, the only thing which gives me serious alarm--is t=
hat
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,&quo=
t;
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 sa=
id.
"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-morr=
ow,
mind you go there and try to discover which man it is, and see him. I feel more responsible than I sho=
uld 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 h=
im
now."
Bathsheba had so many reasons for uneasiness t=
hat
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 t=
he
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 vividl=
y,
and through the slow hours of shadow he tenderly regarded her image now.
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 Veteri=
nary
Surgeon, Paradise Lost, The Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe, Ash's
Dictionary, and Walkingame's Arithmetic, constituted his library; and thoug=
h a
limited series, it was one from which he had acquired more sound informatio=
n by
diligent perusal than many a man of opportunities has done from a furlong of
laden shelves.
=
=
By
daylight, the bower of Oak's new-found mistress, Bathsheba Everdene, presen=
ted
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 mod=
est demesnes.
Fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone,
decorated its front, and above the roof the chimneys were panelled or colum=
nar,
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 tu=
fts
of the houseleek or sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low surrounding
buildings. A gravel walk lead=
ing from
the door to the road in front was encrusted at the sides with more moss--he=
re
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 r=
ound
inside its body to face the other way.&nbs=
p;
Reversals of this kind, strange deformities, tremendous paralyses, a=
re
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 u=
pper
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 handra=
il
as stout as a parapet-top, and the stairs themselves continually twisting r=
ound
like a person trying to look over his shoulder. Going up, the floors above were fo=
und 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. E=
very
window replied by a clang to the opening and shutting of every door, a trem=
ble
followed every bustling movement, and a creak accompanied a walker about th=
e house,
like a spirit, wherever he went.
In the room from which the conversation procee=
ded
Bathsheba and her servant-companion, Liddy Smallbury, were to be discovered
sitting upon the floor, and sorting a complication of papers, books, bottle=
s, 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 tho=
se
great colourists, it was a face which kept well back from the boundary betw=
een
comeliness and the ideal. Tho=
ugh
elastic in nature she was less daring than Bathsheba, and occasionally show=
ed
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 pa=
ces
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 t=
he footpath
like that! Why didn't he stop=
at
the gate? Lord! 'Tis a gentle=
man! 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?" Bath-sheba continued.
Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from
Bath-sheba's oak.
"Maryann, you go!" said she, flutter=
ing
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, a=
nd
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 f=
or
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 th=
is
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 ne=
eds
begin tickling, and I can't live without scratching it, or somebody knocks =
at the
door. Here's Mr. Boldwood wan=
ting
to see you, Miss Everdene."
A woman's dress being a part of her countenanc=
e,
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 M=
rs.
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 wa=
nted
to ask was, if anything had been heard of Fanny Robin?"
"Nothing, sir--but we may know to-night.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 retreat=
ed,
and the door closed.
"Who is Mr. Boldwood?" said Bathsheb=
a.
"A gentleman-farmer at Little
Weatherbury."
"Married?"
"No, miss."
"How old is he?"
"Forty, I should say--very handsome--rath=
er
stern-looking--and rich."
"What a bother this dusting is! I am always in some unfortunate pl=
ight
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 un=
der
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 s=
ixes
and sevens--all the girls, gentle and simple, for miles round, have tried
him. Jane Perkins worked at h=
im for
two months like a slave, and the two Miss Taylors spent a year upon him, an=
d 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 wind=
ow."
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 the=
reby
elevated above the common herd of afflictionless humanity--to which exhibit=
ion
people were expected to say "Poor child!" with a dash of congratu=
lation
as well as pity.
"I've got a pen-nee!" said Master Co=
ggan
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!" sa=
id
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!&quo=
t;
"Ay, mistress--so I did. But what between the poor men I wo=
n't
have, and the rich men who won't have me, I stand as a pelican in the wilde=
rness!"
"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 repl=
y,
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?&q=
uot;
"He wasn't quite good enough for me."=
;
"How sweet to be able to disdain, when mo=
st
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 lov=
e 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 court=
yard
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--mark=
ed
on the wrists, breasts, backs, and sleeves with honeycomb-work. Two or three women in pattens brou=
ght 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."
=
=
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.&=
nbsp;
She sat down at a table and opened the time-book, pen in her hand, w=
ith
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 paus=
ing
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 a=
rt,
while strictly preventing her countenance from expressing any wish to posse=
ss
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 bail=
iff
at all, but to manage everything with my own head and hands."
The men breathed an audible breath of amazemen=
t.
"The next matter is, have you heard anyth=
ing
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,&quo=
t;
said Laban Tall.
"Hasn't William Smallbury been to
Casterbridge?"
"Yes, ma'am, but he's not yet come home.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He promised to be back by six.&quo=
t;
"It wants a quarter to six at present,&qu=
ot;
said Bathsheba, looking at her watch.
"I daresay he'll be in directly. Well, now then"--she looked i=
nto
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.&q=
uot;
"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 addi=
tion
as a small present, as I am a new comer."
Bathsheba blushed slightly at the sense of bei=
ng
generous in public, and Henery Fray, who had drawn up towards her chair, li=
fted
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 singul=
ar
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 Fra=
y,
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?&=
quot;
"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 a=
re 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'a=
m,
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 ca=
n't
speak a common speech to save his life."
"Andrew Randle, here's yours--finish than=
king
me in a day or two. Temperance Miller--oh, here's another, Soberness--both
women I suppose?"
"Yes'm.&=
nbsp;
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 wo=
man
in the back quarter, who had just entered with clicking pattens.
"What woman is that?" Bathsheba aske=
d.
"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 so=
me
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 m=
an
with a hideous effort of appreciation, for he was as irrepressibly
good-humoured under ghastly snubs as a parliamentary candidate on the husti=
ngs.
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 return=
ed?"
"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 Gabrie=
l.
"How did Cain come by such a name?"
asked Bathsheba.
"Oh you see, mem, his pore mother, not be=
ing
a Scripture-read woman, made a mistake at his christening, thinking 'twas A=
bel
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.&nb=
sp;
However, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him Cainy.
Mr. Fray here drew up his features to the mild
degree of melancholy required when the persons involved in the given misfor=
tune
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 ra=
ther
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.&=
nbsp;
But perhaps her air was the inevitable result of the social rise whi=
ch 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 cra=
mped
quarters on the peak of Olympus into the wide sky above it, their words sho=
w 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 exp=
ense
of velocity.
(All.) "Here's Billy Smallbury come from
Casterbridge."
"And what's the news?" said Bathsheb=
a,
as William, after marching to the middle of the hall, took a handkerchief f=
rom
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 sev=
erely,
and on looking down his boots were perceived to be clogged with snow.
"Come at last, is it?" said Henery.<= o:p>
"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!"<= o:p>
"I'll tell ye all particulars. When I got to Casterbridge Barrack=
s, 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 y=
oung
man was one of the regiment, and she's gone after him. There, ma'am, that's it in black a=
nd white."
"Did you find out his name?"
"No; nobody knew it. I believe he was higher in rank th=
an 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 sh=
all
be afield before you are up; and I shall have breakfasted before you are
afield. In short, I shall ast=
onish
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 st=
raws
and dragging them along with a scratching noise upon the floor. Liddy, elevating her feelings to t=
he
occasion from a sense of grandeur, floated off behind Bathsheba with a mild=
er
dignity not entirely free from travesty, and the door was closed.
=
=
For
dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of a certain t=
own
and military station, many miles north of Weatherbury, at a later hour on t=
his
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 l=
eft
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 a=
re
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 bu=
ds
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, proclai=
ming
nothing, and without more character than that of being the limit of somethi=
ng 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 n=
aked
thereby. The vast arch of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it w=
ere 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 co=
uld
be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath. The indistinct summit of the facad=
e was
notched and pronged by chimneys here and there, and upon its face were fain=
tly
signified the oblong shapes of windows, though only in the upper part. Below, down to the water's edge, t=
he
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 fe=
ll
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 d=
iscoverable,
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.&nb=
sp;
Two. Three. Four. Five."
Between each utterance the little shape advanc=
ed
about half a dozen yards. It =
was
evident now that the windows high in the wall were being counted. The word "Five" represen=
ted
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.&n=
bsp;
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 fi=
fth
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 sma=
ll 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 laugh=
ter--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 w=
as
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 bef=
ore
to-night.
"Is it Sergeant Troy?" said the blur=
red
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 f=
ound
me here. I am orderly to-morr=
ow."
"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?&quo=
t;
"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?&q=
uot;
"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?"<= o:p>
"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 s=
aid
first by you."
"Never mind--say it."
"O, must I?--it is, when shall we be marr=
ied,
Frank?"
"Oh, I see. Well--you have to get proper cloth=
es."
"I have money. Will it be by banns or license?&qu=
ot;
"Banns, I should think."
"And we live in two parishes."
"Do we?&=
nbsp;
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.&nb=
sp;
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.&qu=
ot;
"And shall I put up the banns in my paris=
h,
and will you in yours?"
"Yes"
"To-morrow?"
"Not to-morrow. We'll settle in a few days."<= o:p>
"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 cor=
ner 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.
=
=
The
first public evidence of Bathsheba's decision to be a farmer in her own per=
son
and by proxy no more was her appearance the following market-day in the
cornmarket at Casterbridge.
The low though extensive hall, supported by be=
ams
and pillars, and latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thron=
ged 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 argum=
ent
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 f=
or
poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful thin=
gs
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--bendi=
ng
it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two hands, overweighti=
ng
it on the ground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it was has=
tily
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 ey=
e.
Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure gli=
ded,
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 am=
ong
them like a breeze among furnaces.
It had required a little determination--far more than she had at fir=
st
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 th=
ose
that were already turned rigidly fixed there.
Two or three only of the farmers were personal=
ly
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, introduction=
s or
none, and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to speak and reply bold=
ly
to men merely known to her by hearsay.&nbs=
p;
Bathsheba too had her sample-bags, and by degrees adopted the
professional pour into the hand--holding up the grains in her narrow palm f=
or
inspection, in perfect Casterbridge manner.
Something in the exact arch of her upper unbro=
ken
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 wit=
h 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 be=
en
piercing to simple clearness.
Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vi=
gor,
she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their statements before
rejoining with hers. In argui=
ng 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 deal=
ings
(by far the greater part) were continually asking each other, "Who is
she?" The reply would be--
"Farmer Everdene's niece; took on Weather=
bury
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,&qu=
ot;
the first would say. "Bu=
t 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 nove=
lty
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 r=
ibbons
for such matters as these.
Bathsheba, without looking within a right angle of him, was consciou=
s of
a black sheep among the flock.
It perplexed her first. If there had been a respectable mi=
nority
on either side, the case would have been most natural. If nobody had regarded her, she wo=
uld
have taken the matter indifferently--such cases had occurred. If everybody, this man included, s=
he
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 gentlema=
nly
man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features, the prominences of w=
hich
glowed in the sun with a bronze-like richness of tone. He was erect in attitude, and quie=
t 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 anywh=
ere
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 f=
rom
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 Lid=
dy,
who was waiting for her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to t=
own.
The horse was put in, and on they trotted--Bathsheba's sugar, tea, and drap=
ery
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "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 mome=
nt
suppose her mistress was at all piqued.&nb=
sp;
"A very good-looking man," she continued, "upright; a=
bout
forty, I should think. Do you=
know
at all who he could be?"
Liddy couldn't think.
"Can't you guess at all?" said Baths=
heba
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 feeli=
ng
just then, and they bowled along in silence. A low carriage, bowling along stil=
l more
rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed them.
"Why, there he is!" she said.
Liddy looked.=
"That! That's Far=
mer
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 he=
ad
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 L=
iddy.
"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--t=
hat
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 t=
o 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 extrem=
es
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 betwe=
en
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."
=
=
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 wa=
rped
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."<= o:p>
"Well, there's a good deal in it, all the
same."
"Nonsense, child."
"And it makes your heart beat fearful.
"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,&quo=
t; 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.<= o:p>
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 ai=
d 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 a=
nd
abashed her. It was Wisdom in=
the
abstract facing Folly in the concrete.&nbs=
p;
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," sa=
id
Bathsheba.
The verse was repeated; the book turned round;=
Bathsheba
blushed guiltily.
"Who did you try?" said Liddy curiou=
sly.
"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 gentlemanl=
y,
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 m=
ore
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 sui=
ts
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 contemplat=
ed.
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 kn=
eeling
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 f=
rom
being seriously concerned about his nonconformity. Still, it was faintly depressing t=
hat
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.&=
quot;
"He'd worry to death," said the
persistent Liddy.
"Really, I don't care particularly to sen=
d it
to Teddy," remarked her mistress.&nbs=
p;
"He's rather a naughty child sometimes."
"Yes--that he is."
"Let's toss as men do," said Bathshe=
ba,
idly. "Now then, head, B=
oldwood;
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 d=
own
shut.
Bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took t=
he
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 t=
ry
this, and if it doesn't do we'll have another."
A large red seal was duly affixed. Bathsheba looked closely at the ho=
t wax
to discover the words.
"Capital!" she exclaimed, throwing d=
own
the letter frolicsomely. "'Twould upset the solemnity of a parson and =
clerke
too."
Liddy looked at the words of the seal, and rea=
d--
=
"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.<= o:p>
=
=
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 se=
al
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 themsel=
ves,
assume the tone of objects about them.&nbs=
p;
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 lasti=
ng
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 mornin=
g,
Boldwood had felt the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distor=
ted
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 o=
f the
smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at all, Boldwood, of cours=
e,
did not know. And such an
explanation did not strike him as a possibility even. It is foreign to a mystified condi=
tion
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 directin=
g into
a particular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent to the per=
son
confounded by the issue.
When Boldwood went to bed he placed the valent=
ine
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 h=
im 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 mysteri=
ous
influences of night invested the writing with the presence of the unknown
writer. Somebody's--some WOMA=
N'S--hand
had travelled softly over the paper bearing his name; her unrevealed eyes h=
ad
watched every curve as she formed it; her brain had seen him in imagination=
the
while. Why should she have im=
agined
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: wh=
at had
been the expression?
The vision of the woman writing, as a suppleme=
nt
to the words written, had no individuality. She was a misty shape, and well sh=
e might
be, considering that her original was at that moment sound asleep and obliv=
ious
of all love and letter-writing under the sky. Whenever Boldwood dozed she t=
ook
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 m=
ore
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 look=
ed, 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.
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 sta=
irs
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 o=
n 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 th= e west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like tarnished brass.<= o:p>
Boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost h=
ad
hardened and glazed the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red easte=
rn
light with the polish of marble; how, in some portions of the slope, wither=
ed 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.&nbs=
p;
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 probabili=
ty 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.&nb=
sp;
"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. N=
or is
it for my shepherd. It is for=
Miss
Everdene's. You had better ta=
ke 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 follow=
ed
behind. The tall form was tha=
t 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 th=
e letter
to him myself."
To Boldwood it was now no longer merely a lett=
er
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 Warre=
n's
Malthouse--whither the shepherd was apparently bent: Boldwood followed at a
distance.
=
=
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 of bread and bacon.
This was eaten on the plateless system, which is performed by placin=
g a
slice of bread upon the table, the meat flat upon the bread, a mustard plas=
ter
upon the meat, and a pinch of salt upon the whole, then cutting them vertic=
ally
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.&nb=
sp;
He had been without them for so many years that toothlessness was fe=
lt
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 benef=
it
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 th=
en
down comes a snapper at night," was a remark now suddenly heard spread=
ing
into the malthouse from the door, which had been opened the previous
moment. The form of Henery Fr=
ay
advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his boots when about half-way
there. The speech and entry h=
ad 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-coa=
t,
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 cart=
ers
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, wh=
ere
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 w=
ere
not a true man or an honest baily--as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariot hims=
elf. But to think she can carr' on
alone!" He allowed his head to swing laterally three or four times in
silence. "Never in all m=
y creeping
up--never!"
This was recognized by all as the conclusion of
some gloomy speech which had been expressed in thought alone during the sha=
ke
of the head; Henery meanwhile retained several marks of despair upon his fa=
ce,
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--a=
nd
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,&quo=
t;
said Joseph Poorgrass in a voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-d=
rawn
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 somewher=
e. 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 Scriptur=
e 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,&quo=
t;
said Mark Clark. "God's =
a perfect
gentleman in that respect."
"Good works good pay, so to speak it,&quo=
t;
attested Joseph Poorgrass.
A short pause ensued, and as a sort of entr'ac=
te
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 gl=
ass.
"I wonder what a farmer-woman can want wi=
th a
harpsichord, dulcimer, pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'call it?" said=
the
maltster. "Liddy saith s=
he've
a new one."
"Got a pianner?"
"Ay.&nbs=
p;
Seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for her. She've bo=
ught
all but everything new. There=
's
heavy chairs for the stout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watch=
es,
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 drun=
k,
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 outsi=
de;
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 concl=
ave.
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 th=
is
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 Gabri=
el,
"and then run back to the ewes.
I'll follow you soon."
Cainy Ball--a cheery-faced young lad, with a s=
mall
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 kn=
ow
what I should do i' this keen weather.&nbs=
p;
And how is it with you to-day, malter?"
"Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd; bu=
t no
younger."
"Ay--I understand."
"Sit down, Shepherd Oak," continued =
the
ancient man of malt. "An=
d how
was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog? I should like to see the old famil=
iar
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 j=
ust
above it."
"Well, to be sure!"
"Yes; and Tompkins's old apple-tree is ro=
oted
that used to bear two hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees.&quo=
t;
"Rooted?--you don't say it! Ah! stirring times we live in--sti=
rring 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 alte= r, 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."<= o:p>
"What have you been saying about her?&quo=
t;
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?"<= o:p>
"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?&qu=
ot;
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 sm=
aller
in size than a common loaf, in the mathematical centre of the maltster's li=
ttle
table, and with it gave a bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their e=
yes
all thoroughly took in the idea of fistiness before he went further. "Now--the first man in the pa=
rish
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 d=
og
George looked up at the same time after the shepherd's menace, and though h=
e 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 cle=
ver,
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 dis=
posed
he was likewise.
"Who's been telling you I'm clever?"
said Oak.
"'Tis blowed about from pillar to post qu=
ite
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," s=
aid
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. =
span>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 expr=
ess
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
=
[the
word J A M E S appears here with the "J" and the "E" pr=
inted
backwards]
=
"And
how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn't he, Joseph, whe=
n '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 afiction for ye, being s=
uch
a man of calamities in other ways."
"Well, 'tis; but a happy Providence order=
ed that
it should be no worse, and I feel my thanks. As to shepherd, there, I'm sure mi=
s'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 ha=
s 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 though=
ts
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 u=
pon
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-fr=
ock,
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 acqu=
ired
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 sha=
de
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-ca=
rt ten
minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which I opened without read=
ing
the address. I believe it is
yours. You must excuse the ac=
cident
please."
"Oh yes--not a bit of difference, Mr.
Boldwood--not a bit," said Gabriel, readily. He had not a correspondent on eart=
h, nor
was there a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish w=
ould
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 yo=
u,
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 m=
y not
keeping as a gift. All has en=
ded
well, and I am ha=
ppy 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 t=
o my
having received anything except as a loan, being a man =
of
great respectability and high honour--indeed, a noble=
man 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 Weatherbur=
y. 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."<= o:p>
"What sort of a man is this Sergeant
Troy?" said Gabriel.
"H'm--I'm afraid not one to build much ho=
pe
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 f=
or her
boy, his best friends died; and he got then a situation as second clerk at =
a lawyer's
in Casterbridge. He stayed th=
ere
for some time, and might have worked himself into a dignified position of s=
ome
sort had he not indulged in the wild freak of enlisting. I have much doubt if ever little F=
anny
will surprise us in the way she mentions--very much doubt. A silly girl!--s=
illy
girl!"
The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in
came running Cainy Ball out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bel=
l of
a penny trumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great distensi=
on 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 juni=
or
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 u=
p,
and dimissing for the present his thoughts on poor Fanny. "You are a good boy to run an=
d 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 s=
heep
the initials of her he delighted to muse on--"B. E.," which signi=
fied
to all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to Farmer Bathsh=
eba
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 a=
nd
hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door plight of hal=
f an
hour before.
Boldwood followed him a little way up the fiel=
d,
hesitated, and turned back. He
followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating return. On approaching the nook in which t=
he
fold was constructed, the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, a=
nd
allowed it to lie open on his hand.
A letter was revealed--Bathsheba's.
"I was going to ask you, Oak," he sa=
id,
with unreal carelessness, "if you know whose writing this is?"
Oak glanced into the book, and replied instant=
ly,
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 pers=
ons
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 wi=
th
which he applied himself to an argument on a valentine. "You know it is always expect=
ed
that privy inquiries will be made: that's where the--fun lies." If the word "fun" had be=
en
"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 rese=
rved
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.
=
=
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 t=
he
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 centr=
al 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 t=
he
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.
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 t=
he
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 lit=
tle
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 vis=
ible
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 abnorm=
al
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 t=
he
minutes went on, and nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved. The rattle of the quarter-jack aga=
in
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 voi=
ce
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 nervousn=
ess,
and titters and giggling became more frequent. Then came a dead silence. Every on=
e was
waiting for the end. Some per=
sons
may have noticed how extraordinarily the striking of quarters seems to quic=
ken
the flight of time. It was ha=
rdly
credible that the jack had not got wrong with the minutes when the rattle b=
egan
again, the puppet emerged, and the four quarters were struck fitfully as
before. One could almost be p=
ositive
that there was a malicious leer upon the hideous creature's face, and a
mischievous delight in its twitchings.&nbs=
p;
Then followed the dull and remote resonance of the twelve heavy stro=
kes
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 compre=
ssed
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, aro=
und
which several overhanging wood buildings of old time cast a picturesque
shade. The young man on leavi=
ng the
door went to cross the square, when, in the middle, he met a little woman.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 l=
ight
irony, and turning from her walked rapidly away.
=
=
On
Saturday Boldwood was in Casterbridge market house as usual, when the distu=
rber
of his dreams entered and became visible to him. Adam had awakened from his deep sl=
eep,
and behold! there was Eve. Th=
e 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 o=
f 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 pas=
sing
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 orbi=
ts
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 curv=
es
and profile, and the roundness of her chin and throat. He saw then the side of her eyelid=
s,
eyes, and lashes, and the shape of her ear. Next he noticed her figure, her sk=
irt,
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 rom=
ance
in the flesh, if so sweet as he imagined, could have been going on long wit=
hout
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 neith=
er
nature nor art could improve this perfect one of an imperfect many. His heart began to move within him=
. Boldwood, it must be remembered, t=
hough
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 h=
is opinion
was true even now. He furtive=
ly
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 sho=
uld
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 wom=
an
of Bathsheba's taste. But Bol=
dwood
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 th=
rust
himself between them. This co=
uld 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 piqui=
ng
delay. But it had been brought about by misdirected ingenuity, and she valu=
ed
it only as she valued an artificial flower or a wax fruit.
Being a woman with some good sense in reasonin=
g on
subjects wherein her heart was not involved, Bathsheba genuinely repented t=
hat
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 arrange=
ment
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.
=
Boldwood
was tenant of what was called Little Weatherbury Farm, and his person was t=
he
nearest approach to aristocracy that this remoter quarter of the parish cou=
ld
boast of. Genteel strangers, =
whose
god was their town, who might happen to be compelled to linger about this n=
ook
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 t=
o expectancy:
it was only Mr. Boldwood coming home again.
His house stood recessed from the road, and th=
e 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 ti=
me
the backs and tails of half-a-dozen warm and contented horses standing in t=
heir
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 o=
f 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 m=
et the
floor with heel and toe simultaneously, and his fine reddish-fleshed face w=
as
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 horizo=
ntal
lines were the only interruption to the otherwise smooth surface of his lar=
ge 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 emot=
ion
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 morta=
lly,
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 abs=
urd
sides to the follies of life, and thus, though not quite companionable in t=
he 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 drama=
s 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 kno=
wn
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 i=
t 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 lo=
oked
forth across the level fields.
Beyond the first enclosure was a hedge, and on the other side of thi=
s 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 seas=
on. 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 Ca=
iny
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 t=
he
tablet, of his soul, as he is reserved or ingenuous, overflowing or
self-contained. There was a c=
hange
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 fearf=
ul
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 bo=
ldly
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 comp=
ound,
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 e=
ngaged
in the operation of making a lamb "take," which is performed when=
ever
an ewe has lost her own offspring, one of the twins of another ewe being gi=
ven
her as a substitute. Gabriel =
had
skinned the dead lamb, and was tying the skin over the body of the live lam=
b,
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 wou=
ld
remain till the old sheep conceived an affection for the young one.
Bathsheba looked up at the completion of the
manoeuvre 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 regardfu=
l 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 li=
ght
turned upon his new sensibility. He
was still in the road, and by moving on he hoped that neither would recogni=
ze
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 s=
igns
that she wished to see him--perhaps not--he could not read a woman. The cabala of this erotic philosop=
hy
seemed to consist of the subtlest meanings expressed in misleading ways.
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 appeara=
nce
there. It troubled her much t=
o 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 affection=
s 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.
=
=
Boldwood
did eventually call upon her. She
was not at home. "Of cou=
rse
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 extens=
ive
a farmer, as himself, her probable whereabouts was out-of-doors at this tim=
e of
the year. This, and the other oversights Boldwood was guilty of, were natur=
al 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, li=
ke
all others, had moments of commonplace, when to be least plainly seen was t=
o be
most prettily remembered. Thu=
s 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 determin=
ed
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
sheepwashing, 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 su=
rface,
reflecting the light sky, must have been visible for miles around as a
glistening Cyclops' eye in a green face.&n=
bsp;
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 ou=
tskirts
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 a=
s a
shade, the swelling reeds and sedge forming a flexible palisade upon its mo=
ist brink. To the north of the mead were tree=
s, 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 g=
reen--green
beside a yellow. From the rec=
esses
of this knot of foliage the loud notes of three cuckoos were resounding thr=
ough
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 tribut=
ary 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 ot=
hers
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 e=
ver
worn--the reins of her horse being looped over her arm. Flagons of cider were rolling abou=
t upon
the green. The meek sheep were
pushed into the pool by Coggan and Matthew Moon, who stood by the lower hat=
ch,
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 flowi=
ng 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 h=
is 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.&nb=
sp;
She heard footsteps brushing the grass, and had a consciousness that
love was encircling her like a perfume.&nb=
sp;
Instead of turning or waiting, Bathsheba went further among the high
sedges, but Boldwood seemed determined, and pressed on till they were compl=
etely
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 s=
o utterly
removed from all she had expected as a beginning. It was lowness and quiet accentuat=
ed: an
emphasis of deep meanings, their form, at the same time, being scarcely
expressed. Silence has someti=
mes a
remarkable power of showing itself as the disembodied soul of feeling wande=
ring
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 w=
ord.
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."<= o:p>
Bathsheba tried to preserve an absolutely neut=
ral
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 w=
ent
on. "I may have been cal=
led 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 resp=
ect
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. &q=
uot;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 lea=
rn
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 s=
ay 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 su=
it
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 wh=
ich
no woman with any self-respect should have done. If you will only pardon my thought=
lessness,
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 tortur=
e 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-c=
ut
lips already noticed, suggested an idea of heartlessness, which was immedia=
tely
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 b=
elieve
me I will take more care of you than would many a man of your own age. I will protect and cherish you wit=
h all
my strength--I will indeed! Y=
ou
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 nev=
er
have so much as to look out of doors at haymaking time, or to think of weat=
her
in the harvest. I rather clin=
g 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 abo=
ve
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 wi=
th
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 s=
ay
this to me. Oh, I am wicked t=
o 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?&=
quot;
"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.&qu=
ot;
"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 g=
round,
and stood long like a man who did not know where he was. Realities then returned upon him l=
ike
the pain of a wound received in an excitement which eclipses it, and he, to=
o,
then went on.
=
=
"He
is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can desire," Baths=
heba
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 hi=
m,
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 t=
hat
she, a lonely girl, should marry, and marry this earnest, well-to-do, and
respected man. He was close t=
o 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 c=
ould
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 hou=
se
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 s=
ave
her life.
Bathsheba's was an impulsive nature under a
deliberative aspect. An Eliza=
beth
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 m=
ost
frequently grew into deeds.
The next day to that of the declaration she fo=
und
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 t=
heir
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 somew=
hat 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 he=
ad
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 t=
o you,
Gabriel."
Cain departed, and Bathsheba took the handle.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Gabriel had glanced up in intense
surprise, quelled its expression, and looked down again. Bathsheba turned t=
he
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 g=
rows
heavy, and the body's centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a lea=
den
lump somewhere between the eyebrows and the crown. Bathsheba felt the unpleasant symp=
toms
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 ri=
ght, miss--I
knew you wouldn't know the way--hold like this."
He relinquished the winch, and inclosing her t=
wo
hands completely in his own (taking each as we sometimes slap a child's han=
d in
teaching him to write), grasped the shears with her. "Incline the edge so," he
said.
Hands and shears were inclined to suit the wor=
ds,
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 hi=
s 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 ma=
de,
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,&q=
uot;
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 plea=
se
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 opini=
on to
'ee on what you have done."
"I daresay. But I don't want your opinion.&quo=
t;
"I suppose not," said Gabriel bitter=
ly,
and going on with his turning, his words rising and falling in a regular sw=
ell
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 ti=
me was
very seldom gained. At this p=
eriod
the single opinion in the parish on herself and her doings that she valued =
as
sounder than her own was Gabriel Oak's.&nb=
sp;
And the outspoken honesty of his character was such that on any subj=
ect,
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 lo=
ver'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 reac=
h.
"Well, what is your opinion of my conduct=
,"
she said, quietly.
"That it is unworthy of any thoughtful, a=
nd
meek, and comely woman."
In an instant Bathsheba's face coloured with t=
he
angry crimson of a Danby sunset.
But she forbore to utter this feeling, and the reticence of her tong=
ue
only made the loquacity of her face the more noticeable.
The next thing Gabriel did was to make a mista=
ke.
"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.&=
nbsp;
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 unmistaka=
bly
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 particula=
r my
unworthiness lies? In my not
marrying you, perhaps!"
"Not by any means," said Gabriel
quietly. "I have long gi=
ven 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 lov=
ing
her at the same time; the impetuosity of passion unrequited is bearable, ev=
en
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 lecture=
r saw her
in the cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion was exasperating. He had not finished, either. He continued in a more agitated vo=
ice:--
"My opinion is (since you ask it) that you
are greatly to blame for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merel=
y 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 h=
er by
a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by breaking, rather than by=
a chain
he could not break. "I s=
hould
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 a=
ny 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.
=
=
Gabriel
Oak had ceased to feed the Weatherbury flock for about four-and-twenty hour=
s,
when on Sunday afternoon the elderly gentlemen Joseph Poorgrass, Matthew Mo=
on,
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 s=
aid,
meeting them at the door just as she was coming out on her way to church, a=
nd
ceasing in a moment from the close compression of her two red lips, with wh=
ich she
had accompanied the exertion of pulling on a tight glove.
"Sixty!" said Joseph Poorgrass.
"Seventy!" said Moon.
"Fifty-nine!" said Susan Tall's husb=
and.
"--Sheep have broke fence," said Fra=
y.
"--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 a=
nd
crosswise, after the pattern of a portcullis, expressive of a double despai=
r. 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 co=
me
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 disturba=
nce
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 passa=
ge,
and running out of doors in the direction signified. "To come to me, and not go an=
d get them
out directly! Oh, the stupid
numskulls!"
Her eyes were at their darkest and brightest
now. Bathsheba's beauty belon=
ging
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 ra=
ther
dashing velvet dress, carefully put on before a glass.
All the ancient men ran in a jumbled throng af=
ter
her to the clover-field, Joseph sinking down in the midst when about half-w=
ay, 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The majority of the afflicted anim=
als
were lying down, and could not be stirred.=
These were bodily lifted out, and the others driven into the adjoini=
ng
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,&quo=
t;
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 sp=
ot. If ye go to the right or left but a=
n 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.&=
nbsp;
"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 Tal=
l.
"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 w=
ith
me. Ah!" she added, brightening, "Farmer Boldwood knows!"
"O no, ma'am" said Matthew. "Two of his store ewes got in=
to
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.&=
nbsp;
Isn't it, Joseph?"
"Ay--a holler pipe," echoed Joseph.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "That's what 'tis."
"Ay, sure--that's the machine," chim=
ed
in Henery Fray, reflectively, with an Oriental indifference to the flight of
time.
"Well," burst out Bathsheba, "d=
on't
stand there with your 'ayes' and your 'sures' talking at me! Get somebody to cure the sheep ins=
tantly!"
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 thro=
ugh
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 stil=
l.
Bathsheba went up to it. The sheep was dead.
"Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do!&qu=
ot;
she again exclaimed, wringing her hands.&n=
bsp;
"I won't send for him.
No, I won't!"
The most vigorous expression of a resolution d=
oes
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 enunciat=
ion
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, a=
nd
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 r=
etired
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 sa=
id.
Tall came into the inclosure, and leapt off, h=
is
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,&quo=
t;
replied Laban.
"What!" said the young farmer, openi=
ng
her eyes and drawing in her breath for an outburst. Joseph Poorgrass retired a few ste=
ps
behind a hurdle.
"He says he shall not come onless you req=
uest
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 wh=
o 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?&=
nbsp;
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 wicke=
d cruelty
to me--it is--it is!" she murmured.&n=
bsp;
"And he drives me to do what I wouldn't; yes, he does!--Tall, c=
ome
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 scri=
bbled
a note between the small convulsive sobs of convalescence which follow a fi=
t of
crying as a ground-swell follows a storm.&=
nbsp;
The note was none the less polite for being written in a hurry. She held it at a distance, was abo=
ut 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. Th=
e 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 t=
ramp
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 simp=
ly
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 loo=
ked
up. A mounted figure passed b=
etween
her and the sky, and drew on towards the field of sheep, the rider turning =
his
face in receding. Gabriel loo=
ked at
her. It was a moment when a w=
oman'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 previo=
us
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 wh=
ich
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 c=
oat,
rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and taken from his pocket the instrument of
salvation. It was a small tub=
e 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, retaini=
ng
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 necessita=
ted 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 ha=
d thus
strayed and injured themselves so dangerously was fifty-seven.
When the love-led man had ceased from his labo=
urs,
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.
=
=
Men
thin away to insignificance and oblivion quite as often by not making the m=
ost
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, powerl=
ess
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 wit=
hout
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 pastur=
e,
being all health and colour. =
Every
green was young, every pore was open, and every stalk was swollen with raci=
ng
currents of juice. God was palpably present in the country, and the devil h=
ad
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, approximatin=
g to
human flesh, the enchanter's night-shade, and the black-petaled doleful-bel=
ls,
were among the quainter objects of the vegetable world in and about Weather=
bury
at this teeming time; and of the animal, the metamorphosed figures of Mr. J=
an
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 Fr=
ay
the fourth shearer, Susan Tall's husband the fifth, Joseph Poorgrass the si=
xth,
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 trans=
epts. It not only emulated the form of t=
he
neighbouring church of the parish, but vied with it in antiquity. Whether the barn had ever formed o=
ne of
a group of conventual buildings nobody seemed to be aware; no trace of such
surroundings remained. The va=
st
porches at the sides, lofty enough to admit a waggon laden to its highest w=
ith
corn in the sheaf, were spanned by heavy-pointed arches of stone, broadly a=
nd
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 desig=
n, because
more wealthy in material, than nine-tenths of those in our modern
churches. Along each side wal=
l was
a range of striding buttresses, throwing deep shadows on the spaces between
them, which were perforated by lancet openings, combining in their proporti=
ons the
precise requirements both of beauty and ventilation.
One could say about this barn, what could hard=
ly
be said of either the church or the castle, akin to it in age and style, th=
at
the purpose which had dictated its original erection was the same with that=
to
which it was still applied. U=
nlike
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 usag=
e,
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 n=
either
proved it to be founded on a mistake, inspired any hatred of its purpose, n=
or
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> For once mediævalism and mod=
ernism
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 b=
ody 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, for=
med
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 o=
f 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 thousa=
nd
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 quiver=
ed
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, Weather=
bury
was immutable. The citizen's =
THEN
is the rustic's NOW. In Londo=
n,
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 c=
ut 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 pre=
sent
is futurity.
So the barn was natural to the shearers, and t=
he
shearers were in harmony with the barn.
The spacious ends of the building, answering
ecclesiastically to nave and chancel extremities, were fenced off with hurd=
les,
the sheep being all collected in a crowd within these two enclosures; and i=
n one
angle a catching-pen was formed, in which three or four sheep were continuo=
usly
kept ready for the shearers to seize without loss of time. In the background, mellowed by taw=
ny
shade, were the three women, Maryann Money, and Temperance and Soberness
Miller, gathering up the fleeces and twisting ropes of wool with a wimble f=
or
tying them round. They were
indifferently well assisted by the old maltster, who, when the malting seas=
on
from October to April had passed, made himself useful upon any of the borde=
ring
farmsteads.
Behind all was Bathsheba, carefully watching t=
he
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 cau=
tion
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, c=
ame
again to Gabriel, as he put down the luncheon to drag a frightened ewe to h=
is
shear-station, flinging it over upon its back with a dexterous twist of the
arm. He lopped off the tresse=
s about
its head, and opened up the neck and collar, his mistress quietly looking o=
n.
"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 fl=
ush
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 ev=
ery 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 he=
r: 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 no=
thing,
which was Bathsheba's; and there is a silence which says much: that was
Gabriel's. Full of this dim a=
nd
temperate bliss, he went on to fling the ewe over upon her other side, cove=
ring
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, wipi=
ng
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 hal=
f 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 unadul=
terated
warmth for the winter enjoyment of persons unknown and far away, who will,
however, never experience the superlative comfort derivable from the wool a=
s 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 n=
ow
as superior to anything WOOLLEN as cream is superior to milk-and-water.
But heartless circumstance could not leave ent=
ire
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 shear-lings 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 appearan=
ce
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 total=
ly 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 ow=
n 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 usua=
lly
fixed upon it. Bathsheba demu=
rely
regarded a contemptible straw lying upon the ground, in a way which suggest=
ed
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 s=
pace
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 hors=
e 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 inst=
antly
gazed towards it, and saw the blood.
"Oh, Gabriel!" she exclaimed, with
severe remonstrance, "you who are so strict with the other men--see wh=
at
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 sadd=
le,
and before they turned away she again spoke out to Oak with the same domina=
tive
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 tro=
tted
away.
Boldwood's deep attachment was a matter of gre=
at
interest among all around him; but, after having been pointed out for so ma=
ny
years as the perfect exemplar of thriving bachelorship, his lapse was an an=
ticlimax
somewhat resembling that of St. John Long's death by consumption in the mid=
st
of his proofs that it was not a fatal disease.
"That means matrimony," said Tempera=
nce
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 keepi=
ng 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.
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 m=
an 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 reall=
y; but
I didn't put it so plain that she could understand my meaning, so I could l=
ay
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 h=
er
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?" sa=
id,
Henery, mildly.
"Because she told me all that passed,&quo=
t;
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 in=
to
things! To be long-headed eno=
ugh
for a baily's place is a poor mere trifle--yet a trifle more than nothing.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> However, I look round upon life qu=
ite 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 ab=
out
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 ol=
d man
worth naming--no old man at all.
Yer teeth bain't half gone yet; and what's a old man's standing if s=
o 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 Cogga=
n.
"Malter, we feel ye to be a wonderful veteran man, and nobody can gain=
say
it."
"Nobody," said Joseph Poorgrass. "Ye be a very rare old specta=
cle, malter,
and we all admire ye for that gift."
"Ay, and as a young man, when my senses w=
ere
in prosperity, I was likewise liked by a good-few who knowed me," said=
the
maltster.
"'Ithout doubt you was--'ithout doubt.&qu=
ot;
The bent and hoary man was satisfied, and so
apparently was Henery Fray. T=
hat
matters should continue pleasant Maryann spoke, who, what with her brown
complexion, and the working wrapper of rusty linsey, had at present the mel=
low
hue of an old sketch in oils--notably some of Nicholas Poussin's:--
"Do anybody know of a crooked man, or a l=
ame,
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.&nb=
sp;
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 m=
oods
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 relative=
ly to
the farm: in relation to herself, as beloved by him and unmarried to anothe=
r,
he had coveted it. His readin=
gs of
her seemed now to be vapoury and indistinct. His lecture to her was, he thought=
, one
of the absurdest mistakes. Fa=
r 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 disli=
ke
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 junke=
ting
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 y=
er
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 ou=
t,
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,&qu=
ot;
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."
=
=
For
the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the ho=
use,
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 shad=
owy
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 gat=
e,
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 car=
e not,
I've lost my love, and I care=
not; I shall soo=
n have
another That's bett=
er
than t'other; I'v=
e 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 auth=
ors
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.'&qu=
ot;
"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,&quo=
t;
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," sa=
id
Bathsheba, from the window.
"Well, really, ma'am," he replied, i=
n 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.
=
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 ta=
king
paragraph."
"Ay; and there was a pretty place at 'see=
ds
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, af=
ter
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 immediatel=
y.
"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 t=
ree'
will' twist', And=
the
wil'-low' tre'-ee wi'-ill twine'."
=
But
the singer could not be set going again.&n=
bsp;
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 h=
is
day.
It was still the beaming time of evening, thou=
gh
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 a=
s a
last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers' lower parts
becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders w=
ere
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 sometim=
es
looked up to view the fading scene outside. The slow twilight expanded and env=
eloped
them completely before the signs of moving were shown.
Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from h= is 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 dow= n the table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows behind. Bathsheba's form, still in its ori= ginal 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.<= o:p>
Next came the question of the evening. Would Miss Everdene sing to them t=
he
song she always sang so charmingly--"The Banks of Allan Water"--b=
efore
they went home?
After a moment's consideration Bathsheba assen=
ted,
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 draw=
n 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 th=
e 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 soug=
ht
her, =
And a
winning tongue had he: On the banks of Allan W=
ater None was ga=
y 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; th=
ey
rather formed a rich unexplored shadow, which threw her tones into relief.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The shearers reclined against each=
other
as at suppers in the early ages of the world, and so silent and absorbed we=
re
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, th=
ere
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 no=
thing
exceptional in his actions beyond what appertained to his time of performing
them. It was when the rest we=
re all
looking away that Boldwood observed her; when they regarded her he turned a=
side;
when they thanked or praised he was silent; when they were inattentive he
murmured his thanks. The mean=
ing
lay in the difference between actions, none of which had any meaning of its=
elf;
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 thereup=
on
closing the sash and the shutters, and remaining inside with her. Oak wandered away under the quiet =
and
scented trees. Recovering fro=
m the
softer impressions produced by Bathsheba's voice, the shearers rose to leav=
e,
Coggan turning to Pennyways as he pushed back the bench to pass out:--
"I like to give praise where praise is du= e, 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.<= o:p>
"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 b=
e in
their place as perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all.&q=
uot;
"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 nob=
le
thing in the shape of a good action, as I could see by his face he did to-n=
ight
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 w= as 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.<= o:p>
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 s=
o high
a matter is honourable in any woman, and I don't want to give a solemn prom=
ise
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 a=
re
going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife,&quo=
t;
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. An=
d 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 s=
orry
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.
=
=
Among
the multifarious duties which Bathsheba had voluntarily imposed upon hersel=
f 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 don=
e;
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 li=
ght to
examine nooks and corners with the coolness of a metropolitan policeman.
This night the buildings were inspected as usu=
al,
and she went round to the farm paddock.&nb=
sp;
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, n=
ot
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 app=
arel
which came within reach of their tongues.&=
nbsp;
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 phenome=
na
were the features and persons of Daisy, Whitefoot, Bonny-lass, Jolly-O, Spo=
t,
Twinkle-eye, etc., etc.--the respectable dairy of Devon cows belonging to
Bathsheba aforesaid.
Her way back to the house was by a path throug=
h a
young plantation of tapering firs, which had been planted some years earlie=
r to
shelter the premises from the north wind.&=
nbsp;
By reason of the density of the interwoven foliage overhead, it was
gloomy there at cloudless noontide, twilight in the evening, dark as midnig=
ht
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 car=
pet
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 n=
ot
vivid enough to lead her to take a companion. Slipping along here covertly as Ti=
me,
Bathsheba fancied she could hear footsteps entering the track at the opposi=
te
end. It was certainly a rustl=
e of
footsteps. Her own instantly fell as gently as snowflakes. She reassured herself by a remembr=
ance
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 ab=
out
to occur in the darkest point of her route, even though only just outside h=
er
own door.
The noise approached, came close, and a figure=
was
apparently on the point of gliding past her when something tugged at her sk=
irt
and pinned it forcibly to the ground.
The instantaneous check nearly threw Bathsheba off her balance. In recovering she struck against w=
arm
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 purpo=
se.
"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 wit=
h 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 lo=
ci at
all times hitherto, was now totally overthrown, less by the lantern-light t=
han
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 transfo=
rmation.
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,&q=
uot;
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 t=
hem
for a moment; Bathsheba looked down again, for his gaze was too strong to b=
e 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 wa=
it a
moment," and he unwound a cord from the little wheel. She withdrew her own hand, but, wh=
ether
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 beauti=
ful
face!" said the young sergeant, without ceremony.
She coloured with embarrassment. "'Twas unwillingly shown,&quo=
t; she
replied, stiffly, and with as much dignity--which was very little--as she c=
ould
infuse into a position of captivity.
"I like you the better for that incivilit=
y,
miss," he said.
"I should have liked--I wish--you had nev=
er
shown yourself to me by intruding here!" She pulled again, and the gat=
hers
of her dress began to give way like liliputian musketry.
"I deserve the chastisement your words gi=
ve
me. But why should such a fai=
r 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 u=
pon 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 natur=
e altogether. "I am thankful for beauty, ev=
en
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 s=
kirt
bodily behind her. The though=
t was
too dreadful. The dress--whic=
h she
had put on to appear stately at the supper--was the head and front of her w=
ardrobe;
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.&nb=
sp;
Take it or leave it--be offended or like it--I don't care."
"Who are you, then, who can so well affor=
d to
despise opinion?"
"No stranger. Sergeant Troy. I am staying in this place.--There=
! it
is undone at last, you see. Y=
our
light fingers were more eager than mine.&n=
bsp;
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 s=
idled 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, B=
athsheba
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 mi=
ght
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 ver=
y quick
and trim, who might have made his thousands, like a squire. Such a clever y=
oung
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.&nb=
sp;
And, he was brought up so well, and sent to Casterbridge Grammar Sch=
ool
for years and years. Learnt a=
ll
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 i=
s 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 skir=
ts
be permanently offended with the man?
There are occasions when girls like Bathsheba will put up with a gre=
at
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 seld=
om. Just
now the first feeling was in the ascendant with Bathsheba, with a dash of t=
he
second. Moreover, by chance o=
r by
devilry, the ministrant was antecedently made interesting by being a handso=
me 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 l=
ast
exclaimed to herself, in her own room.&nbs=
p;
"And was ever anything so meanly done as what I did--to skulk a=
way
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.
=
=
Idiosyncrasy
and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant Troy as an exceptional being=
.
He was a man to whom memories were an incumbra=
nce,
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 th=
en:
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, w=
as
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, h=
ave
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 fluct=
uation
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.&n=
bsp;
But limitation of the capacity is never recognized as a loss by the
loser therefrom: in this attribute moral or æsthetic poverty contrast=
s plausibly
with material, since those who suffer do not mind it, whilst those who mind=
it
soon cease to suffer. It is n=
ot 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 spr=
uce
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 beco=
ming 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: thenc=
e 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 se=
en.
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.&nb=
sp;
Hence, whilst he sometimes reached the brilliant in speech because t=
hat
was spontaneous, he fell below the commonplace in action, from inability to=
guide
incipient effort. He had a qu=
ick
comprehension and considerable force of character; but, being without the p=
ower
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; cal=
l 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 al=
most
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 fr=
om
the proposition. Still less i=
s it acted
upon for the good of the complemental being alluded to. With the majority s=
uch
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 credi=
t of
men that few attempt to settle the question by experiment, and it is for th=
eir
happiness, perhaps, that accident has never settled it for them. Nevertheless, that a male dissembl=
er who
by deluging her with untenable fictions charms the female wisely, may acqui=
re
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 fair=
ly,
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 reli=
ef
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 la=
tter
the women, who wore tilt bonnets covered with nankeen, which hung in a curt=
ain
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In the first mead they were already
loading hay, the women raking it into cocks and windrows, and the men tossi=
ng
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 h=
ad
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 blush=
ed
with half-angry embarrassment, and adjusted her eyes as well as her feet to=
the
direct line of her path.
=
"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 'Que=
en
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 t=
old
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 Ev=
erdene,"
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 f=
or
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 mo=
re
easily than money."
"Indeed.=
That remark is a sort of digression."
"No.&nbs=
p;
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 supp=
ose
there is a praise which is rudeness, and that may be mine. At the same time there is a treatm=
ent
which is injustice, and that may be yours.=
Because a plain blunt man, who has never been taught concealment, sp=
eaks
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 prais=
e of
me."
"Ah--it is not the fact but the method wh=
ich
offends you," he said, carelessly.&nb=
sp;
"But I have the sad satisfaction of knowing that my words, whet=
her
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 t=
he
embarrassment of being stared at if they come near you? Not I. I couldn't tell any such ridiculou=
s 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 y=
ou
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 lie=
s in being
able to express it on the spur of the moment, and I let out mine. It would have been just the same i=
f 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?&q=
uot;
"Hardly."
"Why?"
"You say such things."
"I said you were beautiful, and I'll say =
so
still; for, by--so you are! T=
he
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 remark=
able
in my saying so, is there? I'=
m sure
the fact is evident enough. M=
iss
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 th=
ird of
that Terrible Ten than you for breaking the ninth?"
"Well, it doesn't seem QUITE true to me t=
hat
I am fascinating," she replied evasively.
"Not so to you: then I say with all respe=
ct
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 simp=
le
reply, guarded as it was--capitulation, unknown to herself. Never did a fragile tailless sente=
nce
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.
"There the truth comes out!" said the
soldier, in reply. "Neve=
r tell
me that a young lady can live in a buzz of admiration without knowing somet=
hing
about it. Ah, well, Miss Ever=
dene,
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 wit=
hout
hoping or intending to get your pardon.&nb=
sp;
Why, Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do
more harm than good in the world."&nb=
sp;
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 wom=
en as
you a hundred men always covet--your eyes will bewitch scores on scores int=
o an
unavailing fancy for you--you can only marry one of that many. Out of these say twenty will endea=
vour
to drown the bitterness of despised love in drink; twenty more will mope aw=
ay
their lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in he world, because t=
hey
have no ambition apart from their attachment to you; twenty more--the
susceptible person myself possibly among them--will be always draggling aft=
er 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 t=
his
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 pro=
verb
they have, Qui aime bien châtie bien--'He chastens who loves well.' Do you understand me?"
"Ah!" she replied, and there was eve=
n 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-rea=
dy
mixture of praise and blame cannot convey much pleasure. Fool as I may be, I am not so conc=
eited
as to suppose that!"
"I think you--are conceited,
nevertheless," said Bathsheba, looking askance at a reed she was fitfu=
lly
pulling with one hand, having lately grown feverish under the soldier's sys=
tem
of procedure--not because the nature of his cajolery was entirely unperceiv=
ed,
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 admirat=
ion
might be an opinion too often forced upon you to give any pleasure, but I c=
ertainly
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 yo=
u for
giving help here. But--but mi=
nd 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 m=
ine.
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 spea=
k 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 trifl=
e 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.&q=
uot;
"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 y= ou have never been a man looking upon a woman, and that woman yourself."<= o:p>
"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."<= o:p>
"Put shortly, it is not being able to thi=
nk,
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 dash=
ing
to be true."
"I am not, upon the honour of a
soldier."
"But WHY is it so?--Of course I ask for m=
ere
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!&qu=
ot;
"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 s=
uch sudden
feeling in people. I won't li=
sten
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.&nbs=
p;
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 li=
ke
me to possess," he quietly said.
"That watch has a history.&nbs=
p;
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 Earl=
s 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 m=
e. It was all the fortune that ever I
inherited. That watch has regulated imperial interests in its time--the sta=
tely
ceremonial, the courtly assignation, pompous travels, and lordly sleeps.
"But, Sergeant Troy, I cannot take this--=
I cannot!"
she exclaimed, with round-eyed wonder.&nbs=
p;
"A gold watch! Wh=
at 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.<= o:p>
"Keep it--do, Miss Everdene--keep it!&quo=
t;
said the erratic child of impulse.
"The fact of your possessing it makes it worth ten times as muc=
h 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 e=
ver it
has been in before."
"But indeed I can't have it!" she sa=
id,
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, Serg=
eant
Troy!"
"I loved my father: good; but better, I l=
ove
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 b=
een
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 prob=
ably
more than he imagined himself.
Bathsheba was brimming with agitated bewilderm=
ent,
and she said, in half-suspicious accents of feeling, "Can it be! Oh, how can it be, that you care f=
or me,
and so suddenly! You have see=
n so
little of me: I may not be really so--so nice-looking as I seem to you. Ple=
ase,
do take it; Oh, do! I cannot =
and
will not have it. Believe me,=
your
generosity is too great. I ha=
ve
never done you a single kindness, and why should you be so kind to me?"=
;
A factitious reply had been again upon his lip=
s, 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 abo=
ut
the field, and are wondering. Oh,
this is dreadful!" she went on, unconscious of the transmutation she w=
as effecting.
"I did not quite mean you to accept it at
first, for it was my one poor patent of nobility," he broke out, blunt=
ly;
"but, upon my soul, I wish you would now. Without any shamming, come! Don't deny me the happiness of wea=
ring
it for my sake? But you are t=
oo
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 sai=
d,
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 happ=
ened. 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.
=
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, th=
at
Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a swarm in the air and guess=
ing
their probable settling place. Not only
were they late this year, but unruly.
Sometimes throughout a whole season all the swarms would alight on t=
he
lowest attainable bough--such as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-t=
ree;
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 ha=
nd, 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 th=
at of
alleged formations of the universe, time and times ago, was observable. The bustling swarm had swept the s=
ky 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 sp=
ot
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 herb=
s and
honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made herself impregnable with ar=
mour
of leather gloves, straw hat, and large gauze veil--once green but now fade=
d to
snuff colour--and ascended a dozen rungs of the ladder. At once she heard, not ten yards o=
ff, a
voice that was beginning to have a strange power in agitating her.
"Miss Everdene, let me assist you; you sh=
ould
not attempt such a thing alone."
Troy was just opening the garden gate.
Bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and emp=
ty
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 the=
m in for
me?" she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way; thou=
gh,
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 h=
is
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 shoul=
d be
taken off--veil and all attached--and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his
own into a gooseberry bush. T=
hen
the veil had to be tied at its lower edge round his collar and the gloves p=
ut
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 absorb=
ed
in the operation to arrange her plumes a little. He came down holding the hive at a=
rm's
length, behind which trailed a cloud of bees.
"Upon my life," said Troy, through t=
he
veil, "holding up this hive makes one's arm ache worse than a week of
sword-exercise." When the manoeuvre was complete he approached her.
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.&quo=
t;
"What?"
"The sword-exercise."
"Ah! would you like to?" said Troy.<= o:p>
Bathsheba hesitated. She had heard wondrous reports fro=
m 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 a=
nd weapons
glistening like stars--here, there, around--yet all by rule and compass.
"Yes; I should like to see it very
much."
"And so you shall; you shall see me go
through it."
"No!&nbs=
p;
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; b=
ut I
think I could get one by the evening.
Now, will you do this?"
Troy bent over her and murmured some suggestio=
n 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.&nb=
sp;
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 e=
yes
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 makin=
g the
proposal.
"Well, I won't bring Liddy--and I'll
come. But only for a very sho=
rt time,"
she added; "a very short time."
"It will not take five minutes," said
Troy.
=
=
The
hill opposite Bathsheba's dwelling extended, a mile off, into an uncultivat=
ed
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 wi=
th
its long, luxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been he=
ard 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, ha=
ving
resolved not to remain near the place after all.
She saw a dim spot of artificial red moving ro=
und
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 origin=
al 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 be=
fore
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 all=
ow
the sunshine to reach their heads.
Standing in the centre, the sky overhead was met by a circular horiz=
on
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 swor= d, 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. The= y 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, u= pside 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, t= hree, four, right; one, two, three, four, left." He repeated them. "Have 'em again?" he said. "One, two--"<= o:p>
She hurriedly interrupted: "I'd rather no=
t;
though I don't mind your twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terri=
ble!"
"Very well. I'll let you off the ones and
threes. Next, cuts, points and
guards altogether." Troy=
duly
exhibited them. "Then th=
ere's
pursuing practice, in this way."
He gave the movements as before. "There, those are the
stereotyped forms. The infant=
ry
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 caval=
ry,
quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously--with just enough rule to regu=
late
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 direct=
ed,
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 wa=
s that
of seeing the same sword, perfectly clean and free from blood held vertical=
ly
in Troy's hand (in the position technically called "recover
swords"). All was as qui=
ck 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!&=
quot;
"I have not touched you," said Troy,
quietly. "It was mere sl=
eight 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 onl=
y not
hurt you, but not once touch you."
"I don't think I am afraid. You are quite sure you will not hu=
rt 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, aro=
und,
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 almos=
t 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 c=
lose
at hand.
Never since the broadsword became the national
weapon had there been more dexterity shown in its management than by the ha=
nds
of Sergeant Troy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the per=
formance
as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with Bathsheba. It may safely be asserted with res=
pect
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 h=
aze
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.&qu=
ot;
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 t=
he
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 sergea=
nt,
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 extensi=
on 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 o=
f 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 heath=
er.
"I must leave you now," said Troy,
softly. "And I'll ventur=
e 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 sca=
rlet
form disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand swif=
tly
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 Tr=
oy's
mouth downwards upon her own. He
had kissed her.
=
We now
see the element of folly distinctly mingling with the many varying particul=
ars
which made up the character of Bathsheba Everdene. It was almost foreign to her intri=
nsic
nature. Introduced as lymph o=
n the
dart of Eros, it eventually permeated and coloured her whole constitution.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 belie=
ving
cajoleries that she knows to be false--except, indeed, in that of being utt=
erly
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 thr=
ows
away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any stre=
ngth
to throw away. One source of =
her inadequacy
is the novelty of the occasion. She has never had practice in making the be=
st
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 socie=
ty
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 T=
roy.
All this infatuation Gabriel saw, and was trou=
bled
thereby from the time of his daily journey a-field to the time of his retur=
n,
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 firs=
t,
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 mis=
tress. 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 h=
ad
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 narro=
w;
thus the way was quite a sunken groove between the embowing thicket on eith=
er
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. G=
ood-night."
"I thought I would come to meet you, as i=
t 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 g=
oing
to introduce the gallant sergeant through the channel of "bad characte=
rs." But all at once the scheme broke d=
own,
it suddenly occurring to him that this was rather a clumsy way, and too
barefaced to begin with. He t=
ried 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 rust=
le of
her dress against the heavy corn-ears.&nbs=
p;
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 s=
ay
is likely to take place between you and him, miss. Forgive my speaking plainly."=
"They say what is not true." she
returned quickly. "No ma=
rriage
is likely to take place between us."
Gabriel now put forth his unobscured opinion, =
for
the moment had come. "We=
ll,
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 endeavour=
s to
better it.
"Since this subject has been mentioned,&q=
uot;
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. Bo=
ldwood
anything. I have never cared =
for
him. I respect him, and he ha=
s urged
me to marry him. But I have g=
iven
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 yo=
u 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.
"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 t=
han
the ruck o' soldiers is anything but a proof of his worth. It show's his course to be down'ar=
d."
"I cannot see what this has to do with our
conversation. Mr. Troy's cour=
se is
not by any means downward; and his superiority IS a proof of his worth!&quo=
t;
"I believe him to have no conscience at
all. And I cannot help beggin=
g 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.&nbs=
p;
But since we don't exactly know what he is, why not behave as if he
MIGHT be bad, simply for your own safety?&=
nbsp;
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 comi=
ng
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 't=
hat
Sergeant What's-his-name.' 'That man of a family that has come to the
dogs.' Don't be unmannerly to=
wards
en, but harmless-uncivil, and so get rid of the man."
No Christmas robin detained by a window-pane e=
ver
pulsed as did Bathsheba now.
"I say--I say again--that it doesn't beco=
me
you to talk about him. Why he
should be mentioned passes me quite!" she exclaimed desperately. "I know this, th-th-that he i=
s 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 t=
he
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 trust=
ed
him. He brimmed with deep fee=
ling
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, a=
nd
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 s=
hould
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 affair=
s,
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 w=
ould
be in his hands!"
Oak's allusion to his own love for her lessene=
d,
to some extent, her anger at his interference; but she could not really for=
give
him for letting his wish to marry her be eclipsed by his wish to do her goo=
d, 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 do=
n't
want you--I beg you to go!"
"That's nonsense," said Oak,
calmly. "This is the sec=
ond
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, Bathsheb=
a, it
is too barefaced. You know, t=
oo,
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 continu=
e 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?&=
nbsp;
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 conte=
nt
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 wha=
t he
wouldn't dream of at other times! =
span>I
own to being rather interfering.
But you know well enough how it is, and who she is that I like too w=
ell,
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, "Wi=
ll you
leave me alone now? I don't o=
rder
it as a mistress--I ask it as a woman, and I expect you not to be so uncour=
teous
as to refuse."
"Certainly I will, Miss Everdene," s=
aid
Gabriel, gently. He wondered =
that
the request should have come at this moment, for the strife was over, and t=
hey
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 we=
re
between the lovers and himself.
Gabriel went home by way of the churchyard.
=
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 th=
an
chronic with her now. The far=
ewell
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 fr=
iends. He had also kissed her a second ti=
me.
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 no=
t by
any distinctly preconcerted arrangement.&n=
bsp;
He had hinted--she had forbidden; and it was only on the chance of h=
is
still coming that she had dismissed Oak, fearing a meeting between them jus=
t then.
She now sank down into a chair, wild and pertu=
rbed
by all these new and fevering sequences.&n=
bsp;
Then she jumped up with a manner of decision, and fetched her desk f=
rom
a side table.
In three minutes, without pause or modificatio=
n,
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 s=
o,
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 kit=
chen, 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 speec=
h 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 h=
ate
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 stor=
y!"
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 ar=
e right
to hate him."
"He's NOT a wild scamp! How dare you to my face! I have no right to hate him, nor y=
ou,
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!&q=
uot;
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: "Peop=
le
always say such foolery, miss. I'll
make answer hencefor'ard, 'Of course a lady like Miss Everdene can't love h=
im';
I'll say it out in plain black and white."
Bathsheba burst out: "O Liddy, are you su=
ch 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!&q=
uot;
she said, in reckless abandonment and grief. "Oh, I love him to very distr=
action
and misery and agony! Don't be
frightened at me, though perhaps I am enough to frighten any innocent
woman. Come closer--closer.&q=
uot;
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?&nbs=
p;
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? Unfeeli=
ng
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!&qu=
ot;
said Liddy, frightened at Bathsheba's unwonted vehemence.
"I suppose you only agree with me like th=
at
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," sa=
id
Liddy, beginning to cry. &quo=
t;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 s=
een
him! Loving is misery for wom=
en
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." S=
he
freshened and turned to Liddy suddenly.&nb=
sp;
"Mind this, Lydia Smallbury, if you repeat anywhere a single wo=
rd
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," s=
aid
Liddy, with womanly dignity of a diminutive order; "but I don't wish to
stay with you. And, if you pl=
ease,
I'll go at the end of the harvest, or this week, or to-day.... I don't see that I deserve to be p=
ut
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 wond=
er
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 h=
ave
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 ha=
ve
been crying about him, because it will be dreadful for me, and no good to h=
im,
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 pictu=
re, which
seems to influence women at such times.&nb=
sp;
"I think God likes us to be good friends, don't you?"
"Indeed I do."
"And, dear miss, you won't harry me and s=
torm
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 pict=
ure
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 woma=
nish
that 'tis getting on that way sometimes.&n=
bsp;
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Tis a great protection to a poor =
maid
in these illegit'mate days!"
=
The
next evening Bathsheba, with the idea of getting out of the way of Mr. Bold=
wood
in the event of his returning to answer her note in person, proceeded to fu=
lfil
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 Ever=
dene
should honour them by coming there for a day or two to inspect some ingenio=
us contrivances
which this man of the woods had introduced into his wares.
Leaving her instructions with Gabriel and Mary=
ann,
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 benea=
th was
dry as ever. Freshness was ex=
haled
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.
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 m=
an
she sought so anxiously to elude.
Boldwood was stepping on, not with that quiet tread of reserved stre=
ngth
which was his customary gait, in which he always seemed to be balancing two
thoughts. His manner was stun=
ned
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 Bathshe=
ba 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 a=
nd
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 sil= ence 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.<= o:p>
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "And it is most strange, beca=
use 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 aff=
ects 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 a=
ny
definite groove for freeing herself from this fearfully awkward position. She confusedly said, "Good ev=
ening,"
and was moving on. Boldwood w=
alked
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 v=
oice
for what came instinctively to her lips: "There is little honour to the
woman in that speech." I=
t 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 pas=
sion
enervated the feminine instinct for punctilios.
"I am beyond myself about this, and am
mad," he said. "I a=
m 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 ma=
n,
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 h=
ad
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 attra=
cted
me by that letter--valentine you call it--would have been worse than my kno=
wledge
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.&n=
bsp;
And if you say you gave me no encouragement, I cannot but contradict
you."
"What you call encouragement was the chil=
dish
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 wr=
ong
places. I wish your feeling w=
as
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 cu=
rsed
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 lov=
e is
no great addition to my sorrow, nor does the gain of your pity make it sens=
ibly
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 lov=
es
her? I was bound to show some feeling, if I would not be a graceless shrew.=
Yet each of those pleasures was ju=
st for
the day--the day just for the pleasure.&nb=
sp;
How was I to know that what is a pastime to all other men was death =
to
you? Have reason, do, and thi=
nk
more kindly of me!"
"Well, never mind arguing--never mind.
Bathsheba, in spite of her mettle, began to fe=
el
unmistakable signs that she was inherently the weaker vessel. She strove
miserably against this femininity which would insist upon supplying unbidde=
n emotions
in stronger and stronger current.
She had tried to elude agitation by fixing her mind on the trees, sk=
y,
any trivial object before her eyes, whilst his reproaches fell, but ingenui=
ty
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 wi=
th
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-bu=
rning
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 fea=
rfully
bitter sweet this was to be, how I would have avoided you, and never seen y=
ou,
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 th=
e 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 wrot=
e 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.&n=
bsp;
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.&nbs=
p;
You naturally would have me think so--you would hide from me that yo=
u have
a burning heart like mine. Yo=
u 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 th=
en
know what had occurred! And t=
he
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 hi=
m,
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,&=
quot;
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.&n=
bsp;
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 m=
an--go
on!"
"Oh sir--Mr. Boldwood!"
"You may as well. I have no further claim upon you.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As for me, I had better go somewhe=
re
alone, and hide--and pray. I loved a woman once. I am now ashamed. When I am dead they'll say, Misera=
ble love-sick
man that he was. Heaven--heav=
en--if
I had got jilted secretly, and the dishonour not known, and my position
kept! But no matter, it is go=
ne,
and the woman not gained. Sha=
me
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.&n=
bsp;
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 figh=
t my
battles for me; but no mercy is shown.&nbs=
p;
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 wou=
ld
have died for me.' Yes, and y=
ou
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.
The most tragic woman is cowed by a tragic man,
and although Boldwood was, in vehemence and glow, nearly her own self rende=
red
into another sex, Bathsheba's cheek quivered. She gasped, "Leave me, sir--l=
eave 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 anot=
her
man; and then may he ache, and wish, and curse, and yearn--as I do now!&quo=
t;
"Don't, don't, oh, don't pray down evil u=
pon
him!" she implored in a miserable cry. "Anything but that--anything.=
Oh, be kind to him, sir, for I lov=
e him
true!"
Boldwood's ideas had reached that point of fus=
ion
at which outline and consistency entirely disappear. The impending night appeared to co=
ncentrate
in his eye. He did not hear h=
er 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.
For a moment Boldwood stood so inertly after t=
his
that his soul seemed to have been entirely exhaled with the breath of his p=
assionate
words. He turned his face awa=
y, and
withdrew, and his form was soon covered over by the twilight as his footste=
ps
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 attempt=
ed
to ponder on the exhibition which had just passed away. Such astounding wells of fevered f=
eeling
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 dista=
nt
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 revisit=
ed
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 k=
indle the
farmer's swift feelings of rage and jealousy; he would lose his self-master=
y as
he had this evening; Troy's blitheness might become aggressive; it might ta=
ke
the direction of derision, and Boldwood's anger might then take the directi=
on
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 adv=
ancing
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 whe=
eled
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.
=
=
The
village of Weatherbury was quiet as the graveyard in its midst, and the liv=
ing
were lying well-nigh as still as the dead.=
The church clock struck eleven.&nbs=
p;
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 t=
he
same at their close. The note=
s 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 sis=
ter,
whom Bathsheba had set out to visit.
A few minutes after eleven had struck, Maryann turned in her bed wit=
h 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 t=
o 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 whi=
ch
circumstances proved to be a vehicle, for after a few minutes spent apparen=
tly 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 ente=
red
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 rai=
se
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 Cogga=
n'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 gon=
e.
"Hark!" said Gabriel.
They listened. Distinct upon the stagnant air cam=
e the
sounds of a trotting horse passing up Longpuddle Lane--just beyond the gips=
ies'
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 st=
upids
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 fo=
r what
we do. Yes, we'll follow.&quo=
t;
"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 o=
f 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," sa=
id
Maryann.
"All the better," said Coggan. "I know what he's gone for.&q=
uot;
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 Cogga=
n,
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 forme=
r by
passing the rope in each case through the animal's mouth and looping it on =
the
other side. Oak vaulted astri=
de,
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.
Weatherbury Bottom was reached in three or four
minutes. They scanned the sha=
dy
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 mu=
st
overtake em", said Oak. "Now on at full speed!"
No sound of the rider in their van could now be
discovered. The road-metal gr=
ew
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 ma=
tch 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 ha=
d no
water in them; one pair of ruts was also empty, and not small canals, like =
the
others. The footprints formin=
g this
recent impression were full of information as to pace; they were in equidis=
tant
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!&q=
uot;
"How do you know?"
"Old Jimmy Harris only shoed her last wee=
k,
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 exam=
ined
the ground again.
"'Tis a canter now," he said, throwi=
ng
away the light. "A twist=
y, 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 t=
he
hoof-marks were so spaced as to form a sort of zigzag if united, like the l=
amps
along a street.
"That's a trot, I know," said Gabrie=
l.
"Only a trot now," said Coggan,
cheerfully. "We shall ov=
ertake
him in time."
They pushed rapidly on for yet two or three
miles. "Ah! a moment,&qu=
ot; said
Jan. "Let's see how she =
was
driven up this hill. 'Twill h=
elp us." A light was promptly struck upon h=
is
gaiters as before, and the examination made.
"Hurrah!" said Coggan. "She walked up here--and well=
she
might. We shall get them in t=
wo
miles, for a crown."
They rode three, and listened. No sound was to be heard save a mi=
llpond
trickling hoarsely through a hatch, and suggesting gloomy possibilities of
drowning by jumping in. Gabri=
el
dismounted when they came to a turning.&nb=
sp;
The tracks were absolutely the only guide as to the direction that t=
hey
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,&qu=
ot;
said Gabriel, looking up at Coggan as he moved the match over the ground ab=
out
the turning. Coggan, who, no less than the panting horses, had latterly sho=
wn signs
of weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters. This time only three were of the r=
egular
horseshoe shape. Every fourth=
was a
dot.
He screwed up his face and emitted a long
"Whew-w-w!"
"Lame," said Oak.
"Yes.&nb=
sp;
Dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore," said Coggan slowly, star=
ing
still at the footprints.
"We'll push on," said Gabriel,
remounting his humid steed.
Although the road along its greater part had b=
een
as good as any turnpike-road in the country, it was nominally only a
byway. The last turning had b=
rought
them into the high road leading to Bath. Coggan recollected himself.
"We shall have him now!" he exclaime=
d.
"Where?"
"Sherton Turnpike. The keeper of that gate is the sle=
epiest
man between here and London--Dan Randall, that's his name--knowed en for ye=
ars,
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 Cogg=
an.
The white bars were blotted out in the midst b=
y 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 s=
aw a
woman--Bathsheba, his mistress.
On hearing his voice she had turned her face a= way from the light. Coggan had, however, caught sight of her in the meanwhile.<= o:p>
"Why, 'tis mistress--I'll take my oath!&q=
uot;
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, mas=
k a
surprise by coolness of manner.
"Well, Gabriel," she inquired quietl=
y,
"where are you going?"
"We thought--" began Gabriel.
"I am driving to Bath," she said, ta=
king
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 y=
ou
following me?"
"We thought the horse was stole."
"Well--what a thing! How very foolish of you not to kno=
w 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 Boldwo=
od's
horses! Goodness mercy! what have you been doing--bringing trouble upon me =
in this
way? What! mustn't a lady mov=
e 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 d=
rive
at these hours, miss, as a jineral rule of society."
"I did leave an account--and you would ha=
ve
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 coul=
dn'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.&n=
bsp;
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?&q=
uot;
"It was only a stone in her shoe. I got down and pulled it out a hun=
dred
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 gat=
e,
and was soon wrapped in the embowering shades of mysterious summer boughs.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Coggan and Gabriel put about their
horses, and, fanned by the velvety air of this July night, retraced the roa=
d 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!&quo=
t;
"Coggan, suppose we keep this night's wor=
k 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 t=
hat
there were only two remedies for the present desperate state of affairs.
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 whi=
le
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 tortu=
res
by imagining him the lover of another woman after forgetting her; for she h=
ad
penetrated Troy's nature so far as to estimate his tendencies pretty
accurately, but unfortunately loved him no less in thinking that he might s=
oon
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 sh=
ould
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 assi=
st a
resolve to renounce him? Or w=
as she
sophistically sensible, with a thrill of pleasure, that by adopting this co=
urse
for getting rid of him she was ensuring a meeting with him, at any rate, on=
ce
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 fi=
rst 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 thing=
s to
take their course? No, no; anything but that. Bathsheba was full of a stimulatin=
g turbulence,
beside which caution vainly prayed for a hearing. She turned back towards the villag=
e.
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 b=
een
to Bath at all. Such was
Bathsheba's scheme. But in he=
r 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.
=
=
A week
passed, and there were no tidings of Bathsheba; nor was there any explanati=
on
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 s=
hort
shadows of noon. Indoors noth=
ing
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 the=
ir perpendicular
stalks of amber-yellow fell heavily to each swath. Every drop of moisture n=
ot
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 t=
he
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,&=
quot;
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 unloc=
k the
door and dropped the key, and it fell upon the stone floor and broke into t=
wo
pieces. Breaking a key is a
dreadful bodement. I wish mis=
'ess
was home."
"'Tis Cain Ball," said Gabriel, paus=
ing
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,&quo=
t;
said Matthew Moon. "He h=
ev been
away from home for a few days, since he's had that felon upon his finger; f=
or
'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 som=
e of
the others, had a way of resting a while from his labour on such hot days f=
or
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 joi=
nt
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 n=
ape
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 i=
n a bandage. When he came close, his mouth assu=
med
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, th=
at'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 'ti=
s,
Mister Oak! And I've been vis=
iting
to Bath because I had a felon on my thumb; yes, and I've seen--ahok-hok!&qu=
ot;
Directly Cain mentioned Bath, they all threw d= own their hooks and forks and drew round him.&= nbsp; 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.<= o:p>
"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 ju=
st
fleed into my stomach and brought the cough on again!"
"Yes, that's just it. Your mouth is always open, you you=
ng
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 clo=
ser,
and then they went arm-in-crook, like courting complete--hok-hok! like cour=
ting
complete--hok!--courting complete--"&=
nbsp;
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 c=
ork,
and applying the hole to Cainy's mouth; Joseph Poorgrass in the meantime
beginning to think apprehensively of the serious consequences that would fo=
llow
Cainy Ball's strangulation in his cough, and the history of his Bath advent=
ures
dying with him.
"For my poor self, I always say 'please G=
od'
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 f=
rom
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 f=
og,
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!&q=
uot;
"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 we=
re
always a very excitable family. I
knowed the boy's grandfather--a truly nervous and modest man, even to gente=
el
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 nob=
le quality
in ye."
"Heh-heh! well, I wish to noise nothing
abroad--nothing at all," murmured Poorgrass, diffidently. "But we be born to things--th=
at'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! und=
er
your bushel with 'ee! A stran=
ge
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 h=
ead,
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 sen=
se
of the term."
"Now then," said Gabriel, impatientl=
y,
"what did you see, Cain?"
"I seed our mis'ess go into a sort of a p=
ark
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 w=
ere
very effective as regarded Gabriel's emotions. "And I think the sojer was Se=
rgeant
Troy. And they sat there toge=
ther
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 frie=
ndly
as a man and woman can be."
Gabriel's features seemed to get thinner. "Well, what did you see besid=
es?"
"Oh, all sorts."
"White as a lily? You are sure 'twas she?"
"Yes."
"Well, what besides?"
"Great glass windows to the shops, and gr=
eat
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 me=
aning
is that the sky and the earth in the kingdom of Bath is not altogether diff=
erent
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 wat=
er
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 enou=
gh
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 walki=
ng
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 v=
ery
winsome sight; and her hair was brushed splendid. And when the sun shone upon the br=
ight
gown and his red coat--my! how handsome they looked. You could see 'em all the length o=
f 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, b=
ut
not quite. And whilst I was c=
hawing
'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 y=
ou'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 m=
ore
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 w=
ould
pray! Yes; he would kneel dow=
n 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 mon=
ey
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 cand=
les!
But 'tis impossible, poor man. Ah,
to think how unequal things be."
"Perhaps he's made of different stuff tha=
n to
wear 'em," said Gabriel, grimly. "Well, that's enough of this.
"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.&n=
bsp;
And, thinks I, I'll play fair; so I went to High Church in the morni=
ng,
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 preach=
ing,
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 mad=
e 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 s=
aw
was Miss Everdene?"
"Cain Ball, you be no longer a babe and s=
uckling,"
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, a=
nd
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 magnit=
ude
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 Jos=
eph
sternly. "You be asked t=
o swear
in a holy manner, and you swear like wicked Shimei, the son of Gera, who cu=
rsed
as he came. Young man, fie!&q=
uot;
"No, I don't! 'Tis you want to squander a pore b=
oy'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!&qu=
ot;
"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. Gabri=
el,
without making any pretence of being lively, did nothing to show that he was
particularly dull. However, C=
oggan
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,&q=
uot;
said Gabriel.
=
=
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 alo=
ng
the grassy margin of the lane. From
it spread the tones of two women talking.&=
nbsp;
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 Li=
ddy
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 h=
ere
again, safe and sound, overpowered all reflection, and Oak could only luxur=
iate
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 h=
ares
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 dra=
wn
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 a=
n 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 tempe=
r had
pervaded him, and this was the reason of his sally to-night. He had come to apologize and beg f=
orgiveness
of Bathsheba with something like a sense of shame at his violence, having b=
ut
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, leavi=
ng him
standing there, and in her absence the blind of the room containing Bathshe=
ba
was pulled down. Boldwood augured ill from that sign. Liddy came out.
"My mistress cannot see you, sir," s=
he said.
The farmer instantly went out by the gate. He was unforgiven--that was the is=
sue of
it all. He had seen her who w=
as to
him simultaneously a delight and a torture, sitting in the room he had shar=
ed
with her as a peculiarly privileged guest only a little earlier in the summ=
er,
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 o=
wned
and driven by a Weatherbury man, at the door of whose house it now pulled
up. The lamp fixed to the hea=
d 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 be=
en
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 b=
ack
again, and made as if he were going to call upon Troy at the carrier's. But as he approached, some one ope=
ned
the door and came out. He hea=
rd
this person say "Good-night" to the inmates, and the voice was
Troy's. This was strange, com=
ing 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 l=
eave
again this very night.
Troy turned up the hill and quickened his
pace. Boldwood stepped forwar=
d.
"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, stan=
ding
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 pa=
st ten
o'clock. It seemed worth while to be civil to Boldwood.
"Very well, I'll listen with pleasure,&qu=
ot;
said Troy, placing his bag on the ground, "only speak low, for somebod=
y 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.&n=
bsp;
You ought to marry her."
"I suppose I ought. Indeed, I wish to, but I cannot.&q=
uot;
"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 enoug=
h to
notice tones. He continued, &=
quot;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 in=
tend a
business transaction with you."
"I see," said Troy. "Suppose we sit down here.&qu=
ot;
An old tree trunk lay under the hedge immediat=
ely
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 be=
come
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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-m=
orrow;
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 reve=
aled
only too clearly a consciousness of the weakness of his position, his aims,=
and
his method. His manner had la=
psed
quite from that of the firm and dignified Boldwood of former times; and suc=
h a
scheme as he had now engaged in he would have condemned as childishly imbec=
ile
only a few months ago. We dis=
cern 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 mus=
t be
some narrowness, and love, though added emotion, is subtracted capacity.
"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 elast=
ic
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "But Bathsh--Miss Everdene in=
flamed
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 aga=
in?"
"There are weighty reasons. Fifty pounds at once, you said!&qu=
ot;
"I did," said Boldwood, "and he=
re
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," s=
aid
Boldwood.
"You've only my word that the programme s=
hall
be adhered to, whilst I at any rate have fifty pounds."
"I had thought of that, and I have consid=
ered
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 whisp=
er.
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.&q=
uot;
"It can do no harm--and she'll be wanderi=
ng
about looking for me if I don't.
You shall hear all I say to her.&nb=
sp;
It will help you in your love-making when I am gone."
"Your tone is mocking."
"Oh no.&=
nbsp;
And remember this, if she does not know what has become of me, she w=
ill
think more about me than if I tell her flatly I have come to give her up.&q=
uot;
"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 c=
arpet
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 s=
oft, 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 t=
ones
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 giv=
en
you up, Frank."
"I was sure to come," said Frank.
"Well, I thought you would," she sai=
d,
playfully; "and, Frank, it is so lucky! There's not a soul in my house but=
me
to-night. I've packed them al=
l off
so nobody on earth will know of your visit to your lady's bower. Liddy wanted to go to her grandfat=
her'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 g=
o 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 ba=
thed
in a clammy dew. He now start=
ed
forward towards Troy. Troy tu=
rned
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 wh=
ole,
and second, you make it worth my while."
At the same instant Boldwood sprang upon him, =
and
held him by the neck. Troy fe=
lt
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 m=
arry
her?"
Boldwood groaned. He reluctantly released the soldie=
r, and
flung him back against the hedge.
"Devil, you torture me!" said he.
Troy rebounded like a ball, and was about to m=
ake
a dash at the farmer; but he checked himself, saying lightly--
"It is not worth while to measure my stre=
ngth
with you. Indeed it is a barb=
arous
way of settling a quarrel. I =
shall
shortly leave the army because of the same conviction. Now after that revelation of how t=
he
land lies with Bathsheba, 'twould be a mistake to kill me, would it not?&qu=
ot;
"'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 y=
ou
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 wif=
e;
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 he=
r,
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 Tro=
y'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 f=
or you
both. You love each other, an=
d 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.
Troy paused in secret amazement at Boldwood's =
wild
infatuation. He carelessly sa=
id,
"And am I to have anything now?"
"Yes, if you wish to. But I have not much additional mon=
ey
with me. I did not expect this; but all I have is yours."
Boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wake=
ful
man, pulled out the large canvas bag he carried by way of a purse, and sear=
ched
it.
"I have twenty-one pounds more with me,&q=
uot;
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 wi=
th
your wishes. But she must know
nothing of this cash business."
"Nothing, nothing," said Boldwood,
hastily. "Here is the su=
m, 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.
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?&q=
uot;
said Boldwood, contemptuously.
"Oh, no, it is merely my humour to secure
things. Will you read this a
moment? I'll hold the light.&=
quot;
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 Bath=
sheba,
only surviving daughter of the late Mr. John Everd=
ene,
of Casterbridge.
=
"This
may be called Fort meeting Feeble, hey, Boldwood?" said Troy. A low gu=
rgle
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 Fan=
ny,
but Bathsheba. Good. Finale: already Bathsheba's husban=
d. Now,
Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends interference
between a man and his wife. A=
nd
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 whe=
re 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 Boldw=
ood,
in a hiss.
"Anyhow I won't have it," said Troy,
contemptuously. He wrapped th=
e 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 loc=
ked 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.
=
It was
very early the next morning--a time of sun and dew. The confused beginnings of many bi=
rds'
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.&nb=
sp;
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 th=
eir
mistress's house, when Oak fancied he saw the opening of a casement in one =
of
the upper windows. The two me=
n 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 t=
he
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 ta=
king
his ease.
Coggan spoke first, looking quietly at the win=
dow.
"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 listles=
sly
staring at the ground. His mi=
nd
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 inst=
antly
decided. Why had it been so
mysteriously managed? It had =
become
known that she had had a fearful journey to Bath, owing to her miscalculati=
ng
the distance: that the horse had broken down, and that she had been more th=
an
two days getting there. It wa=
s not
Bathsheba's way to do things furtively.&nb=
sp;
With all her faults, she was candour itself. Could she have been entrapped? The union was not only an unuttera=
ble
grief to him: it amazed him, notwithstanding that he had passed the precedi=
ng week
in a suspicion that such might be the issue of Troy's meeting her away from
home. Her quiet return with L=
iddy
had to some extent dispersed the dread.&nb=
sp;
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 t=
he
house. The sergeant still loo=
ked
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 u=
pon
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. "Perha=
ps
she's not there."
Gabriel shook his head. The soldier turned a little toward=
s the east,
and the sun kindled his scarlet coat to an orange glow.
"But it is a nice old house," respon=
ded
Gabriel.
"Yes--I suppose so; but I feel like new w=
ine
in an old bottle here. My notion is that sash-windows should be put through=
out,
and these old wainscoted walls brightened up a bit; or the oak cleared quit=
e away,
and the walls papered."
"It would be a pity, I think."
"Well, no. A philosopher once said in my hear=
ing
that the old builders, who worked when art was a living thing, had no respe=
ct for
the work of builders who went before them, but pulled down and altered as t=
hey
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 mo=
dern,
that we may be cheerful whilst we can."
The military man turned and surveyed the inter=
ior
of the room, to assist his ideas of improvement in this direction. Gabriel and Coggan began to move o=
n.
"Oh, Coggan," said Troy, as if inspi=
red
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 qu=
eer
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, kee=
p 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 b=
e, and
here's half-a-crown to drink my health, men."
Troy threw the coin dexterously across the fro=
nt
plot and over the fence towards Gabriel, who shunned it in its fall, his fa=
ce
turning to an angry red. Cogg=
an
twirled his eye, edged forward, and caught the money in its ricochet upon t=
he
road.
"Very well--you keep it, Coggan," sa=
id
Gabriel with disdain and almost fiercely.&=
nbsp;
"As for me, I'll do without gifts from him!"
"Don't show it too much," said Cogga=
n,
musingly. "For if he's m=
arried
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; b=
ut 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.
Coggan and Oak nodded respectfully to the farm=
er,
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 minut=
e,
rose above his own grief in noticing Boldwood's. He saw the square figure sitting e=
rect
upon the horse, the head turned to neither side, the elbows steady by the h=
ips,
the brim of the hat level and undisturbed in its onward glide, until the ke=
en
edges of Boldwood's shape sank by degrees over the hill. To one who knew the man and his st=
ory
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 cr=
y.
=
=
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 slo=
wly
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, neithe=
r of
them in the direction of the breeze below.=
The moon, as seen through these films, had a lurid metallic look.
Thunder was imminent, and, taking some seconda=
ry
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 h=
arvest
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-thi=
rds
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 besid=
e 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," sa=
id
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'--the=
re
being a gallant soldier married into the farm--hey, my sonnies, and gentlem=
en
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 Sold=
ier'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 danc=
es
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 dance=
s, and
fearful frenzies necessary when exhibiting its tones in their highest
perfection.
The immortal tune ended, a fine DD rolling for=
th
from the bass-viol with the sonorousness of a cannonade, and Gabriel delayed
his entry no longer. He avoid=
ed
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 sergea=
nt
said he could not attend.
"Will you tell him, then," said Gabr=
iel,
"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 melancho=
ly
tendency to look like a candle beside gas, and ill at ease, he went out aga=
in, thinking
he would go home; for, under the circumstances, he had no heart for the sce=
ne
in the barn. At the door he p=
aused
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 happine=
ss 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 don=
e, 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 he 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 f=
eather,
let them look elsewhere for a winter's work."
Bathsheba indignantly left the barn, followed =
by
all the women and children. T=
he
musicians, not looking upon themselves as "company," slipped quie=
tly
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 h=
is
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 k=
icked
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 dire=
ct
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 light=
ly
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was Nature's second way of hint=
ing to
him that he was to prepare for foul weather.
Oak sat down meditating for nearly an hour.
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 aw=
ay. 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 floc=
k as
a whole not being unlike a vandyked lace collar, to which the clump of furz=
e-bushes
stood in the position of a wearer's neck.
This was enough to re-establish him in his ori=
ginal
opinion. He knew now that he =
was
right, and that Troy was wrong. Every voice in nature was unanimous in
bespeaking change. But two di=
stinct
translations attached to these dumb expressions. Apparently there was to be a thund=
er-storm,
and afterwards a cold continuous rain.&nbs=
p;
The creeping things seemed to know all about the later rain, but lit=
tle
of the interpolated thunder-storm; whilst the sheep knew all about the thun=
der-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. A=
ll was
silent here, and the conical tips of the ricks jutted darkly into the sky.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 estima=
ted
by the following simple calculation:--
=
5 x 30 =3D=
150
quarters =3D 500 L. 3 x 4=
0 =3D
120 quarters =3D 250 L. =
&nb=
sp; -------
=
Total
. . 750 L.
=
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 t=
his
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 th=
ere
was this golden legend under the utilitarian one: "I will help to my l=
ast
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 woul=
d 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 w=
ere
scorched. Many of the lights had quite gone out, others smoked and stank, g=
rease
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 f=
rom
a distance. Joseph Poorgrass =
was
curled round in the fashion of a hedge-hog, apparently in attempts to prese=
nt
the least possible portion of his surface to the air; and behind him was di=
mly
visible an unimportant remnant of William Smallbury. The glasses and cups s=
till
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 l=
ong
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 t=
hem
with his own hands.
A faint "ting-ting" resounded from u=
nder
Coggan's waistcoat. It was Co=
ggan'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 t=
he
floor like a bowl. He then went to Susan Tall's husband.
"Where's the key of the granary?"
No answer.&nb=
sp;
The question was repeated, with the same result. To be shouted to at night was evid=
ently
less of a novelty to Susan Tall's husband than to Matthew Moon. Oak flung down Tall's head into th=
e 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, t=
hat
those who wished to refuse hardly liked to be so unmannerly under the
circumstances. Having from th=
eir 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 wi=
lful
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. Meanwhi=
le 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 sto=
ne
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.<= o:p>
"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.&quo=
t;
"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 treas=
ure
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 wealt=
h and began
operating, adopting the plan of sloping the upper sheaves one over the othe=
r;
and, in addition, filling the interstices with the material of some untied
sheaves.
So far all was well. By this hurried contrivance Bathsh=
eba'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 prote=
ct 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 likene=
d 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.
=
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 appro=
aching
storm.
The second peal was noisy, with comparatively
little visible lightning. Gab=
riel
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. Manoeuvres 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 ele=
vated
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 fo=
rms
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 entir=
ely
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 us=
ed
on houses. A blue light appea=
red 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 t=
here
was a smack--smart, clear, and short.
Gabriel felt his position to be anything but a safe one, and he reso=
lved
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 af=
ter
all? What were his prospects =
that
he should be so chary of running risk, when important and urgent labour cou=
ld
not be carried on without such risk?
He resolved to stick to the stack.&=
nbsp;
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 up=
on
the ground. The spike attache=
d to
it he drove in. Under the sha=
dow of
this extemporized lightning-conductor he felt himself comparatively safe.
Before Oak had laid his hands upon his tools a=
gain
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 befor=
e 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 though=
t of
the corn. I am so distressed =
about it--can
we save it anyhow? I cannot f=
ind 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 se=
en
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 too=
k 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 shin=
ing
majolica--every knot in every straw was visible. On the slope in front of him appea=
red
two human shapes, black as jet. The
rick lost its sheen--the shapes vanished.&=
nbsp;
Gabriel turned his head. It
had been the sixth flash which had come from the east behind him, and the t=
wo 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 li=
ght,
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 acros=
s 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--thund=
er and
all--and again ascended with the load.&nbs=
p;
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 undula=
ting
snakes of green, and behind these was a broad mass of lesser light. Simultaneously came from every par=
t of
the tumbling sky what may be called a shout; since, though no shout ever ca=
me 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 wit=
h an
infuriated universe.
Oak had hardly time to gather up these impress=
ions
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 mo=
re distant
thunder. By the lustre reflec=
ted
from every part of the earth and from the wide domical scoop above it, he s=
aw
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 i=
n Hinnom.
"We had a narrow escape!" said Gabri=
el,
hurriedly. "You had bett=
er go
down."
Bathsheba said nothing; but he could distinctl= y hear her rhythmical pants, and the recurrent rustle of the sheaf beside her in response to her frightened pulsations.&nbs= p; She descended the ladder, and, on second thoughts, he followed her.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The darkness was now impenetrable = by the sharpest vision. They both st= ood 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--<= o:p>
"The storm seems to have passed now, at a=
ny
rate."
"I think so too," said Bathsheba.
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!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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, a=
nd
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.
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."<= o:p>
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 t=
he
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 th=
e apex
of the stack, her feet gathered up beneath her, and resting on the top roun=
d of
the ladder.
"Yes, mistress," he said.
"I suppose you thought that when I gallop=
ed
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 ha=
rm,
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 cit=
y, and
the horse was lame. And at la=
st 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 aw=
ay,
when he suddenly said he had that day seen a woman more beautiful than I, a=
nd
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "And then, between jealousy a=
nd
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 s=
ingle
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 kn=
ow
it.--You want some more sheaves?"
She went down the ladder, and the work
proceeded. Gabriel soon perce=
ived 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, y=
ou
are tired. I can finish the r=
est
alone. If the wind does not c=
hange
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 f=
or
your devotion, a thousand times, Gabriel!&=
nbsp;
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 whil=
st
unmarried and free to speak as warmly as she chose.
He was disturbed in his meditation by a grating
noise from the coach-house. I=
t was
the vane on the roof turning round, and this change in the wind was the sig=
nal
for a disastrous rain.
=
=
It was
now five o'clock, and the dawn was promising to break in hues of drab and a=
sh.
The air changed its temperature and stirred it=
self
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 wi=
th
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 tru=
nks,
and the twigs clashed in strife.
Driving in spars at any point and on any system, inch by inch he cov=
ered
more and more safely from ruin this distracting impersonation of seven hund=
red
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 r=
educed
well-nigh to a homogeneous sop, and the dyes of his clothes trickled down a=
nd
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 t=
heir
points in him.
Oak suddenly remembered that eight months befo=
re
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 a=
nd
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 exclaime=
d,
"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 sin=
gly
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 F=
laxman's
group of the suitors tottering on towards the infernal regions under the
conduct of Mercury. The gnarl=
ed
shapes passed into the village, Troy, their leader, entering the
farmhouse. Not a single one o=
f them
had turned his face to the ricks, or apparently bestowed one thought upon t=
heir
condition.
Soon Oak too went homeward, by a different rou=
te
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.&nbs=
p;
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, ve=
ry
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.&q=
uot;
"I?
Not a bit of it: I am well enough.&=
nbsp;
What put that into your head?"
"I thought you didn't look quite so toppi=
ng
as you used to, that was all."
"Indeed, then you are mistaken," said
Boldwood, shortly. "Noth=
ing 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.&quo=
t;
"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 sto=
ne
staddles?"
"They are not."
"Them under the hedge?"
"No.&nbs=
p;
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.&=
quot;
"Then not a tenth of your corn will come =
to
measure, sir."
"Possibly not."
"Overlooked them," repeated Gabriel
slowly to himself. It is diff=
icult
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 i=
solated--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 ear=
lier
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 f=
rom 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 h= ave gone wrong with me lately. I = may as well own it. I was going to g= et a little settled in life; but in some way my plan has come to nothing."<= o:p>
"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 ton=
gue,
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 th=
at
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 turne=
d 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 mer=
cy of
God till I lost that woman. Y=
es, He
prepared a gourd to shade me, and like the prophet I thanked Him and was
glad. But the next day He pre=
pared
a worm to smite the gourd and wither it; and I feel it is better to die tha=
n 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 occasion=
ally,
but no woman ever had power over me for any length of time. Well, good morning; I can trust yo=
u not
to mention to others what has passed between us two here."
=
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 usu=
al 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 h=
is
having still retained the well-shaped moustache of his military days, and t=
he
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 s=
ee, it
altered all the chances? To s=
peak
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 changea=
ble
weather."
"Well, yes. The fact is, these autumn races ar= e the ruin of everybody. Never did = I see such a day as 'twas! 'Tis a w= ild 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 befo= re the last race was run. 'Twas five o'clock, and you couldn't see the horses till they were almost in, leave al= one colours. The ground was as heavy as lead, a= nd all judgment from a fellow's experience went for nothing. Horses, riders, people, were all b= lown 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!"<= o:p>
"And you mean, Frank," said Bathsheb=
a,
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 m=
onth
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; t=
hat
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 Budmo=
uth
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 rac=
e 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, Baths=
heba,
you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you formerly had, and upon my lif=
e if
I had known what a chicken-hearted creature you were under all your boldnes=
s,
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 spee=
ch,
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 tha=
t 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 hi=
m.
Though the overshadowing trees and the approac=
h of
eventide enveloped them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to dis=
cern
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 d=
rawn
into an expression which had gladness and agony both among its elements.
"Oh, poor thing!" exclaimed Bathsheb=
a,
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 h=
er
up.
"I feared to."
"Have you any money?"
"None."
"Good Heaven--I wish I had more to give
you! Here's--wretched--the me=
rest
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," contin=
ued
Troy; "and now listen. W=
here are
you going to-night? Casterbri=
dge
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! S= leep there to-night, and stay there to-morrow.&= nbsp; 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!"<= o:p>
After advancing the distance which completed t=
he
ascent of the hill, Bathsheba turned her head. The woman was upon her feet, and B=
athsheba
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?" sa=
id
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.&nb=
sp;
"Who is she?"
He suddenly seemed to think that frankness wou=
ld
benefit neither of the women.
"Nothing to either of us," he said.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "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, whi=
ch
caused the animal to start forward at a wild pace. No more was said.
=
=
For a
considerable time the woman walked on.&nbs=
p;
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.&n=
bsp;
A heavy unbroken crust of cloud stretched across the sky, shutting o=
ut
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 w=
oman
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 sha=
dow
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 sonorous=
ness
to a thin falsetto.
Afterwards a light--two lights--arose from the
remote shade, and grew larger. A
carriage rolled along the toad, and passed the gate. It probably contained some late
diners-out. The beams from on=
e 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 reviv=
ed
determination, and looked around.
The road appeared to be familiar to her, and she carefully scanned t=
he
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.&nb=
sp;
This was beside a lone copsewood, wherein heaps of white chips strewn
upon the leafy ground showed that woodmen had been faggoting and making hur=
dles
during the day. Now there was=
not a
rustle, not a breeze, not the faintest clash of twigs to keep her company.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The woman looked over the gate, op=
ened
it, and went in. Close to the
entrance stood a row of faggots, bound and un-bound, together with stakes o=
f 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 detec=
ted
signs proving that she was intent on the latter alternative. Moreover, as was shown by what fol=
lowed,
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 lett=
er
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 unde=
r 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 ma=
terial
aid.
The crutches answered well. The pat of her feet, and the tap o=
f 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 usefu=
l, had
their limits of power. Mechan=
ism
only transfers labour, being powerless to supersede it, and the original am=
ount
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 f=
ell.
Here she lay, a shapeless heap, for ten minutes
and more. The morning wind be=
gan to
boom dully over the flats, and to move afresh dead leaves which had lain st=
ill
since yesterday. The woman de=
sperately
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, usi=
ng
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 arou=
nd.
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 sou=
nd 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 pre=
cision
of a funeral bell.
"Less than a mile!" the woman
murmured. "No; more,&quo=
t; she
added, after a pause. "T=
he
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, s=
ix
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 princi=
ple
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 t=
he woman
went into the air as if never to return again.
"Now for the truth of the matter," s=
he
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 th=
at
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 we=
ary
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 s=
pace,
the lights, herself, sighed, and lay down against a guard-stone of the brid=
ge.
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 unpercei=
ved,
was revolved in her busy brain, and dismissed as impracticable. She thought of sticks, wheels, cra=
wling--she
even thought of rolling. But =
the
exertion demanded by either of these latter two was greater than to walk
erect. The faculty of contriv=
ance
was worn out. Hopelessness ha=
d come
at last.
"No further!" she whispered, and clo=
sed
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 isolati=
on 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.&n=
bsp;
She opened her eye's, and the substance touched her face. A dog was licking her cheek.
He was a huge, heavy, and quiet creature, stan=
ding
darkly against the low horizon, and at least two feet higher than the prese=
nt
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. Dar=
kness 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 hi=
m--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 s=
he
cheered with her voice, and what was stranger than that the strong should n=
eed
encouragement from the weak was that cheerfulness should be so well stimula=
ted
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 unders=
tood
her desire and her incapacity, was frantic in his distress on these occasio=
ns;
he would tug at her dress and run forward.=
She always called him back, and it was now to be observed that the w=
oman
listened for human sounds only to avoid them. It was evident that she had an obj=
ect in
keeping her presence on the road and her forlorn state unknown.
Their progress was necessarily very slow. They reached the bottom of the tow=
n, 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 ski=
rted
the borough. Thus the town wa=
s passed,
and the goal was reached.
On this much-desired spot outside the town ros=
e a
picturesque building. Origina=
lly 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 discove=
red
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 inm=
ates
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. <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 sou=
nds
of movement were to be heard inside the building which was the haven of res=
t to
this wearied soul. A little d=
oor 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 retu=
rned with
two women.
These lifted the prostrate figure and assisted=
her
in through the doorway. The m=
an
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 t=
he
overcome traveller. "Whe=
re 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. Thu=
s they
entered the house and disappeared.
=
Bathsheba
said very little to her husband all that evening of their return from marke=
t,
and he was not disposed to say much to her. He exhibited the unpleasant combin=
ation
of a restless condition with a silent tongue. The next day, which was Sunday, pa=
ssed
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 u=
nusual
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, suppos=
e 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 yo=
u 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 thi=
nk
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.&n=
bsp;
"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.<= o:p>
"Exactly; and, the former being done, sup=
pose
we proceed to the latter.
Bathsheba, fun is all very well, but don't go too far, or you may ha=
ve
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 f=
or household
expenses. If you must have it=
, take
it."
"Very good. Thank you. I expect I shall have gone away be=
fore
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."<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Troy, as he spoke, looked at his w=
atch,
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 c=
url of
hair!" she said. "O=
h, 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 i=
t."
"What a dreadful fib, Frank!"
"I tell you I had forgotten it!" he
said, loudly.
"I don't mean that--it was yellow hair.&q=
uot;
"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.&quo=
t;
"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 thi=
ng,
under such an awful affliction!"
"Affliction--what affliction?" he
inquired, quickly.
"Having hair of that dreadful colour.&quo=
t;
"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 l=
oose,
which has not been long. It is
beautiful hair. People used t=
o turn
their heads to look at it, poor girl!"
"Pooh! that's nothing--that's nothing!&qu=
ot;
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 marrie=
d life
would be like, and shouldn't have entered it if you feared these contingenc=
ies."
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 s=
how
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 m=
y wisdom,
you should not tell me of it so mercilessly, now that I am in your power.&q=
uot;
"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?&=
quot;
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 noth=
ing
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 i=
t if
you don't love me better than any woman in the world! I don't otherwise, Frank. You don't repent because you alrea=
dy
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 p=
retty hair--yes;
it is pretty--more beautiful than my miserable black mane! Well, it is no u=
se;
I can't help being ugly. You =
must
like her best, if you will!"
"Until to-day, when I took it from a draw=
er,
I have never looked upon that bit of hair for several months--that I am rea=
dy
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.&nb=
sp;
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.&quo=
t;
"A mere jest!" she said, in mournful
astonishment. "Can you j=
est 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 s=
aid,
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 gre=
at 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 a=
nd fro
in rebelliousness, like a caged leopard; her whole soul was in arms, and the
blood fired her face. Until s=
he 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--t=
hat
her waist had never been encircled by a lover's arm. She hated herself now. In those earlier days she had alwa=
ys
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 an=
xiety
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 div=
inity'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 sufficien=
t 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 s=
he 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--qu=
ite
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 co=
urse, 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 cou=
ld
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. Bold=
wood. It was Mr. Boldwood. Bathsheba blushed painfully, and
watched. The farmer stopped w=
hen
still a long way off, and held up his hand to Gabriel Oak, who was in a
footpath across the field. Th=
e 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 t=
hem,
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 immediate=
ly
coming up the hill with his barrow.
Bathsheba, who had seen this pantomime with so=
me
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 hims=
elf
the refined aspect that a conversation with a lady required, spoke to Baths=
heba
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 i=
n 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 a=
ny
such thing--I shall do it! Fa=
nny
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 serva=
nt
of the family.... We ought no=
t 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 n=
ew
spring waggon with the blue body and red wheels, and wash it very clean.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Carry with you some evergreens and flowe=
rs
to put upon her coffin--indeed, gather a great many, and completely bury he=
r in
them. Get some boughs of
laurustinus, and variegated box, and yew, and boy's-love; ay, and some bunc=
hes
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 Unio=
n, 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 Guar=
dians,
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.&nbs=
p;
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 g=
ot
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 h=
er
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 s=
tory,
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?
"No; don't call her; it is nothing. When did she pass Weatherbury?&quo=
t;
"Last Saturday night."
"That will do, Joseph; now you may go.&qu=
ot;
"Certainly, ma'am."
"Joseph, come hither a moment. What was the colour of Fanny Robin=
's hair?"
"Really, mistress, now that 'tis put to m=
e 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.&qu=
ot;
She turned herself away from him, that he migh=
t 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; Baths=
heba
hardly saw them now.
"Whose sweetheart did you say, Joseph?&qu=
ot;
"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 arr=
ived
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, sh=
e's
dead in Casterbridge Union,' he said, 'and perhaps 'tisn't much matter about
how she came to die. She reac=
hed
the Union early Sunday morning, and died in the afternoon--that's clear eno=
ugh.'
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 ha=
ve
been brought on by biding in the night wind, you know, ma'am; for people us=
ed
to say she'd go off in a decline: she used to cough a good deal in winter
time. However, 'tisn't much o=
dds 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 mos=
tly
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 sometime=
s he seems
to suffer from things upon his mind, connected with the time when he was be=
tter
off than 'a is now. 'A's rath=
er 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was terrible down, and so was F=
armer
Boldwood."
"Thank you, Joseph. That will do. Go on now, or you'll be late."=
;
Bathsheba, still unhappy, went indoors again.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> In the course of the afternoon she=
said
to Liddy, who had been informed of the occurrence, "What was the colou=
r of
poor Fanny Robin's hair? Do y=
ou
know? I cannot recollect--I o=
nly
saw her for a day or two."
"It was light, ma'am; but she wore it rat=
her
short, and packed away under her cap, so that you would hardly notice it. But I have seen her let it down wh=
en she
was going to bed, and it looked beautiful then. Real golden hair."
"Her young man was a soldier, was he
not?"
"Yes.&nb=
sp;
In the same regiment as Mr. Troy.&n=
bsp;
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!&nbs=
p;
Said that, did he?"
"Yes; and he said there was a strong like=
ness
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.
=
=
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, chimn=
ey,
ornament, or protuberance of any kind.&nbs=
p;
The single feature appertaining to it, beyond the expanse of dark gr=
een
leaves, was a small door.
The situation of the door was peculiar. The sill was three or four feet ab=
ove
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 o=
f 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 onl=
y 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 tow=
ards
this side of the building. Wh=
ilst
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.&nbs=
p;
(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, an=
d the
evergreens around the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the wag=
gon contained;
he smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral car crept down the hil=
l,
and along the road to Weatherbury.
The afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to t=
he 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 th=
at
quarter. They came in yet gre=
ater
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 close=
d in
upon the sky. It was a sudden
overgrowth of atmospheric fungi which had their roots in the neighbouring s=
ea,
and by the time that horse, man, and corpse entered Yalbury Great Wood, the=
se
silent workings of an invisible hand had reached them, and they were comple=
tely
enveloped, this being the first arrival of the autumn fogs, and the first f=
og
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.&nb=
sp;
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 exc=
ept
by night, were distinctly individualized.
Joseph Poorgrass looked round upon his sad bur=
den
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 w=
heel
was audible anywhere around, and the dead silence was broken only by a heav=
y particle
falling from a tree through the evergreens and alighting with a smart rap u=
pon
the coffin of poor Fanny. The=
fog
had by this time saturated the trees, and this was the first dropping of wa=
ter from
the overbrimming leaves. The =
hollow
echo of its fall reminded the waggoner painfully of the grim Leveller. Then hard by came down another dro=
p,
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 fro=
m 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 wag=
gon
was standing into which Gabriel Oak crept on his first journey to Weatherbu=
ry;
but, owing to the darkness, the sign and the inn had been unobserved.
The manners of the inn were of the old-establi=
shed
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 intent=
ion
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 fl=
oor
of which was a step below the passage, which in its turn was a step below t=
he 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 tw=
o most
appreciative throats in the neighbourhood, within the pale of respectabilit=
y,
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 mi=
ght
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 yo=
ur face
don't praise your mistress's table, Joseph."
"I've had a very pale companion for the l=
ast
four miles," said Joseph, indulging in a shudder toned down by
resignation. "And to spe=
ak the
truth, 'twas beginning to tell upon me.&nb=
sp;
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.&qu=
ot;
"Then drink, Joseph, and don't restrain yourself!" said Coggan, handing him a hooped mug three-quarters full.<= o:p>
Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then =
for
a longer time, saying, as he lowered the jug, "'Tis pretty drinking--v=
ery 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 har=
dly
noticed its passage over his tongue; and, lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his
head gradually backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soul might n=
ot
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 i=
n 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 b=
oards
after all, and nobody to pay the bell shilling and the grave half-crown.&qu=
ot;
"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 ano=
ther
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 't=
is as
'tis."
"Of course, you'll have another drop. A man's twice the man afterwards.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 l=
iquor
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!"<= o:p>
"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.&nb=
sp;
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 min=
d about
doctrines at all. But to be a
meetinger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, and make yersel=
f as
frantic as a skit. Not but that chapel members be clever chaps enough in th=
eir
way. They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, all about t=
heir
families and shipwrecks in the newspaper."
"They can--they can," said Mark Clar=
k,
with corroborative feeling; "but we Churchmen, you see, must have it a=
ll
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 th=
em
above than we," said Joseph, thoughtfully.
"Yes," said Coggan. "We know very well that if an=
ybody
do go to heaven, they will. T=
hey'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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I'd as soon turn king's-evidence f=
or the
few pounds you get. Why,
neighbours, when every one of my taties were frosted, our Parson Thirdly we=
re
the man who gave me a sack for seed, though he hardly had one for his own u=
se,
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 cons=
umed
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. T=
he
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 s=
truck
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 sitt=
ers,
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 o=
ther
of his eyes occasionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it we=
re
not a member, but a dozy individual with a distinct personality.
"Don't take on so, shepherd!" said M=
ark
Clark, looking reproachfully at the candle, which appeared to possess speci=
al
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 h=
er 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 w=
ould
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 ou=
rs
will bring her to life. The w=
oman's
past us--time spent upon her is throwed away: why should we hurry to do wha=
t'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 though=
ts
of to-morrow in a song:--
=
=
&nb=
sp;
To-mor-row, to-mor-row! And while peace a=
nd
plen-ty I find at my board, With
a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row, With my friends w=
ill I
share what to-day may af-ford, And
let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row. =
&nb=
sp; 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 a=
re
as drunk as you can stand."
"No, Shepherd Oak, no! Listen to reason, shepherd. All that's the matter with me is t=
he
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,&q=
uot;
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 a=
dded,
becoming much affected by the picture of himself as a person thrown away, a=
nd 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 spir=
it,
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 'Pleas=
e 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 pri=
de 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 p=
ass
unquestioned! Yet the shepher=
d 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, ma=
de
no reply, but, closing the door again upon them, went across to where the v=
ehicle
stood, now getting indistinct in the fog and gloom of this mildewy time.
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 thr=
ough
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 publis=
hed
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 gat=
e 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 Gabr=
iel.
"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 fo=
rgot
to ask him for it."
"Then that settles the matter. We'll put off the funeral till to-=
morrow
morning. The body may be brou=
ght on
to the church, or it may be left here at the farm and fetched by the bearer=
s in
the morning. They waited more than an hour, and have now gone home."
Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latte=
r a
most objectionable plan, notwithstanding that Fanny had been an inmate of t=
he
farm-house for several years in the lifetime of Bathsheba's uncle. Visions of several unhappy conting=
encies
which might arise from this delay flitted before him. But his will was not law, and he w=
ent
indoors to inquire of his mistress what were her wishes on the subject. He found her in an unusual mood: h=
er
eyes as she looked up to him were suspicious and perplexed as with some
antecedent thought. Troy had =
not
yet returned. At first Bathsh=
eba
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, follow=
ing Gabriel
to the gate, she swerved to the extreme of solicitousness on Fanny's accoun=
t,
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 t=
he
poor thing in a coach-house all night."
"Very well, then," said the parson.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "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. =
span>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 w=
ith
a sad yet unperturbed cadence, and Gabriel shed an honest tear. Bathsheba seemed unmoved. Mr. Thirdly then left them, and Ga=
briel
lighted a lantern. Fetching t=
hree
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 manoeuvering all this day, the very worst event that could in any w=
ay
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 wh=
ich
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 Bathshe=
ba
from, at any rate, immediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked bef=
ore,
at the chalk writing upon the coffin-lid.&=
nbsp;
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 lef=
t the
room, and went out quietly by the front door.
=
=
"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 besi=
de
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 you=
ng
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 tw=
elve 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 w=
orth 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 t=
han
an expression of unutterable regret crossed her face, and she burst into te=
ars.
"No--not a word!" said Liddy, lookin=
g at
the weeping woman with astonishment.
"What is it makes you cry so, ma'am; has anything hurt you?&quo=
t; She came to Bathsheba's side with =
a face
full of sympathy.
"No, Liddy--I don't want you any more.
Liddy then left the parlour and closed the doo=
r.
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 withi=
n the
last day or two had come these disquieting thoughts about her husband's
past. Her wayward sentiment t=
hat 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 withh=
eld
all sympathy from the dead woman, because in life she had preceded Bathsheb=
a 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, a=
nd
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 tr=
ue. And we shall be sure to know the ri=
ghts
of it in a day or two."
"What is it?"
"Oh, nothing connected with you or us,
ma'am. It is about Fanny. Tha=
t 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 a=
nd
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 t=
hink
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 se=
cond 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 w=
orld
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 unspok=
en
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 judgeme=
nt for
a few hours were what she wanted to learn, and there was nobody to teach
her. Might she but go to Gabr=
iel
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 mas=
tery
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 h=
orizon
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 r=
acked
by incertitude upon the inmost matter of his bosom, as she was at this
moment. Oak knew all about Fa=
nny
that he wished to know--she felt convinced of that. If she were to go to him now at on=
ce and
say no more than these few words, "What is the truth of the story?&quo=
t;
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 eccent=
ricity
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 th=
ick
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 mu=
sical
in its soothing regularity. It
seemed better to be out of the house than within it, and Bathsheba closed t=
he
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 i=
n 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. F=
rom
her standing-place in the road she could see him plainly, sitting quite sti=
ll,
his light curly head upon his hand, and only occasionally looking up to snu=
ff
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 c=
ause
of Fanny's death. She must su=
spect,
and guess, and chafe, and bear it all alone.
Like a homeless wanderer she lingered by the b=
ank,
as if lulled and fascinated by the atmosphere of content which seemed to sp=
read
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 h=
er rebellious
and agitated existence at this same time was too much for her to bear to lo=
ok
upon longer. It was not for h=
er to
make a truce with trouble by any such means. She must tread her giddy distracti=
ng measure
to its last note, as she had begun it.&nbs=
p;
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, loo=
king
at the door of the room wherein Fanny lay.=
She locked her fingers, threw back her head, and strained her hot ha=
nds
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 lit=
tle
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 resoluti=
on
on this memorable evening of her life.&nbs=
p;
She went to the lumber-closet for a screw-driver. At the end of a short though undef=
ined
time she found herself in the small room, quivering with emotion, a mist be=
fore
her eyes, and an excruciating pulsation in her brain, standing beside the u=
ncovered
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 kno=
w 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 aga=
in,
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 d=
one,
was not so dreadful as was the conclusive proof of her husband's conduct wh=
ich
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 exhal=
ed
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 pai=
r in
the coffin: tears of a complicated origin, of a nature indescribable, almos=
t 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 achiev=
ed. 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 c=
url
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 wo=
und:
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 t=
hat 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 wit=
hout
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 i=
nsists
upon hating her, whether my spirit is willing or no! ... If she had only li=
ved,
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 kn= eeling down that night recurred to her, and with the imitative instinct which anim= ates women she seized upon the idea, resolved to kneel, and, if possible, pray.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Gabriel had prayed; so would she.<= o:p>
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, an=
d a
regret for the antagonistic instincts which had seized upon her just before=
.
In her desire to make atonement she took flowe=
rs
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.&n=
bsp;
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 stupefa=
ction
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, t=
o 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 volit=
ion 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 t=
hem,
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, i=
n 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.&n=
bsp;
Bathsheba was regarding him from the other side, still with parted l=
ips
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 gather=
ed 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 viol=
ent and
entire. All that was forgotte=
n in
the simple and still strong attachment of wife to husband. She had sighed for her self-comple=
teness
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: ki=
ss 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 fro=
m his
neck, looked at her in bewilderment.
It was such an unexpected revelation of all women being alike at hea=
rt,
even those so different in their accessories as Fanny and this one beside h=
im,
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 ins=
tants
only. When the momentary surp=
rise
had passed, his expression changed to a silencing imperious gaze.
"I will not kiss you!" he said pushi=
ng
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 riv=
al
being now but a corpse. All t=
he
feeling she had been betrayed into showing she drew back to herself again b=
y a strenuous
effort of self-command.
"What have you to say as your reason?&quo=
t;
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.&nbs=
p;
If Satan had not tempted me with that face of yours, and those cursed
coquetries, I should have married her.&nbs=
p;
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 li=
ps a
long, low cry of measureless despair and indignation, such a wail of anguis=
h as
had never before been heard within those old-inhabited walls. It was the [GREEK word meaning &qu=
ot;it
is finished"] 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 ra=
rity
with her of such abandonment only made the condition more dire.
"You are nothing to me--nothing," sa=
id
Troy, heartlessly. "A ce=
remony
before a priest doesn't make a marriage.&n=
bsp;
I am not morally yours."
A vehement impulse to flee from him, to run fr=
om
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.
=
=
Bathsheba
went along the dark road, neither knowing nor caring about the direction or
issue of her flight. The firs=
t time
that she definitely noticed her position was when she reached a gate leadin=
g into
a thicket overhung by some large oak and beech trees. On looking into the place, it occu=
rred
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 shelt=
ered
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 clo=
sed
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, a=
nd
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 tra=
mp of
heavy feet, and looking through the ferns Bathsheba could just discern in t=
he
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 wa=
tched
them flouncing into the pool, drinking, tossing up their heads, drinking ag=
ain,
the water dribbling from their lips in silver threads. There was another flounce, and the=
y came
out of the pond, and turned back again towards the farm.
She looked further around. Day was just dawning, and beside i=
ts
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, "l=
ike
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 bea=
utiful
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 gr=
ew
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 swam=
p 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 f=
ungi
grew in all manner of positions from rotting leaves and tree stumps, some e=
xhibiting
to her listless gaze their clammy tops, others their oozing gills. Some were marked with great splotc=
hes,
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 nurser=
y 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 t=
he
night on the brink of so dismal a place.
There were now other footsteps to be heard alo=
ng
the road. Bathsheba's nerves were still unstrung: she crouched down out of =
sight
again, and the pedestrian came into view.&=
nbsp;
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 t=
ones
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 tha=
t,
grace that, grace that, grace that':--that I know." Other words follow=
ed
to the same effect. The boy w=
as 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, a=
nd
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 sid=
es
of her. When she got a little further round to the left, and drew nearer, B=
athsheba
could see the newcomer's profile against the sunny sky, and knew the wavy s=
weep
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 cam=
e 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,&quo=
t;
said the girl, as soon as she saw Bathsheba.
"You can't come across," Bathsheba s=
aid
in a whisper, which she vainly endeavoured to make loud enough to reach Lid=
dy's
ears. Liddy, not knowing this,
stepped down upon the swamp, saying, as she did so, "It will bear me u=
p, 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 subterr=
anean
breath rose from the sweating sod beside the waiting-maid's feet as she tro=
d,
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 looke=
d 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 h=
ad
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 everythin=
g,
or anything, in this episode, assented, and they walked together further am=
ong
the trees.
"But you had better come in, ma'am, and h=
ave
something to eat. You will di=
e 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 minut=
es
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 w=
alk
about again," she said.
They wandered about the wood for nearly two ho=
urs,
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 hous=
e by
a circuitous route, entering at the rear.&=
nbsp;
Bathsheba glided up the back stairs to a disused attic, and her
companion followed.
"Liddy," she said, with a lighter he=
art,
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 her=
e for
a while. Will you get a fire
lighted, put down a piece of carpet, and help me to make the place comforta=
ble.
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.&q=
uot;
"Knitting?"
"And that, too."
"You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and peacocks w=
ant
filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside your au=
nt's
ma'am."
"Samplers are out of date--horribly
countrified. No Liddy, I'll r=
ead. Bring up some books--not new ones.=
I haven't heart to read anything
new."
"Some of your uncle's old ones, ma'am?&qu=
ot;
"Yes.&nb=
sp;
Some of those we stowed away in boxes." A faint gleam of humour passed ove=
r her
face as she said: "Bring Beaumont and Fletcher's Maid's Tragedy, and t=
he
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?<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It wouldn't suit me at all."<= o:p>
"But if the others do--"
"No, they don't; and I won't read dismal
books. Why should I read dism=
al
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 liste=
ning
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 th=
e 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. Hereabou=
ts, at
six o'clock, the young men of the village gathered, as was their custom, fo=
r 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 br=
own
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 quart=
er 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 ga=
me
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.
=
When
Troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight his first act was to
cover the dead from sight. Th=
is
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 da=
y had
been spent in a way which varied very materially from his intentions regard=
ing
it. There is always an inerti=
a 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 Bathshe=
ba,
he had managed to add to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own
account, which had been seven pounds ten.&=
nbsp;
With this money, twenty-seven pounds ten in all, he had hastily driv=
en
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 t=
he
lower end of the town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struck the hour, and no=
Fanny
appeared. In fact, at that mo=
ment
she was being robed in her grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union poo=
rhouse--the
first and last tiring-women the gentle creature had ever been honoured
with. The quarter went, the h=
alf
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 a=
nd
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 appea=
red 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 t=
own
at nine o'clock in the evening he had diminished his cash only to the exten=
t of
a few shillings.
He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now tha=
t 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 m=
istake. He regretted that he had not remai=
ned 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 a=
nd
left the house by the back door.
His walk was towards the churchyard, entering which he searched arou=
nd
till he found a newly dug unoccupied grave--the grave dug the day before fo=
r Fanny. The position of this having been m=
arked,
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 perso=
ns 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. An=
d 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,&qu=
ot;
said the stone-cutter, going into a shed.&=
nbsp;
"Here's a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with medallio=
ns
beneath of typical subjects; here's the footstone after the same pattern, a=
nd
here's the coping to enclose the grave.&nb=
sp;
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 u=
p at
Weatherbury for the sum you mention."
"Get it done to-day, and I'll pay the mon=
ey
now."
The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in=
a
visitor who wore not a shred of mourning.&=
nbsp;
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 t=
ill
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 rath=
er a
heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily along the road, res=
ting
occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited his burden for a
time. Midway on his journey h=
e met,
returning in the darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyed the
tomb. He merely inquired if t=
he
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 g=
rave
early in the morning. It was =
on the
obscure side of the tower, screened to a great extent from the view of pass=
ers
along the road--a spot which until lately had been abandoned to heaps of st=
ones
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 f=
or plants.
Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and
vanished for a few minutes. W=
hen he
returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the light of which he directed f=
or 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, for=
get-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.&=
nbsp;
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.&=
nbsp;
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, a=
nd
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 cl=
oud 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 no=
t far
from midnight, and the rain threatening to increase, he resolved to leave t=
he
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.
=
=
The
tower of Weatherbury Church was a square erection of fourteenth-century dat=
e,
having two stone gurgoyles on each of the four faces of its parapet. Of these eight carved protuberance=
s 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 c=
losed
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 t=
he
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 e=
arly
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 c=
ould
shape, and of the most original design that a human brain could conceive. There was, so to speak, that symme=
try 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 noth=
ing on
earth could be more hideous than those he saw on the north side until he we=
nt
round to the south. Of the tw=
o 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 fas=
hioned
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 mo=
uth,
which they thus seemed to pull open to give free passage to the water it
vomited. The lower row of tee=
th 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 incre=
ased
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.&nb=
sp;
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 poi=
nt
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 n=
ot
spouted so far from the tower as it was doing on this night, and such a con=
tingency
had been over-looked. Sometim=
es
this obscure corner received no inhabitant for the space of two or three ye=
ars,
and then it was usually but a pauper, a poacher, or other sinner of undigni=
fied
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 accumula=
ted
and washed deeper down, and the roar of the pool thus formed spread into th=
e 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 u=
pside
down, and became a mere mat of mud.
Soon the snowdrop and other bulbs danced in the boiling mass like
ingredients in a cauldron. Pl=
ants
of the tufted species were loosened, rose to the surface, and floated off.<=
o:p>
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 shi=
ning
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 un=
ion
of water and colour with high lights.
The air was rendered so transparent by the heavy fall of rain that t=
he
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 pl=
ane
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 n=
ot 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 perp=
lexed
dismay Troy turned the corner and then beheld the wreck the stream had made=
.
The pool upon the grave had soaked away into t=
he
ground, and in its place was a hollow.&nbs=
p;
The disturbed earth was washed over the grass and pathway in the gui=
se
of the brown mud he had already seen, and it spotted the marble tombstone w=
ith
the same stains. Nearly all t=
he flowers
were washed clean out of the ground, and they lay, roots upwards, on the sp=
ots
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 stran=
ge
confluence of emotions in him, was felt as the sharpest sting of all. Troy's face was very expressive, a=
nd 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 who=
se 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 sor=
t of
climax to the whole panorama, and it was more than he could endure. Sanguin=
e 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 grie=
f,
and now it was as if his intention had been known and circumvented.
Almost for the first time in his life, Troy, a=
s he
stood by this dismantled grave, wished himself another man. It is seldom that a person with mu=
ch
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 othe=
rs
who may actually resemble him in every particular. Troy had felt, in his transient wa=
y,
hundreds of times, that he could not envy other people their condition, bec=
ause
the possession of that condition would have necessitated a different
personality, when he desired no other than his own. He had not minded the peculiaritie=
s 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 t=
o be
only in the nature of things that matters would right themselves at some pr=
oper
date and wind up well. This v=
ery
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 b=
een
begun, and the mere finishing stroke is what often appears to create an eve=
nt
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.&nbs=
p;
A man who has spent his primal strength in journeying in one directi=
on
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 tha=
t 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 f=
orswore
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 eme=
rged
just as secretly upon the high road.
Shortly afterwards he had gone from the village.
Meanwhile, Bathsheba remained a voluntary pris=
oner
in the attic. The door was ke=
pt
locked, except during the entries and exits of Liddy, for whom a bed had be=
en
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 pheno=
menon
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, th=
ough
this appearance failed to suggest to her that a person was passing and
repassing in front of it. Bat=
hsheba
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 t=
he
night rain, each one rounded with a pale lustre caught from primrose-hued s=
lashes
through a cloud low down in the awakening sky. From the trees came the sound of s=
teady
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
un-locked the door.
"What a heavy rain we've had in the night, ma'am!" said Liddy, when her inquiries about breakfast had been made.<= o:p>
"Yes, very heavy."
"Did you hear the strange noise from the
churchyard?"
"I heard one strange noise. I've been thinking it must have be=
en the
water from the tower spouts."
"Well, that's what the shepherd was sayin=
g,
ma'am. He's now gone on to
see."
"Oh!&nbs=
p;
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 spatt=
er on
the stones, and we are puzzled, for this was like the boiling of a pot.&quo=
t;
Not being able to read, think, or work, Bathsh=
eba
asked Liddy to stay and breakfast with her. The tongue of the more childish wo=
man
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 w=
here
they have put Fanny. The trees hide the place from your window."
Bathsheba had all sorts of dreads about meeting
her husband. "Has Mr. Tr=
oy
been in to-night?" she said.
"No, ma'am; I think he's gone to
Budmouth."
Budmouth!&nbs=
p;
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; b=
ut now
all the house knew that there had been some dreadful disagreement between t=
hem,
and it was futile to attempt disguise.&nbs=
p;
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 way=
ward
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 i=
n the
reprobates' quarter of the graveyard, called in the parish "behind chu=
rch,"
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 sto=
od
Gabriel. His eyes, too, were =
fixed
on the tomb, and her arrival having been noiseless, she had not as yet
attracted his attention. Bath=
sheba
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.&n=
bsp;
Then her eye followed Oak's, and she read the words with which the
inscription opened:--
=
ERECTED BY FRANC=
IS
TROY IN BE=
LOVED
MEMORY OF =
FANNY
ROBIN
=
Oak saw
her, and his first act was to gaze inquiringly and learn how she received t=
his
knowledge of the authorship of the work, which to himself had caused
considerable astonishment. Bu=
t such
discoveries did not much affect her now.&n=
bsp;
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 w=
ith
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 lea=
ves
which is so conspicuous in a woman's gardening, and which flowers seem to
understand and thrive upon. S=
he requested
Oak to get the churchwardens to turn the leadwork at the mouth of the gurgo=
yle
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 r=
ather
liked its words than otherwise, and went again home. [2]
[Footnote 2: The local tower and churchyard do not answer precisely to the forego=
ing
description.]
=
Troy
wandered along towards the south. =
span>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, a=
nd 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 lengt=
h,
which ran to the ridge of a range of hills lying parallel with the shore, a=
nd
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. Througho=
ut the
length of this narrow and irksome inclined plane not a sign of life was vis=
ible
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 th=
e 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 etch=
ed
thereon to a degree not deep enough to disturb its general evenness, stretc=
hed
the whole width of his front and round to the right, where, near the town a=
nd
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, shre=
ds
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 w=
ould
rest and bathe here before going farther.&=
nbsp;
He undressed and plunged in. Inside the cove the water was uninteres=
ting
to a swimmer, being smooth as a pond, and to get a little of the ocean swel=
l,
Troy presently swam between the two projecting spurs of rock which formed t=
he
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 t=
here
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 th=
eir
number. Not a boat of any kin=
d 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 sev=
eral
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, a=
nd so
on, Troy resolved as a last resource to tread water at a slight incline, an=
d 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 =
eye's
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 pro= long the struggle yet a little further. Swimming with his right arm, he held up his left to hail them, splas= hing 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 bo= som 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.<= o:p>
They formed part of a brig's crew, and had come
ashore for sand. Lending him what little clothing they could spare among th=
em
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 ma=
de
again towards the roadstead where their vessel lay.
And now night drooped slowly upon the wide wat=
ery
levels in front; and at no great distance from them, where the shoreline cu=
rved
round, and formed a long riband of shade upon the horizon, a series of poin=
ts
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 on=
ly
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 fla=
ming
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.
=
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 p=
robabilities
of its issue so bounded that she could not speculate on contingencies. Taking no further interest in hers=
elf as
a splendid woman, she acquired the indifferent feelings of an outsider in c=
ontemplating
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 you=
th had
sickened, and with it had declined all her anxieties about coming years, si=
nce 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.&nbs=
p;
And then the days of their tenancy of the Upper Farm would be
numbered. There had originall=
y been
shown by the agent to the estate some distrust of Bathsheba's tenure as Jam=
es
Everdene's successor, on the score of her sex, and her youth, and her beaut=
y; 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 furth=
er
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, diffe=
ring
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 upo=
n 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 thos=
e 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,&q=
uot;
said the the person addressed.
"I have some awkward news to break to
her. Her husband is drowned.&=
quot;
As if endowed with the spirit of prophecy,
Bathsheba gasped out, "No, it is not true; it cannot be true!"
But not to the ground. A gloomy man, who had been observi=
ng 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 th=
em
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 Ba=
thsheba. He lifted her bodily off the groun=
d, and
smoothed down the folds of her dress as a child might have taken a storm-be=
aten
bird and arranged its ruffled plumes, and bore her along the pavement to the
King's Arms Inn. Here he pass=
ed
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 passa=
ge to recover
his senses. The experience ha=
d 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 k=
nowing
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 wh=
at he
had already heard. He then or=
dered
her horse to be put into the gig, and when all was ready returned to inform
her. He found that, though st=
ill
pale and unwell, she had in the meantime sent for the Budmouth man who brou=
ght
the tidings, and learnt from him all there was to know.
Being hardly in a condition to drive home as s=
he
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.&=
nbsp;
These proposals Bathsheba gently declined, and the farmer at once
departed.
About half-an-hour later she invigorated herse=
lf
by an effort, and took her seat and the reins as usual--in external appeara=
nce
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 s=
howing
themselves when Bathsheba reached home, where, silently alighting and leavi=
ng
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 inquiri=
ngly
into her mistress's face. Bat=
hsheba
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 g=
ot
for you to wear," said Liddy, with hesitation.
"What do you mean?"
"Mourning."
"No, no, no," said Bathsheba, hurrie=
dly.
"But I suppose there must be something do=
ne
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 differen=
t, 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 sho=
rt
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 pass=
ing
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 un=
less
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 reac=
h 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--tho=
ugh
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 convictio=
n 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 h=
er,
causing her face to flush. Su=
ppose
that Troy had followed Fanny into another world. Had he done this
intentionally, yet contrived to make his death appear like an accident? Nev=
ertheless,
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 fi=
re,
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 open=
ed 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.
=
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 liv=
ed
in a mood of quietude which was not precisely peacefulness. While she had known him to be aliv=
e she
could have thought of his death with equanimity; but now that it might be s=
he
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 ove=
r a great
gulf, as if she were now a dead person, having the faculty of meditation st=
ill
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, beyo=
nd the
substantial increase of wages it brought, was little more than a nominal on=
e addressed
to the outside world.
Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much of his wheat and all his barl=
ey of
that season had been spoilt by the rain.&n=
bsp;
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 da=
nger
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 n=
ot,
the farmer proposed at the interview that Gabriel should undertake the supe=
rintendence
of the Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba's, because of the necessity Boldw=
ood
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--f=
or
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 deter=
mined
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 communic=
ate
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 breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful
spirit of surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him--the actual mis=
tress
of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting in their respective ho=
mes
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 f=
ast.
"Whatever d'ye think," said Susan Ta=
ll,
"Gable Oak is coming it quite the dand. He now wears shining boots with ha=
rdly a
hob in 'em, two or three times a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and 'a har=
dly
knows the name of smockfrock. When
I see people strut enough to be cut up into bantam cocks, I stand dormant w=
ith
wonder, and says no more!"
It was eventually known that Gabriel, though p=
aid
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 qual=
ity
than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way that wages were not. Some were beginning to consider Oa=
k a
"near" man, for though his condition had thus far improved, he li=
ved
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 dou=
bt
as to his motives.
A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwo=
od,
whose unreasoning devotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fo=
nd
madness which neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could we=
aken
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.&nb=
sp;
He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned the contemplation of i=
t in
earnest, lest facts should reveal the wildness of the dream. Bathsheba having at last been pers=
uaded
to wear mourning, her appearance as she entered the church in that guise wa=
s 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 hav=
e to
wait he had not yet closely considered.&nb=
sp;
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 substrat=
um 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 sugge=
st a
friendly businesslike compact between them for fulfilment at some future da=
y,
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.&nb=
sp;
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 foo=
d,
and she had been able to enter this second poetical phase without losing mu=
ch
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 widowh=
ood--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.&=
nbsp;
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 e=
xpect
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.&=
quot;
"Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to the possibilit=
y of marrying
again, you conclude--"
"She never do allude to it, sir," sa=
id
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, thou=
gh
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 claim=
ing
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 Li=
ddy,
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 ha=
ving
made himself to appear stupid and, what was worse, mean. But he had, after all, lighted upo=
n 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 li=
ttle
more than six years from this time Bathsheba might certainly marry him. There was something definite in th=
at
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 t=
ime,
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 wai=
ting
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 litt=
le
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 a=
s 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.
=
=
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 anci=
ent 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 t=
he
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 f=
air,
driving their charges a few miles each day--not more than ten or twelve--an=
d resting
them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previously chosen points, w=
here
they fed, having fasted since morning.&nbs=
p;
The shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his k=
it for
the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook, which he u=
sed
as the staff of his pilgrimage.
Several of the sheep would get worn and lame, and occasionally a lam=
bing
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 l=
ong
distance from the hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their
case. But the large united fl=
ocks
of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a valuable and imposing multitude w=
hich
demanded much attention, and on this account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwo=
od'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 w=
ere
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 e=
ntered
the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after multitude, horned and
hornless--blue flocks and red flocks, buff flocks and brown flocks, even gr=
een
and salmon-tinted flocks, according to the fancy of the colourist and custo=
m of
the farm. Men were shouting, dogs were barking, with greatest animation, bu=
t the
thronging travellers in so long a journey had grown nearly indifferent to s=
uch
terrors, though they still bleated piteously at the unwontedness of their
experiences, a tall shepherd rising here and there in the midst of them, li=
ke 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.&nbs=
p;
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 varie=
ties,
perfect leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only lac=
king
the spots. There were also a =
few of
the Oxfordshire breed, whose wool was beginning to curl like a child's flax=
en
hair, though surpassed in this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which =
were
in turn less curly than the Cotswolds.&nbs=
p;
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 ho=
rns,
tresses of wool hanging round their swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the
monotony of the flocks in that quarter.
All these bleating, panting, and weary thousan= ds 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.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Alleys for pedestrians intersected= the pens, which soon became crowded with buyers and sellers from far and near.<= o:p>
In another part of the hill an altogether
different scene began to force itself upon the eye towards midday. A circular tent, of exceptional ne=
wness
and size, was in course of erection here.&=
nbsp;
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 kn=
ot
in no time, what was going on.
"The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turp=
in'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 str=
uck
up highly stimulating harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Bl=
ack Bess
standing in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living proof, if pr=
oof
were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances from the stage over wh=
ich
the people were to enter. The=
se
were so convinced by such genuine appeals to heart and understanding both t=
hat
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, whi=
ch
was jammed as in a vice.
There was a silence; then the drums and trumpe=
ts
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 sw=
ayed
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?
"Don't ye lose yer temper, Jan!"
implored Joseph Poorgrass, in a whisper.&n=
bsp;
"They might get their men to murder us, for I think by the shin=
e 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, fo=
r 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 ri=
ngs
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. S=
o 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 sac=
k of
potatoes, caused by the various human heads, backs, and elbows at high pres=
sure
within.
At the rear of the large tent there were two s=
mall
dressing-tents. One of these, alloted to the male performers, was partition=
ed
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 recog=
nise
as Sergeant Troy.
Troy's appearance in this position may be brie=
fly
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 precari=
ous
living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword Exercise, Fencing,
and Pugilism. A few months we=
re
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 w=
hen
money was short. There was ev=
er present,
too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but chose =
to
return to England and Weatherbury Farm.&nb=
sp;
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 incon=
venience
as emotion of a strong and healthy kind.&n=
bsp;
Bathsheba was not a women 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 unlike=
ly
that his wife would fail at her farming, if she had not already done so; an=
d 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 dist=
aste,
regret, and shame commingled, he put off his return from day to day, and wo=
uld
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 anima=
l'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 f=
air
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 th=
e 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, c=
ame
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 se=
ll
them all just as we got upon the hill, so we hadn't to pen at all."
"And now you are entirely at leisure?&quo=
t;
"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 ev=
er
seen the play of 'Turpin's Ride to York'?&=
nbsp;
Turpin was a real man, was he not?"
"Oh yes, perfectly true--all of it. Indeed, I think I've heard Jan Cog=
gan
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.&q=
uot;
"Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You have never seen it played, I
suppose?"
"Never.&=
nbsp;
I was not allowed to go into these places when I was young. Hark!
"Black Bess just started off, I suppose.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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."&nb=
sp;
Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, "I myself shall not st=
ay
to see it: I've seen it before."
Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the sho=
w,
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 appea=
red
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 wi=
th 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Hence as many eyes were turned upo=
n her,
enthroned alone in this place of honour, against a scarlet background, as u=
pon
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 feminin=
e aspect
to the pavilion. In a few min=
utes
she noticed the fat red nape of Coggan's neck among those standing just bel=
ow
her, and Joseph Poorgrass's saintly profile a little further on.
The interior was shadowy with a peculiar
shade. The strange luminous s=
emi-opacities
of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into Rembrandt effects the f=
ew
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 throug=
h a
slit for a reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high be=
fore
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 f=
elt
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 an=
d 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 p=
refigurings
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 twink=
ling
of an eye. Should he go on, a=
nd
care nothing? He could not br=
ing
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 a=
t the
thought, and was vexed beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike toward=
s 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 h=
is
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 wit=
hout
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 lea=
ding
man just at this time. "I
won't tell 'em anything about your keeping silence; go on with the piece an=
d 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 sp=
eeches
are omitted."
This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin's spee=
ches
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 Bes=
s 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 cou=
ld
be heard all over the fair above the bleating, and Poorgrass smiled delight=
edly
with a nice sense of dramatic contrast between our hero, who coolly leaps t=
he
gate, and halting justice in the form of his enemies, who must needs pull up
cumbersomely and wait to be let through.&n=
bsp;
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!"&nb=
sp;
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 o=
f at
Warren's in future years, Jan, and hand down to our children." For many a year in Weatherbury, Jo=
seph
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 h=
is
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 himsel=
f,
and though he had felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis ef=
fected
by judiciously "lining" his face with a wire rendered him safe fr=
om
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 speeche=
s on
occasion; and was just concluding it when, whilst standing at the edge of t=
he
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 a=
bide
by circumstances. That he had been recognized by this man was highly probab=
le;
yet there was room for a doubt.
Then the great objection he had felt to allowing news of his proximi=
ty
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.&n=
bsp;
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 h= im that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible, would be a ve= ry wise act. He had put on a thi= ck 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.<= o:p>
The largest refreshment booth in the fair was
provided by an innkeeper from a neighbouring town. This was considered an unexception=
able
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 rep=
ute
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 t=
ent
by a luncheon-bar, behind which the host himself stood bustling about in wh=
ite
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 q=
uite
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 th=
em
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 t=
he
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: sure=
ly 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 waf=
er. Close to this he placed his face, =
withdrawing
it again in a movement of surprise; for his eye had been within twelve inch=
es
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 horizontall=
y.
Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sipping a cu=
p 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 negli=
gent
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 oblig=
ed
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 befo=
re 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.
"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 t=
o 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; b=
ut
there's nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea, though I should never have g=
ot
one if you hadn't helped me."
Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candl=
es,
and watched each varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuositie=
s 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.&nb=
sp;
Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability endangered at
once. He was about to leave h=
is
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 t=
ale
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, i=
n a
round hand--
"YOUR HUSBAND IS HERE. I'VE SEEN HIM. WHO'S THE FOOL NOW?"
This he folded small, and handed towards her.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Bathsheba would not read it; she w=
ould
not even put out her hand to take it.
Pennyways, then, with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, a=
nd,
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 cou=
ld be done
to check the exposure. "=
Curse
my luck!" he whispered, and added imprecations which rustled in the gl=
oom
like a pestilent wind. Meanwhile Boldwood said, taking up the note from her
lap--
"Don't you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy?
"Oh, well," said Bathsheba, careless=
ly,
"perhaps it is unjust not to read it; but I can guess what it is
about. He wants me to recomme=
nd 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 plat=
e 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 t=
hat
he would play the card. For y=
et
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 wo=
re:
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 h=
ole,
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 whi=
ch
burst from her. Troy then sli=
d down
on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in the bottom of the entrench=
ment
to a distance of a hundred yards, ascended again, and crossed boldly in a s=
low
walk towards the front entrance of the tent. His object was now to get to Penny=
ways,
and prevent a repetition of the announcement until such time as he should c=
hoose.
Troy reached the tent door, and standing among=
the
groups there gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishin=
g 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, a=
nd
whispered a few words; and with a mutual glance of concurrence the two men =
went
into the night together.
=
=
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 bei=
ng
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, a=
nd
was full of so many cares relative to those portions of Boldwood's flocks t=
hat
were not disposed of, that Bathsheba, without telling Oak or anybody, resol=
ved 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 f=
ound
it impossible to refuse his offer to ride on horseback beside her as escort=
. It had grown twilight before she w=
as
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 lov=
er's
protection--though regretting Gabriel's absence, whose company she would ha=
ve
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 ris=
en,
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 w=
orld
lying as a vast shady concave between them. Boldwood mounted his horse, and fo=
llowed
in close attendance behind. T=
hus
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 sy=
mpathized
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 i=
njury
and permanent gloom had betrayed Bathsheba into an injudicious consideraten=
ess
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 i=
n 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 h=
er,
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 reall=
y a
widow," she said, catching at the straw of escape that the fact afford=
ed.
"Not absolutely proved, perhaps, but it w=
as
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 tha=
t he
could not have perished, but I have been able to explain that in several wa=
ys
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.<= o:p>
"Do you remember when I carried you faint=
ing
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, a=
nd
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.
"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?&qu=
ot;
"I don't know--at least, I cannot tell
you. It is difficult for a wo=
man to
define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express
theirs. My treatment of you w=
as
thoughtless, inexcusable, wicked! =
span>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 erro=
r. But that was not possible."
"Don't blame yourself--you were not so fa=
r 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 fur=
ther
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 see=
m an
astonishingly short time to look back upon when they are past--much less th=
an
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 th=
at 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 sai=
d."
"Of course, I'll drop the subject if you
wish. But propriety has nothi=
ng to
do with reasons. I am a middl=
e-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 see=
ing
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.&nbs=
p;
Hadn't I the first place beside you? Haven't you been almost mine once
already? Surely you can say t=
o me
as much as this, you will have me back again should circumstances permit? N=
ow,
pray speak! O Bathsheba,
promise--it is only a little promise--that if you marry again, you will mar=
ry
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?&nb=
sp;
Unexpected accidents we'll not mention, because those, of course, mu=
st
be given way to. Now, this ti=
me I
know you will keep your word."
"That's why I hesitate to give it."<= o:p>
"But do give it! Remember the past, and be kind.&qu=
ot;
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 lov=
e a
husband. If you, sir, know th=
at,
and I can yet give you happiness by a mere promise to marry at the end of s=
ix years,
if my husband should not come back, it is a great honour to me. And if you value such an act of fr=
iendship
from a woman who doesn't esteem herself as she did, and has little love lef=
t,
why I--I will--"
"Promise!"
"--Consider, if I cannot promise soon.&qu=
ot;
"But soon is perhaps never?"
"Oh no, it is not! I mean soon. Christmas, we'll say."
"Christmas!" He said nothing further till he ad=
ded:
"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 odd=
ly
confidential dialogue with Gabriel about her difficulty. It afforded her a little relief--o=
f a
dull and cheerless kind. They=
were
auditing accounts, and something occurred in the course of their labours wh=
ich
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 as=
ked
her, and how he was expecting her assent.&=
nbsp;
"The most mournful reason of all for my agreeing to it," s=
he
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, grave=
ly.
"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 belie=
ve 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 wheneve=
r 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! A=
nd
six years--why we may all be in our graves by that time, even if Mr. Troy d=
oes
not come back again, which he may not impossibly do! Such thoughts give a s=
ort
of absurdity to the scheme. N=
ow,
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.&qu=
ot;
"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,&qu=
ot;
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 wi=
th
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, mak=
ing 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 play=
ed 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 deb=
t,
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I've been a rake, and the single p=
oint 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?&nb=
sp;
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 brough=
t him
back long before this time if he had lived."
"Well, then, in a religious sense you wil=
l be
as free to THINK o' marrying again as any real widow of one year's
standing. But why don't ye as=
k Mr.
Thirdly's advice on how to treat Mr. Boldwood?"
"No.&nbs=
p;
When I want a broad-minded opinion for general enlightenment, distin=
ct
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 busines=
s,
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 centremo=
st
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 t=
hat he
might marry her himself--had not once said, "I could wait for you as w=
ell
as he." That was the ins=
ect
sting. Not that she would hav=
e listened
to any such hypothesis. O no-=
-for
wasn't she saying all the time that such thoughts of the future were improp=
er,
and wasn't Gabriel far too poor a man to speak sentiment to her? Yet he might have just hinted abou=
t that
old love of his, and asked, in a playful off-hand way, if he might speak of
it. It would have seemed pret=
ty and
sweet, if no more; and then she would have shown how kind and inoffensive a
woman's "No" can sometimes be.&n=
bsp;
But to give such cool advice--the very advice she had asked for--it
ruffled our heroine all the afternoon.
=
=
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.&nbs=
p;
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 follo=
wed in
armfuls. From six that mornin=
g till
past noon the huge wood fire in the kitchen roared and sparkled at its high=
est,
the kettle, the saucepan, and the three-legged pot appearing in the midst of
the flames like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego; moreover, roasting and bas=
ting
operations were continually carried on in front of the genial blaze.
As it grew later the fire was made up in the l=
arge
long hall into which the staircase descended, and all encumbrances were cle=
ared
out for dancing. The log whic=
h 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.&nb=
sp;
Such a thing had never been attempted before by its owner, and it was
now done as by a wrench. Inte=
nded 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 m=
ove
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 Li=
ddy
entered and placed one on each side of her mistress's glass.
"Don't go away, Liddy," said Bathshe=
ba,
almost timidly. "I am foolishly agitated--I cannot tell why. I wish I had not been obliged to g=
o to
this dance; but there's no escaping now.&n=
bsp;
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 anythin=
g 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 te=
ll,
Liddy."
"Oh no, ma'am. You the cause of it, ma'am?"<= o:p>
"Yes.&nb=
sp;
I am the reason of the party--I.&nb=
sp;
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, an=
d 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; b=
ut
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 tr=
ying
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 exp=
ressed
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 he=
re
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 excessivel=
y hopeful
and blithe, a trouble is looming in the distance: so that I often get to lo=
ok
upon gloom in me with content, and to fear a happy mood. Still this may be absurd--I feel t=
hat 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 kno=
t in
fashion, Oak?"
"I don't know, sir," said Oak. His tone had sunk to sadness.
Boldwood approached Gabriel, and as Oak tied t=
he
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," s=
aid
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 o=
ur
positions: I have become the young and hopeful man, and you the old and
unbelieving one. However, doe=
s 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 s=
uch 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 shou=
ld not
marry within seven years of her husband's disappearance--that her own self =
shouldn't,
I mean--because his body was not found.&nb=
sp;
It may be merely this legal reason which influences her, or it may b=
e a
religious one, but she is reluctant to talk on the point. Yet she has promi=
sed--implied--that
she will ratify an engagement to-night."
"Seven years," murmured Oak.
"No, no--it's no such thing!" he sai=
d,
with impatience. Five years, =
nine
months, and a few days. Fifte=
en
months nearly have passed since he vanished, and is there anything so wonde=
rful
in an engagement of little more than five years?"
"It seems long in a forward view. Don't build too much upon such pro=
mises,
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!
=
IV
=
Troy
was sitting in a corner of The White Hart tavern at Casterbridge, smoking a=
nd
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 appe=
ars
to be drowned and was not, he should be liable for anything. I shan't ask any lawyer--not I.&qu=
ot;
"But that's not it, exactly. If a man changes his name and so f=
orth, 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 vagabo=
nd;
and that's a punishable situation."
"Ha-ha!&=
nbsp;
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 s=
ide 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 eve=
r gone
there, they say. And they say=
that
she've not so much as spoke to him since they were at Greenhill Fair: but w=
hat
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.&nb=
sp;
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 adde=
d,
"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 b=
een
no more than a leafless tree. She
had just got off her mare to look at the last wring-down of cider for the y=
ear;
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 f=
ellers
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 cid=
er,
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 tha=
n a
morsel of scroff in the fuel-house!"
"I must go and find her out at once--O ye=
s, 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 know=
ing it
well he's pretty independent. And
she've a few soft corners to her mind, though I've never been able to get i=
nto
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 li=
ttle
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, a=
nd 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 Bathsheb=
a,
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 wom=
en 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 far=
m I
mean. That share is small, too
small, considering how little I attend to business now, and how much time a=
nd
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 disc=
uss
it at our leisure. My intenti=
on 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 sl=
ip, 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 incre=
asing
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But you have behaved like a man, a=
nd I,
as a sort of successful rival--successful partly through your goodness of h=
eart--should
like definitely to show my sense of your friendship under what must have be=
en 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 accoun=
t, 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.
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 be=
en
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 o=
f 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.&nbs=
p;
The old man who was his indoor factotum came at the same moment to t=
he
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. T=
roy?"
"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 pronounce=
d Bathsheba's
name; and his feverish anxiety continued to show its existence by a gallopi=
ng
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 no=
w, 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?&quo=
t;
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 a=
ll
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "There she is with plenty of =
money,
and a house and farm, and horses, and comfort, and here am I living from ha=
nd
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.&quo=
t;
"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 a=
bout
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 C=
hristmasing!"
"H'm, yes. I expect I shall not be a very wel=
come
guest if he has her there," said the sergeant, with a slight laugh.
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 he=
r husband. "I sometimes think she likes =
you
yet, and is a good woman at bottom," he said, as a saving sentence.
"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."
=
=
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 passag=
e of
some guest or servant, when a golden rod of light would stripe the ground f=
or
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.
"'Tis a strange story," said the
next. "You may depend up=
on't
that she knows nothing about it."
"Not a word."
"Perhaps he don't mean that she shall,&qu=
ot;
said another man.
"If he's alive and here in the neighbourh=
ood,
he means mischief," said the first.&n=
bsp;
"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,&qu=
ot;
said one disposed to take a more hopeful view of the case.
"What a fool she must have been ever to h=
ave
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 t=
he
man was made of? If 'tis real=
ly
true, 'tis too hard a punishment, and more than she ought to hae.--Hullo, w=
ho's
that?" This was to some
footsteps that were heard approaching.
"William Smallbury," said a dim figu=
re
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 i=
n 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.&quo=
t;
"Oh, I hear now--that's Sam Samway: thoug=
ht 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 see=
n,
d'ye mean, souls?" said Smallbury, also lowering his voice.
"Ay: in Casterbridge."
"Yes, I have. Laban Tall named a hint of it to m=
e but
now--but I don't think it. Ha=
rk,
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "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 tru=
e,
'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 has=
ty, 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 sa=
ys 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 with=
in. 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 whispe=
red,
as he neared them. "We'd better stand quiet--he'll go in again
directly. He would think it u=
nseemly
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 distinct=
ly
heard it. Boldwood remained s=
ilent
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.
Boldwood compressed his emotion to mere welcom=
e:
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 li=
ke
that with him!" said one of the men.&=
nbsp;
"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.&=
nbsp;
"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 scoundr=
el to
play a poor wife such tricks.
Nothing has prospered in Weatherbury since he came here. And now I'v=
e no
heart to go in. Let's look in=
to
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The three soon drew near the malt-=
house,
approaching it from the adjoining orchard, and not by way of the street.
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 Samwa=
y;
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.&=
nbsp;
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 int=
erlocutors
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 Boldwoo=
d 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 be=
tter
go and ask to speak to her."
"I bain't fit for any such thing," s=
aid
Laban, nervously. "I sho=
uld 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 mistr=
ess."
"Very well," said Samway.
Laban then went to the door. When he opened it the hum of bustl=
e 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 look=
ed
around at the dark tree tops gently rocking against the sky and occasionall=
y shivering
in a slight wind, as if he took interest in the scene, which neither did. One of them began walking up and d=
own,
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 mist=
ress
by this time," said Smallbury, breaking the silence. "Perhaps she won't come and s=
peak 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 in=
to
the party. Somehow the fun se=
ems 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. Bath=
sheba
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 no=
t 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 m=
ade
up her mind that she could on no account dance, sing, or take any active pa=
rt
in the proceedings.
Her allotted hour having been passed in chatti=
ng
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 res=
tive,
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.<= o:p>
"What?" she whispered.
"Now, that's evasion! Why, the promise. I don't want to intrude upon you a=
t 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 h=
er. "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,&qu=
ot;
said Boldwood. Honesty and pu=
re
conviction suggested the remark, unaccompanied by any perception that it mi=
ght
have been adopted by blunt flattery to soothe and win her.
However, it had not much effect now, for she s=
aid,
in a passionless murmur which was in itself a proof of her words: "I h=
ave
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 yea=
rs
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 th=
at
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 de=
serve
it, indeed I do, for I have loved you more than anybody in the world! And if I said hasty words and show=
ed
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.
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, w=
hen
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 t=
his
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 kn=
ow
that it's an engagement! Perh=
aps 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 t=
o 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.<= o:p>
"I cannot wear it," she said, weepin=
g 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 loo=
sen my
hand; I will, indeed I will wear it to-night."
"And it shall be the beginning of a pleas=
ant
secret courtship of six years, with a wedding at the end?"
"It must be, I suppose, since you will ha=
ve
it so!" she said, fairly beaten into non-resistance.
Boldwood pressed her hand, and allowed it to d=
rop in
her lap. "I am happy
now," he said. "God=
bless
you!"
He left the room, and when he thought she migh=
t be
sufficiently composed sent one of the maids to her. Bathsheba cloaked the effects of t=
he
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 necessar=
y 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 gathe=
ring.
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, a=
nd
with clouded looks. Boldwood =
was
standing by the fireplace, and he, too, though so absorbed in visions arisi=
ng 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?&n=
bsp;
Anybody married or engaged, born or dead?" inquired the farmer,
gaily. "Tell it to us,
Tall. One would think from yo=
ur looks
and mysterious ways that it was something very dreadful indeed."
"Oh no, sir, nobody is dead," said T=
all.
"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 fa=
rmer
asked Bathsheba, across the room.
"I don't in the least," said Bathshe=
ba.
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; h=
er
whole face was pallid, her lips apart, her eyes rigidly staring at their
visitor.
Boldwood was among those who did not notice th=
at
he was Troy. "Come in, c=
ome
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, w=
ho
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 l=
augh: Boldwood
recognized him now.
Troy turned to Bathsheba. The poor girl's wretchedness at th=
is
time was beyond all fancy or narration.&nb=
sp;
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 whet=
her
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?&quo=
t;
he said, peremptorily.
A strange voice came from the fireplace--a voi=
ce
sounding far off and confined, as if from a dungeon. Hardly a soul in the assembly reco=
gnized
the thin tones to be those of Boldwood. Sudden dispaire had transformed him=
.
"Bathsheba, go with your husband!"
Nevertheless, she did not move. The truth was that Bathsheba was b=
eyond
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 t=
ime
no obscuration was apparent from without.
Troy stretched out his hand to pull her 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. Whethe=
r 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 wh=
en
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 smo=
ke.
In bewilderment they turned their eyes to
Boldwood. At his back, as sto=
od
before the fireplace, was a gun-rack, as is usual in farmhouses, constructe=
d to
hold two guns. When Bathsheba=
had
cried out in her husband's grasp, Boldwood's face of gnashing despair had c=
hanged. The veins had swollen, and a frenz=
ied
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.&nb=
sp;
The distance apart of the two men was so small that the charge of sh=
ot
did not spread in the least, but passed like a bullet into his body. He uttered a long guttural sigh--t=
here
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. I=
t was
double-barrelled, and he had, meanwhile, in some way fastened his hand-kerc=
hief
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, a=
nd
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!" Bold=
wood
gasped. "There is anothe=
r 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 thinkin=
g of
preventing him.
=
=
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 th=
e right,
and halted before an archway of heavy stonework, which was closed by an iron
studded pair of doors. This w=
as 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 fo=
rward,
and said something in a low tone, when, after a delay, another man came.
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 exi=
t,
the scene was terrible. All the female guests were huddled aghast against t=
he
walls like sheep in a storm, and the men were bewildered as to what to do.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> As for Bathsheba, she had changed.=
She was sitting on the floor besid=
e 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 ord=
inary
in philosophy, are rare in conduct, and Bathsheba was astonishing all around
her now, for her philosophy was her conduct, and she seldom thought practic=
able
what she did not practise. Sh=
e 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 f=
ormed
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 instant=
ly 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 si=
mple
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 foc=
us. 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 ma=
n on
this errand, remaining himself in the house. What had become of Boldwood? He sh=
ould
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 t=
oo
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 f=
rom
Casterbridge, a square-figured pedestrian passing along under the dark hedg=
e 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 e=
ntering
the house. Oak was additional=
ly
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 tow=
n, and
delivered himself up.
In the meantime the surgeon, having hastened i=
nto
the hall at Boldwood's, found it in darkness and quite deserted. He went on to the back of the hous=
e,
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 h=
ill
to Bathsheba's. The first person he met was poor Liddy, who seemed literall=
y 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 mi=
stress
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 m=
e fill
the bath, and after that told me I had better go and lie down because I loo=
ked
so ill. Then she locked herse=
lf
into the room alone with him, and would not let a nurse come in, or anybody=
at
all. But I thought I'd wait i=
n 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 t=
he
socket. She said we were to l=
et 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. L=
iddy
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 vaca=
ted
they saw by the light of the candles which were on the drawers a tall strai=
ght 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,&quo=
t;
remarked Mr. Aldritch, in a subdued voice.=
"The body has been undressed and properly laid out in grave
clothes. Gracious Heaven--thi=
s mere
girl! She must have the nerve=
of a
stoic!"
"The heart of a wife merely," floate=
d 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 w=
as a
shapeless heap of drapery on the floor.&nb=
sp;
The simple consciousness that superhuman strain was no longer requir=
ed
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 asp=
ect for
a time. The sufferer was got =
to
bed, and Oak, finding from the bulletins that nothing really dreadful was t=
o be
apprehended on her score, left the house.&=
nbsp;
Liddy kept watch in Bathsheba's chamber, where she heard her mistres=
s,
moaning in whispers through the dull slow hours of that wretched night:
"Oh it is my fault--how can I live!&n=
bsp;
O Heaven, how can I live!"
=
=
We
pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day without sunshine,
frost, or dew. On Yalbury Hil=
l,
about midway between Weatherbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road
passes over the crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eye=
s 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 Weatherbu=
ry
men and boys--among others Poorgrass, Coggan, and Cain Ball.
At the end of half-an-hour a faint dust was se=
en
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 th=
e top. The judge changed carriages whilst=
a
flourish was blown by the big-cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being fo=
rmed
of the vehicles and javelin-men, they all proceeded towards the town, excep=
ting
the Weatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off return=
ed
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 e=
xact
truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was towards me.&q=
uot;
"Well, I hope for the best," said
Coggan, "though bad that must be. However, I shan't go to the trial, a=
nd
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 sa=
id
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 i=
t,
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, ev=
ery
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 Fa=
ir
until the fatal Christmas Eve in excited and unusual moods was known to tho=
se
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, alo=
ne
of all others and at different times, had momentarily suspected. In a locked closet was now discove=
red 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 mu=
ffs,
sable and ermine. Above all t=
here
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 Ba=
th 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 instan=
ce.
These somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind cr= azed with care and love were the subject of discourse in Warren's malt-house when Oak entered from Casterbridge with tidings of sentence. He came in the afternoon, and his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale suff= iciently well. Boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death.<= o:p>
The conviction that Boldwood had not been mora=
lly
responsible for his later acts now became general. Facts elicited previous to the tri=
al 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 wer=
e 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 recon=
sideration
of the sentence. It was not
"numerously signed" by the inhabitants of Casterbridge, as is usu=
al
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 ab=
out
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 mi=
ght
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 Boldw=
ood
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. Th=
ey 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 wi=
th 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 the=
re
been any change in mistress this afternoon?"
"None at all."
"Is she downstairs?"
"No.&nbs=
p;
And getting on so nicely as she was too. She's but very little better now a=
gain
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 ri=
de
to town the last thing to-night; leave here about nine, and wait a while th=
ere,
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,&qu=
ot;
said Liddy. "If it is no=
t, 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.<= o:p>
"If you haven't seen poor mistress since
Christmas, you wouldn't know her," said Liddy. "Her eyes are so miserable th=
at
she's not the same woman. Onl=
y two
years ago she was a romping girl, and now she's this!"
Laban departed as directed, and at eleven o'cl=
ock
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 ough=
t 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 i=
f on
turf it trode, Then, clatt=
ering
on the village road In other pa=
ce than
forth he yode.
=
"We
shall soon know now, one way or other." said Coggan, and they all step=
ped
down from the bank on which they had been standing into the road, and the r=
ider
pranced into the midst of them.
"Is that you, Laban?" said Gabriel.<= o:p>
"Yes--'tis come. He's not to die. 'Tis confinement during Her Majest=
y's
pleasure."
"Hurrah!" said Coggan, with a swelli=
ng
heart. "God's above the =
devil yet!"
=
=
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 par=
t 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 t=
ime
in the open air, and began to examine into farming matters from sheer neces=
sity,
though she never rode out or personally superintended as at former times. One Friday evening in August she w=
alked
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 g=
ate,
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 s=
he
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 FRANC=
IS
TROY IN BE=
LOVED
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 REM=
AINS
OF THE AFORESAID =
FRANCIS
TROY, WHO DIED DE=
CEMBER
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 though=
t or
comprehension--
=
Lead, kindly Lig=
ht,
amid the encircling gloom, Lead
Thou me on.
=
Bathsheba's
feeling was always to some extent dependent upon her whim, as is the case w=
ith
many other women. Something b=
ig
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 an=
ything
in the world to be, as those children were, unconcerned at the meaning of t=
heir
words, because too innocent to feel the necessity for any such expression.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> All the impassioned scenes of her =
brief
experience seemed to revive with added emotion at that moment, and those sc=
enes
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. Bat=
hsheba
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 gari=
sh
day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled=
my
will: remember not past years.
=
"I
was," said Gabriel. &quo=
t;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 lov=
ed
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.&qu=
ot;
"Oh no--you don't drive me away."
Then they stood in a state of some embarrassme=
nt,
Bathsheba trying to wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without =
his
noticing her. At length Oak s=
aid,
"I've not seen you--I mean spoken to you--since ever so long, have
I?" But he feared to bri=
ng
distressing memories back, and interrupted himself with: "Were you goi=
ng
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?&quo=
t;
said Oak.
"Yes.&nb=
sp;
Come and see it, if you have not already."
So together they went and read the tomb. "Eight months ago!" Gabr=
iel 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 mat=
ter 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--ne=
xt
spring."
"Leaving England!" she said, in surp=
rise
and genuine disappointment. "Why, Gabriel, what are you going to do th=
at
for?"
"Well, I've thought it best," Oak
stammered out. "Californ=
ia 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 oug=
ht 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 fa=
ncied
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&quo=
t; 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.&nb=
sp;
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 percept=
ible
disinclination for her society. It
broke upon her at length as a great pain that her last old disciple was abo=
ut
to forsake her and flee. He w=
ho 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 whe=
re
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 like=
ly
to be there, only entering at unseasonable hours when her presence in that =
part
of the house was least to be expected.&nbs=
p;
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 t=
o 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 le=
gal 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 manne=
r,
might chance to linger in her path in the old way. There he was, as usual, coming dow=
n 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 strok=
e;
she had been expecting it long. It
was a formal notice by letter from him that he should not renew his engagem=
ent
with her for the following Lady-day.
Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this let=
ter
most bitterly. She was aggrie=
ved
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 withdra=
wn
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 en=
ergy
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 i=
n 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 b=
onnet
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 m=
oon
shone upon his forehead.
"Mr. Oak," said Bathsheba, faintly.<= o:p>
"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."&n=
bsp;
Oak placed two or three for her.
"They are quite easy enough for me."=
So down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dan=
cing
in their faces, and upon the old furniture,
=
=
all a-sheenen Wi' long ye=
ars o'
handlen, [3]
[Footnote 3: W. Barnes]
that formed Oak's array of household possessio=
ns,
which sent back a dancing reflection in reply. It was very odd to these two perso=
ns, who
knew each other passing well, that the mere circumstance of their meeting i=
n a
new place and in a new way should make them so awkward and constrained. In the fields, or at her house, th=
ere
had never been any embarrassment; but now that Oak had become the entertain=
er 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 unea=
sy
in the belief that I have offended you, and that you are going away on that
account. It grieved me very m=
uch
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 h=
a'
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 fo=
r some
time. Still, that wouldn't pr=
event
my attending to your business as before, hadn't it been that things have be=
en
said about us."
"What?" said Bathsheba, in
surprise. "Things said a=
bout
you and me! What are they?"
"I cannot tell you."
"It would be wiser if you were to, I
think. You have played the pa=
rt 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 mean=
t,"
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 s=
hould
think that was plain enough by this time.&=
nbsp;
Surely, surely you be the last person in the world I think of
marrying. It is too absurd, a=
s you
say."
"'Too--s-s-soon' were the words I used.&q=
uot;
"I must beg your pardon for correcting yo=
u,
but you said, 'too absurd,' and so do I."
"I beg your pardon too!" she returne=
d,
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, te=
nderly
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 murmu=
red.
"Why?"
"Because you never ask."
"Oh--Oh!" said Gabriel, with a low l=
augh
of joyousness. "My own d=
ear--"
"You ought not to have sent me that harsh
letter this morning," she interrupted. "It shows you didn't care a b=
it
about me, and were ready to desert me like all the rest of them! It was very cruel of you, consider=
ing I
was the first sweetheart that you ever had, and you were the first I ever h=
ad;
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, th=
at
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 shal=
l 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 mu=
tual
feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably unnecessary bet=
ween
such tried friends. Theirs wa=
s 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 pursu=
its,
is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes, because men a=
nd
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, n=
or
the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name is
evanescent as steam.
=
=
"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 f, and he meditated a f=
ull
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 wi=
th
mysterious steps from the surrogate's door, in Casterbridge. On the way home he heard a heavy t=
read
in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to be Coggan. They walked together into the vill=
age
until they came to a little lane behind the church, leading down to the cot=
tage
of Laban Tall, who had lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and wa=
s 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 k=
eep
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 thi=
ng
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 h=
ush 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 goin=
g down
to the clerk."
"Yes; you may as well come with me."=
"I am afeard your labour in keeping it cl=
ose
will be throwed away," said Coggan, as they walked along. "Labe Tall's old woman will h=
orn it
all over parish in half-an-hour."
"So she will, upon my life; I never thoug=
ht
of that," said Oak, pausing.
"Yet I must tell him to-night, I suppose, for he's working so f=
ar
off, and leaves early."
"I'll tell 'ee how we could tackle her,&q=
uot;
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 t=
ell
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 fo=
rced
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 st=
epped
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 fa=
il, 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 sn=
ow, he
must come," added Jan.
"'Tis very particular, indeed.=
The fact is, 'tis to witness her sign some law-work about taking sha=
res
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 furthe=
r;
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 d=
o,
which I'll tell you of when the time comes, and it's best to make sure.&quo=
t;
Bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four,=
nor
could she by any contrivance get to sleep again. About six, being quite positive th=
at 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 st=
ory,
Liddy? I know it must be ever=
so much
past seven. Come to my room a=
s soon
as you can; I want you to give my hair a good brushing."
When Liddy came to Bathsheba's room her mistre=
ss
was already waiting. Liddy could not understand this extraordinary
promptness. "Whatever IS=
going
on, ma'am?" she said.
"Well, I'll tell you," said Bathsheb=
a,
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, &=
quot;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 Bathsheba's door. Ten
minutes later a large and a smaller umbrella might have been seen moving fr=
om
the same door, and through the mist along the road to the church. The distance was not more than a q=
uarter
of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemed it unnecessary to drive. An observer must have been very cl=
ose indeed
to discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those of Oak and Bathsh=
eba,
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, th=
ere
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, arrang=
ed
her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago on Norcombe Hill, she se=
emed
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 de=
ed
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 toward=
s 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 cou=
ple
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 mus=
ic
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, a=
re
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. "Th=
ank ye
all the same; but we'll call at a more seemly time. However, we couldn't think of lett=
ing
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. He=
re's
long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and his comely bride!"
"Thank ye; thank ye all," said
Gabriel. "A bit and a dr=
op
shall be sent to Warren's for ye at once.&=
nbsp;
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 fell=
er
of twenty years' standing pipe 'my wife' in a more used note than 'a did,&q=
uot;
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,&quo=
t;
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 Ho=
sea,
in my scripture manner, which is my second nature, 'Ephraim is joined to id=
ols:
let him alone.' But since 'ti=
s as
'tis, why, it might have been worse, and I feel my thanks accordingly."=
;