She was conscious of having brought about this situation by a series of

actions done as by one in an extravagant dream; of following that idea

as to method, which had burst upon her in the hall with glaring

obviousness, by gliding to the top of the stairs, assuring herself by

listening to the heavy breathing of her maids that they were asleep,

gliding down again, turning the handle of the door within which the

young girl lay, and deliberately setting herself to do what, if she had

anticipated any such undertaking at night and alone, would have

horrified her, but which, when done, was not so dreadful as was the

conclusive proof which came with knowing beyond doubt the last chapter

of Fanny’s story.

Bathsheba’s head sank upon her bosom, and the breath which had been

bated in suspense, curiosity, and interest, was exhaled now in the form

of a whispered wail: “Oh-h-h!” she said, and the silent room added

length to her moan.

Her tears fell fast beside the unconscious pair: tears of a complicated

origin, of a nature indescribable, almost indefinable except as other

than those of simple sorrow. Assuredly their wonted fires must have

lived in Fanny’s ashes when events were so shaped as to chariot her

hither in this natural, unobtrusive, yet effectual manner. The one feat

alone—that of dying—by which a mean condition could be resolved into a

grand one, Fanny had achieved. And to that had destiny subjoined this

rencounter to-night, which had, in Bathsheba’s wild imagining, turned

her companion’s failure to success, her humiliation to triumph, her

lucklessness to ascendency; it had thrown over herself a garish light

of mockery, and set upon all things about her an ironical smile.

Fanny’s face was framed in by that yellow hair of hers; and there was

no longer much room for doubt as to the origin of the curl owned by

Troy. In Bathsheba’s heated fancy the innocent white countenance

expressed a dim triumphant consciousness of the pain she was

retaliating for her pain with all the merciless rigour of the Mosaic

law: “Burning for burning; wound for wound; strife for strife.

Bathsheba indulged in contemplations of escape from her position by

immediate death, which, thought she, though it was an inconvenient and

awful way, had limits to its inconvenience and awfulness that could not

be overpassed; whilst the shames of life were measureless. Yet even

this scheme of extinction by death was but tamely copying her rival’s

method without the reasons which had glorified it in her rival’s case.

She glided rapidly up and down the room, as was mostly her habit when

excited, her hands hanging clasped in front of her, as she thought and

in part expressed in broken words: “Oh, I hate her, yet I don’t mean

that I hate her, for it is grievous and wicked; and yet I hate her a

little! Yes, my flesh insists upon hating her, whether my spirit is

willing or no.… If she had only lived, I could have been angry and

cruel towards her with some justification; but to be vindictive towards

a poor dead woman recoils upon myself. O God, have mercy! I am

miserable at all this!”

Bathsheba became at this moment so terrified at her own state of mind

that she looked around for some sort of refuge from herself. The vision

of Oak kneeling down that night recurred to her, and with the imitative

instinct which animates women she seized upon the idea, resolved to

kneel, and if possible, pray. Gabriel had prayed; so would she.

She knelt beside the coffin, covered her face with her hands, and for a

time the room was silent as a tomb. whether from a purely mechanical,

or from any other cause, when Bathsheba arose it was with a quieted

spirit, and a regret for the antagonistic instincts which had seized

upon her just before.

In her desire to make atonement she took flowers from a vase by the

window, and began laying them around the dead girl’s head. Bathsheba

knew no other way of showing kindness to persons departed than by

giving them flowers. She knew not how long she remained engaged thus.

She forgot time, life, where she was, what she was doing. A slamming

together of the coach-house doors in the yard brought her to herself

again. An instant after, the front door opened and closed, steps

crossed the hall, and her husband appeared at the entrance to the room,

looking in upon her.

He beheld it all by degrees, stared in stupefaction at the scene, as if

he thought it an illusion raised by some fiendish incantation.

Bathsheba, pallid as a corpse on end, gazed back at him in the same

wild way.

So little are instinctive guesses the fruit of a legitimate induction,

that at this moment as he stood with the door in his hand, Troy never

once thought of Fanny in connection with what he saw. His first

confused idea was that somebody in the house had died.

“Well—what?” said Troy, blankly.

“I must go! I must go!” said Bathsheba, to herself more than to him.

She came with a dilated eye towards the door, to push past him.

“What’s the matter, in God’s name? who’s dead?” said Troy.

“I cannot say; let me go out. I want air!” she continued.

“But no; stay, I insist!” He seized her hand, and then volition seemed

to leave her, and she went off into a state of passivity. He, still

holding her, came up the room, and thus, hand in hand, Troy and

Bathsheba approached the coffin’s side.

The candle was standing on a bureau close by them, and the light

slanted down, distinctly enkindling the cold features within. Troy

looked in, dropped his wife’s hand, knowledge of it all came over him

in a lurid sheen, and he stood still.

So still he remained that he could be imagined to have left in him no

motive power whatever. The clashes of feeling in all directions

confounded one another, produced a neutrality, and there was motion in

none.

“Do you know her?” said Bathsheba, in a small enclosed echo, as from

the interior of a cell.

“I do,” said Troy.

“Is it she?”

“It is.”

He had originally stood perfectly erect. And now, in the well-nigh

congealed immobility of his frame could be discerned an incipient

movement, as in the darkest night may be discerned light after a while.

He was gradually sinking forwards. The lines of his features softened,

and dismay modulated to illimitable sadness. Bathsheba was regarding

him from the other side, still with parted lips and distracted eyes.

Capacity for intense feeling is proportionate to the general intensity

of the nature, and perhaps in all Fanny’s sufferings, much greater

relatively to her strength, there never was a time she suffered in an

absolute sense what Bathsheba suffered now.

This is what Troy did. He sank 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.

[Illustration: BENDING OVER FANNY ROBIN, HE GENTLY KISSED HER.]

At the sight and sound of that, to her, unendurable act, Bathsheba

sprang towards him. All the strong feelings which had been scattered

over her existence since she knew what feeling was, seemed gathered

together into one pulsation now. The revulsion from her indignant mood

a little earlier, when she had meditated upon compromised honour,

forestalment, eclipse by another, was violent and entire. All that was

forgotten in the simple and still strong attachment of wife to husband.

She had sighed for her self-completeness then, and now she cried aloud

against the severance of the union she had deplored. She flung her arms

round Troy’s neck, exclaiming wildly from the deepest deep of her

heart,—

“Don’t—don’t kiss them! Oh, Frank, I can”t bear it—I can’t! I love you

better than she did: kiss me too, Frank—kiss me! _You will, Frank, kiss

me too!_”

There was something so abnormal and startling in the childlike pain and

simplicity of this appeal from a woman of Bathsheba’s calibre and

independence, that Troy, loosening her tightly clasped arms from his

neck, looked at her in bewilderment. It was such and unexpected

revelation of all women being alike at heart, even those so different

in their accessories as Fanny and this one beside him, that Troy could

hardly seem to believe her to be his proud wife Bathsheba. Fanny’s own

spirit seemed to be animating her frame. But this was the mood of a few

instants only. When the momentary surprise had passed, his expression

changed to a silencing imperious gaze.

“I will not kiss you,” he said, pushing her away.

Had the wife now but gone no further. Yet, perhaps, under the harrowing

circumstances, to speak out was the one wrong act which can be better

understood, if not forgiven in her, than the right and politic one. All

the feeling she had been betrayed into showing she drew back to herself

again by a strenuous effort of self-command.

“What have you to say as your reason?” she asked, her bitter voice

being strangely low—quite that of another woman now.

“I have to say that I have been a bad, black-hearted man,” he answered.

“And that this woman is your victim; and I not less than she.”

“Ah! don’t taunt me, madam. This woman is more to me, dead as she is,

than ever you were, or are, or can be. If Satan had not tempted me with

that face of yours, and those cursed coquetries, I should have married

her. I never had another thought till you came in my way. Would to God

that I had; but it is all too late! I deserve to live in torment for

this!” He turned to Fanny then. “But never mind, darling,” he said; “in

the sight of Heaven you are my very, very wife!”

At these words there arose from Bathsheba’s lips a long, low cry of

measureless despair and indignation, such a wail of anguish as had

never before been heard within those old-inhabited walls. It was the

Τετέλεσται of her union with Troy.

“If she’s—that,—what—am I?” she added, as a continuation of the same

cry, and sobbing fearfully: and the rarity with her of such abandonment

only made the condition more terrible.

“You are nothing to me—nothing,” said Troy, heartlessly. “A ceremony

before a priest doesn’t make a marriage. I am not morally yours.”

A vehement impulse to flee from him, to run from this place, hide, and

escape humiliation at any price, not stopping short of death itself,

mastered Bathsheba now. She waited not an instant, but turned to the

door and ran out.

CHAPTER XIV.

UNDER A TREE—REACTION

Bathsheba went along the dark road, neither knowing nor caring about

the direction or issue of her flight. The first time that she

definitely noticed her position was when she reached a gate leading

into a thicket overhung by some large oak and beech trees. On looking

into the place, it occurred to her that she had seen it by daylight on

some previous occasion, and that what appeared like an impassable

thicket was in reality a brake of fern, now withering fast. She could

think of nothing better to do with her palpitating self than to go in

here and hide; and entering, she lighted on a spot sheltered from the

damp fog by a reclining trunk, where she sank down upon a tangled couch

of fronds and stems. She mechanically pulled some armfuls round her to

keep off the breezes, and closed her eyes.

Whether she slept or not that night Bathsheba was not clearly aware.

But it was with a freshened existence and a cooler brain that, a long

time afterwards, she became conscious of some interesting proceedings

which were going on in the trees above her head and around.

A coarse-throated chatter was the first sound.

It was a sparrow just waking.

Next: “Chee-weeze-weeze-weeze!” from another retreat.

It was a finch.

Third: “Tink-tink-tink-tink-a-chink!” from the hedge.

It was a robin.

“Chuck-chuck-chuck!” overhead.

A squirrel.

Then, from the road, “With my ra-ta-ta, and my rum-tum-tum!”

It was a ploughboy. Presently he came opposite, and she believed from

his voice that he was one of the boys on her own farm. He was followed

by a shambling tramp of heavy feet, and looking through the ferns

Bathsheba could just discern in the wan light of daybreak a team of her

own horses. They stopped to drink at a pond on the other side of the

way. She watched them flouncing into the pool, drinking, tossing up

their heads, drinking again, the water dribbling from their lips in

silver threads. There was another flounce, and they came out of the

pond, and turned back again towards the farm.

She looked further around. Day was just dawning, and beside its cool

air and colours her heated actions and resolves of the night stood out

in lurid contrast. She perceived that in her lap, and clinging to her

hair, were red and yellow leaves which had come down from the tree and

settled silently upon her during her partial sleep. Bathsheba shook her

dress to get rid of them, when multitudes of the same family lying

round about her rose and fluttered away in the breeze thus created,

“like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.”

There was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the as yet

unrisen sun attracted her eyes thither. From her feet, and between the

beautiful yellowing ferns with their feathery arms, the ground sloped

downwards to a hollow, in which was a species of swamp, dotted with

fungi. A morning mist hung over it now—a fulsome yet magnificent

silvery veil, full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque—the hedge

behind it being in some measure hidden by its hazy luminousness. Up the

sides of this depression grew sheaves of the common rush, and here and

there a peculiar species of flag, the blades of which glistened in the

emerging sun like scythes. But the general aspect of the swamp was

malignant. From its moist and poisonous coat seemed to be exhaled the

essences of evil things in the earth, and in the waters under the

earth. The fungi grew in all manner of positions from rotting leaves

and tree stumps, some exhibiting to her listless gaze their clammy

tops, others their oozing gills. Some were marked with great splotches,

red as arterial blood, others were saffron yellow, and others tall and

attenuated, with stems like macaroni. Some were leathery and of richest

browns. The hollow seemed a nursery of pestilences small and great, in

the immediate neighbourhood of comfort and health, and Bathsheba arose

with a tremor at the thought of having passed the night on the brink of

so dismal a place.

There were now other footsteps to be heard along the road. Bathsheba’s

nerves were still unstrung: she crouched down out of sight again, and

the pedestrian came into view. He was a schoolboy, with a bag slung

over his shoulder containing his dinner, and a book in his hand. He

paused by the gate, and, without looking up, continued murmuring words

in tones quite loud enough to reach her ears.

“‘O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord’”:—that I know out o’ book.

‘Give us, give us, give us, give us, give us’:—that I know. ‘Grace

that, grace that, grace that, grace that’:—that I know.” Other words

followed to the same effect. The boy was of the dunce class apparently;

the book was a psalter, and this was his way of learning the collect.

In the worst attacks of trouble there appears to be always a

superficial film of consciousness which is left disengaged and open to

the notice of trifles, and Bathsheba was faintly amused at the boy’s

method, till he too passed on.

By this time stupor had given place to anxiety, and anxiety began to

make room for hunger and thirst. A form now appeared upon the rise on

the other side of the swamp, half-hidden by the mist, and came towards

Bathsheba. The female—for it was a female—approached with her face

askance, as if looking earnestly on all sides of her. When she got a

little further round to the left, and drew nearer, Bathsheba could see

the new-comer’s profile against the sunny sky, and knew the wavy sweep

from forehead to chin, with neither angle nor decisive line anywhere

about it, to be the familiar contour of Liddy Smallbury.

Bathsheba’s heart bounded with gratitude in the thought that she was

not altogether deserted, and she jumped up. “O, Liddy!” she said, or

attempted to say; but the words had only been framed by her lips; there

came no sound. She had lost her voice by exposure to the clogged

atmosphere all these hours of night.

“Oh, ma’am! I am so glad I have found you,” said the girl, as soon as

she saw Bathsheba.

“You can’t come across,” Bathsheba said in a whisper, which she vainly

endeavoured to make loud enough to reach Liddy’s ears. Liddy, not

knowing this, stepped down upon the swamp, saying, as she did so, “It

will bear me up, I think.”

Bathsheba never forgot that transient little picture of Liddy crossing

the swamp to her there in the morning light. Iridescent bubbles of dank

subterranean breath rose from the sweating sod beside the

waiting-maid’s feet as she trod, hissing as they burst and expanded

away to join the vapoury firmament above. Liddy did not sink, as

Bathsheba had anticipated.

She landed safely on the other side, and looked up at the beautiful

though pale and weary face of her young mistress.

“Poor thing!” said Liddy, with tears in her eyes. “Do hearten yourself

up a little, ma’am. However did——”

“I can’t speak above a whisper—my voice is gone for the present,” said

Bathsheba, hurriedly. “I suppose the damp air from that hollow has

taken it away. Liddy, don’t question me, mind. Who sent you—anybody?”

“Nobody. I thought, when I found you were not at home, that something

cruel had happened. I fancy I heard his voice late last night; and so,

knowing something was wrong——”

“Is he at home?”

“No; he left just before I came out.”

“Is Fanny taken away?”

“Not yet. She will soon be—at nine o’clock.”

“We won’t go home at present, then. Suppose we walk about in this

wood?”

Liddy, without exactly understanding everything, or anything, in this

episode, assented, and they walked together further among the trees.

“But you had better come in, ma’am, and have something to eat. You will

die of a chill!”

“I shall not come indoors yet—perhaps never.”

“Shall I get you something to eat, and something else to put over your

head besides that little shawl?”

“If you will, Liddy.”

Liddy vanished, and at the end of twenty minutes returned with a cloak,

hat, some slices of bread and butter, a tea-cup, and some hot tea in a

little china jug

“Is Fanny gone?” said Bathsheba.

“No,” said her companion, pouring out the tea.

Bathsheba wrapped herself up and ate and drank sparingly. Her voice was

then a little clearer, and trifling colour returned to her face. “Now

we’ll walk about again,” she said.

They wandered about the wood for nearly two hours, Bathsheba replying

in monosyllables to Liddy’s prattle, for her mind ran on one subject,

and one only. She interrupted with:—

“I wonder if Fanny is gone by this time?”

“I will go and see.”

She came back with the information that the men were just taking away

the corpse; that Bathsheba had been inquired for; that she had replied

to the effect that her mistress was unwell and could not be seen.

“Then they think I am in my bedroom?”

“Yes.” Liddy then ventured to add: “You said when I first found you

that you might never go home again—you didn’t mean it, ma’am?”

“No; I’ve altered my mind. It is only women with no pride in them who

run away from their husbands. There is one position worse than that of

being found dead in your husband’s house from his ill usage, and that

is, to be found alive through having gone away to the house of somebody

else. I’ve thought of it all this morning, and I’ve chosen my course. A

runaway wife is an encumbrance to everybody, a burden to herself and a

byword—all of which make up a heap of misery greater than any that

comes by staying at home—though this may include the trifling items of

insult, beating, and starvation. Liddy, if ever you marry—God forbid

that you ever should!—you’ll find yourself in a fearful situation; but

mind this, don’t you flinch. Stand your ground, and be cut to pieces.

That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Oh, mistress, don’t talk so!” said Liddy, taking her hand; “but I knew

you had too much sense to bide away. May I ask what dreadful thing it

is that has happened between you and him?”

“You may ask; but I may not tell.”

In about ten minutes they returned to the house by a circuitous route,

entering at the rear. Bathsheba glided up the back stairs to a disused

attic, and her companion followed.

“Liddy,” she said, with a lighter heart, for youth and hope had begun

to re-assert themselves; “you are to be my confidante for the

present—somebody must be—and I choose you. Well, I shall take up my

abode here for a while. Will you get a fire lighted, put down a piece

of carpet, and help me to make the place comfortable? Afterwards, I

want you and Maryann to bring up that little iron 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 needle-work—I always did.”

“Knitting?”

“And that, too.”

“You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and peacocks want

filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside

your aunt’s, ma’am.”

“Samplers are out of date—horribly countrified. No Liddy, I’ll read.

Bring up some books—not new ones. I haven’t heart to read anything

new.”

“Some of your uncle’s old ones, ma’am?”

“Yes. Some of those we stowed away in boxes.” A faint gleam of humour

passed over her face as she said: “Bring Beaumont and Fletcher’s

‘Maid’s Tragedy;’ and the ‘Mourning Bride;’ and—let me see—‘Night

Thoughts,’ and the ‘Vanity of Human Wishes.’”

“And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife Desdemona? It

is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now.”

“Now, Lidd, you’ve been looking into my books, without telling me; and

I said you were not to! How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn’t

suit me at all.”

“But if the others do——”

“No, they don’t; and I won’t read dismal books. Why should I read

dismal books, indeed? Bring me ‘Love in a Village,’ and the ‘Maid of

the Mill,’ and ‘Doctor Syntax,’ and some volumes of the ‘Spectator.’”

All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic in a state of

barricade; a precaution which proved to be needless as against Troy,

for he did not appear in the neighbourhood or trouble them at all.

Bathsheba sat at the window till sunset, sometimes attempting to read,

at other times watching every movement outside without much purpose,

and listening without much interest to every sound.

The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud

received its rays in the east. Up against this dark background the west

front of the church tower—the only part of the edifice visible from the

farm-house windows—rose distinct and lustrous, the vane upon the

pinnacle bristling with rays. Here, about six o’clock, the young men of

the village gathered, as was their custom, for a game of fives. The

tower had been consecrated to this ancient diversion from time

immemorial, the western façade conveniently forming the boundary of the

churchyard at that end, where the ground was trodden hard and bare as a

pavement by the players. She could see the balls flying upwards, almost

to the belfry window, and the brown and black heads of the young lads

darting about right and left, their white shirt-sleeves gleaming in the

sun; whilst occasionally a shout and a peal of hearty laughter varied

the stillness of the evening air. They continued playing for a quarter

of an hour or so, when the game concluded abruptly, and the players

leapt over the wall and vanished round to the north 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 fives-players finish their game so suddenly?” Bathsheba

inquired, the next time that Liddy entered the room.

“I think ’twas because two men came just then from Casterbridge and

began putting up grand carved tombstone,” said Liddy. “The lads went to

see whose it was.”

“Do you know?” Bathsheba asked.

“I don’t,” said Liddy.

CHAPTER XV.

TROY’S ROMANTICISM

When Troy’s wife had left the house at the previous midnight his first

act was to cover the dead from sight. This done he ascended the stairs,

and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was, he waited

miserably for the morning.

Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four-and-twenty hours.

His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially from his

intentions regarding it. There is always an inertia to be overcome in

striking out a new line of conduct—not more in ourselves, it seems,

than in circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together to

allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.

Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to add

to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account, which had

been seven pounds ten. With this money, twenty-seven pounds ten in all,

he had hastily driven from the gate that morning to keep his

appointment with Fanny Robin.

On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and at

five minutes before ten went to the bridge at the further end of the

town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struck the hour, and

no Fanny appeared. In fact, at that moment she was being robed in her

grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union poorhouse—the first and

last tiring-women the gentle creature had ever been honoured with. The

quarter went, the half hour. A rush of recollection came upon Troy as

he waited: this was the second time she had broken a serious engagement

with him. In anger he vowed it should be the last, and at eleven

o’clock, when he had lingered and watched the stones of the bridge till

he knew every lichen upon their faces, and heard the chink of the

ripples underneath till they oppressed him, he jumped from his seat,

went to the inn for his gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference

concerning the past, and recklessness about the future, drove on to

Budmouth races.

He reached the race-course at two o’clock, and remained either there or

in the town till nine. But Fanny’s image, as it had appeared to him in

the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his mind,

backed up by Bathsheba’s reproaches. He vowed he would not bet, and he

kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o’clock in the evening he

had diminished his cash only to the extent of a few shillings.

He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that was struck for the

first time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by

illness from keeping her promise. This time she could have made no

mistake. He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and made

inquiries. Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and came

indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him.

As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose from

the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference of

Bathsheba’s whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, he

stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. His walk was

towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he found

a newly dug unoccupied grave. The position of this having been marked

he hastened on to Casterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while at

the hill whereon he had last seen Fanny alive.

Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered a pair

of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, “Harrison, stone and

marble mason.” Within were lying about stones of all sizes and designs,

inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons who had not

yet died.

Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the want

of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness. His method

of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was that of

an absolutely unpractised man. He could not bring himself to consider,

calculate, or economize. He waywardly wished for something, and he set

about obtaining it like a child in a nursery. “I want a good tomb,” he

said to the man who stood in a little office within the yard. “I want

as good a one as you can give me for twenty-seven pounds,”

It was all the money he possessed.

“That sum to include everything?”

“Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury and erection.

And I want it now, at once.”

“We could not get anything special worked this week.”

“If you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready

immediately.”

“Very well,” said Troy, impatiently. “Let’s see what you have.”

“The best I have in stock is this one,” said the stonecutter, going

into a shed. “Here’s a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with

medallions beneath of typical subjects; here’s the footstone after the

same pattern, and here’s the coping to enclose the grave. The polishing

alone of the set cost me eleven pounds—the slabs are the best of their

kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frost for a hundred

years without flying.”

“And how much?”

“Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sum

you mention.”

“Get it done to-day, and I’ll pay the money now.”

The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who wore not a

shred of mourning. Troy then wrote the words which were to form the

inscription, settled the account and went away. In the afternoon he

came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done. He

waited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the

cart and starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the

two men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton for the grave

of the person named in the inscription.

It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He carried rather

a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily along the

road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited

his burden for a time. Midway on his journey he met in the darkness the

men and the waggon which had conveyed the tomb. He merely inquired if

the work was done, and, on being assured that it was, passed on again.

Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o’clock, and went

immediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early in

the morning. It was on the north side of the tower, screened to a great

extent from the view of passers along the road—a spot which until

lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of alder, but

now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, by reason of the

rapid filling of the ground elsewhere.

Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white and shapely

in the gloom, with a head and foot stone, and enclosing border of

marble-work uniting them. In the midst was mould, suitable for plants.

Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few

minutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the light

of which he directed for a few moments upon the tomb, 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 snowdrop, hyacinth and crocus bulbs, violets and double

daisies, which were to bloom in early spring, and of carnations, pinks,

picotees, lilies of the valley, forget-me-not, summer’s-farewell,

meadow-saffron and others, for the later seasons of the year.

Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set to

work to plant them. The snowdrops were arranged in a line on the

outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the grave.

The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of the summer

flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and forget-me-nots

over her heart. The remainder were dispersed in the spaces between

these.

Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the

futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction

from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity.

Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed

at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman,

mingled with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on

mawkishness, characteristic of the French.

It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy’s

lantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating power,

flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud above. He

felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and presently one

came and entered the open side of the lantern, whereupon the candle

sputtered and went out. Troy was weary, and it being now not far from

midnight, and the rain threatening to increase, he resolved to leave

the finishing touches of his labour until the day should break. He

groped along the wall and over the graves in the dark till he found

himself round at the south side. Here he entered the porch, and,

reclining upon the bench within, fell asleep.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE GURGOYLE: ITS DOINGS

The tower of Weatherbury Church was a square erection of

fourteenth-century date, having two stone gurgoyles on each of the four

faces of its parapet. Of these eight carved protuberances only two at

this time continued to serve the purpose of their erection—that of

spouting the water from the lead roof within. One mouth in each front

had been closed by bygone churchwardens as superfluous, and two others

were broken away and choked—a matter not of much consequence to the

well-being of the tower, for the two mouths which still remained open

and active were gaping enough to do all the work.

It has been sometimes argued that there is no truer criterion of the

vitality of any given art-period than the power of the master-spirits

of that time in grotesque; and certainly in the instance of Gothic art

there is no disputing the proposition. Weatherbury tower was a somewhat

early instance of the use of an ornamental parapet in parish as

distinct from cathedral churches, and the gurgoyles, which are the

necessary correlatives of a parapet, were exceptionally prominent—of

the boldest cut that the hand could shape, and of the most original

design that a human brain could conceive. There was, so to speak, that

symmetry in their distortion which is less the characteristic of

British than of Continental grotesques of the period. All the eight

were different from each other. A beholder was convinced that nothing

on earth could be more hideous than those he saw on the south side

until he went round to the north. Of the two on this latter face, only

that at the north-eastern corner concerns the story. It was too human

to be called like a dragon, too impish to be like a man, too animal to

be like a fiend, and not enough like a bird to be called a griffin.

This horrible stone entity was fashioned as if covered with a wrinkled

hide; it had short, erect ears, eyes starting from their sockets, and

its fingers and hands were seizing the corners of its mouth, which they

thus seemed to pull open to give free passage to the water it vomited.

The lower row of teeth was quite washed away, though the upper still

remained. Here and thus, jutting a couple of feet from the wall against

which its feet rested as a support, the creature had for four hundred

years laughed at the surrounding landscape, voicelessly in dry weather,

and in wet with a gurgling and snorting sound.

Troy slept on in the porch, and the rain increased outside. Presently

the gurgoyle spat. In due time a small stream began to trickle through

the seventy feet of aërial space between its mouth and the ground,

which the water-drops smote like duckshot in their accelerated

velocity. The stream thickened in substance, and increased in power,

gradually spouting further and yet further from the side of the tower.

When the rain fell in a steady and ceaseless torrent the stream dashed

downward in volumes.

We follow its course to the ground at this point of time. The base of

the liquid parabola has come forward from the wall, has advanced over

the plinth mouldings, over a heap of stones, over the marble border,

into the midst of Fanny Robin’s grave.

The force of the stream had, until very lately, been received upon some

loose stones spread thereabout, which had acted as a shield to the soil

under the onset. These during the summer had been cleared from the

ground, and there was now nothing to resist the down-fall but the bare

earth. For several years the stream had not spouted so far from the

tower as it was doing on this night, and such a contingency had been

overlooked. Sometimes this obscure corner received no inhabitant for

the space of two or three years, and then it was usually but a pauper,

a poacher, or other sinner of undignified sins.

The persistent torrent from the gurgoyle’s jaws directed all its

vengeance into the grave. The rich tawny mould was stirred into motion,

and boiled like chocolate. The water accumulated and washed deeper

down, and the roar of the pool thus formed spread into the night as the

head and chief among other noises of the kind created by the deluging

rain. The flowers so carefully planted by Fanny’s repentant lover began

to move and writhe in their bed. The winter-violets turned slowly

upside down, and became a mere mat of mud. Soon the snowdrop and other

bulbs danced in the boiling mass like ingredients in a cauldron. Plants

of the tufted species were loosened, rose to the surface, and floated

of.

Troy did not awake from his comfortless sleep till it was broad day.

Not having been in bed for two nights his shoulders felt stiff his feet

tender, and his head heavy. He remembered his position, arose,

shivered, took the spade, and again went out.

The rain had quite ceased, and the sun was shining through the green,

brown, and yellow leaves, now sparkling and varnished by the raindrops

to the brightness of similar effects in the landscapes of Ruysdael and

Hobbema, and full of all those infinite beauties that arise from the

union of water and colour with high lights. The air was rendered so

transparent by the heavy fall of rain that the autumn hues of the

middle distance were as rich as those near at hand, and the remote

fields intercepted by the angle of the tower appeared in the same plane

as the tower itself.

He entered the gravel path which would take him behind the tower. The

path, instead of being stony as it had been the night before, was

browned over with a thin coating of mud. At one place in the path he

saw a tuft of stringy roots washed white and clean as a bundle of

tendons. He picked it up—surely it could not be one of the primroses he

had planted? He saw a bulb, another, and another as he advanced. Beyond

doubt they were the crocuses. With a face of perplexed dismay Troy

turned the corner and then beheld the wreck the stream had made.

The pool upon the grave had soaked away into the ground, and in its

place was a hollow. The disturbed earth was washed over the grass and

pathway in the guise of the brown mud he had already seen, and it

spotted the marble tombstone with the same stains. Nearly all the

flowers were washed clean out of the ground, and they lay, roots

upwards, on the spots whither they had been splashed by the stream.

Troy’s brow became heavily contracted. He set his teeth closely, and

his compressed lips moved as those of one in great pain. This singular

accident, by a strange confluence of emotions in him, was felt as the

sharpest sting of all. Troy’s face was very expressive, and any

observer who had seen him now would hardly have believed him to be a

man who had laughed, and sung, and poured love-trifles into a woman’s

ear. To curse his miserable lot was at first his impulse, but even that

lowest stage of rebellion needed an activity whose absence was

necessarily antecedent to the existence of the morbid misery which

wrung him. The sight, coming as it did, superimposed upon the other

dark scenery of the previous days, formed a sort of climax to the whole

panorama, and it was more than he could endure. Sanguine by nature,

Troy had a power of eluding grief by simply adjourning it. He could put

off the consideration of any particular spectre till the matter had

become old and softened by time. The planting of flowers on Fanny’s

grave had been perhaps but a species of elusion of the primary grief,

and now it was as if his intention had been known and circumvented.

Almost for the first time in his life, Troy, as he stood by this

dismantled grave, wished himself another man. It is seldom that a

person with much animal spirit does not feel that the fact of his life

being his own is the one qualification which singles it out as a more

hopeful life than that of others who may actually resemble him in every

particular. Troy had felt, in his transient way, hundreds of times,

that he could not envy other people their condition, because the

possession of that condition would have necessitated a different

personality, when he desired no other than his own. He had not minded

the peculiarities of his birth, the vicissitudes of his life, the

meteor-like uncertainty of all that related to him, because these

appertained to the hero of his story, without whom there would have

been no story at all for him; and it seemed to be only in the nature of

things that matters would right themselves at some proper date and wind

up well. This very morning the illusion completed its disappearance,

and, as it were, all of a sudden, Troy hated himself. The suddenness

was probably more apparent than real. A coral reef which just comes

short of the ocean surface is no more to the horizon than if it had

never been begun, and the mere finishing stroke is what often appears

to create an event which has long been potentially an accomplished

thing.

He stood and mediated—a miserable man. Whither should he go? “He that

is accursed, let him be accursed still.” was the pitiless anathema

written in this spoliated effort of his new-born solicitousness. A man

who has spent his primal strength in journeying in one direction has

not much spirit left for reversing his course. Troy had, since

yesterday, faintly reversed his; but the merest opposition had

disheartened him. To turn about would have been hard enough under the

greatest Providential encouragement; but to find that Providence, far

from helping him into a new course, or showing any wish that he might

adopt one, actually jeered his first trembling and critical attempt in

that kind, was more than nature could bear.

He slowly withdrew from the grave. He did not attempt to fill up the

hole, replace the flowers, or do anything at all. He simply threw up

his cards and forswore his game for that time and always. Going out of

the churchyard silently and unobserved—none of the villagers having yet

risen—he passed down some fields at the back, and emerged just as

secretly upon the high road. Shortly afterwards he had gone from the

village.

Meanwhile, Bathsheba remained a voluntary prisoner in the attic. The

door was kept locked, except during the entries and exits of Liddy, for

whom a bed had been arranged in a small adjoining room. The light of

Troy’s lantern in the churchyard was noticed about ten o’clock by the

maid-servant, who casually glanced from the window in that direction

whilst taking her supper, and she called Bathsheba’s attention to it.

They looked curiously at the phenomenon for a time, until Liddy was

sent to bed.

Bathsheba did not sleep very heavily that night. When her attendant was

unconscious and softly breathing in the next room, the mistress of the

house was still looking out of the window at the faint gleam spreading

from among the trees—not in a steady shine, but blinking like a

revolving coast-light, though this appearance failed to suggest to her

that a person was passing and repassing in front of it. Bathsheba sat

here till it began to rain, and the light vanished, when she withdrew

to lie restlessly in her bed and re-enact in a worn mind the lurid

scene of yesternight. Almost before the first faint sign of dawn

appeared she arose again, and opened the window to obtain a full

breathing of the new morning air, the panes being now wet with

trembling tears left by the night rain, each one rounded with a pale

lustre caught from primrose-hued slashes through a cloud low down in

the awakening sky. From the trees came the sound of steady dripping

upon the drifted leaves under them, and from the direction of the

church she could hear another noise—peculiar, and not intermittent like

the rest, the purl of water falling into a pool.

Liddy knocked at eight o’clock, and Bathsheba unlocked the door.

“What a heavy rain we’ve had in the night, ma’am!” said Liddy, when her

inquiries about breakfast had been made.

“Yes; very heavy.”

“Did you hear the strange noise from the churchyard?”

“I heard one strange noise. I’ve been thinking it must have been the

water from the tower spouts.”

“Well, that’s what the shepherd was saying, ma’am. He’s now gone on to

see.”

“Oh! Gabriel has been here this morning?”

“Only just looked in in passing—quite in his old way, which I thought

he had left off lately. But the tower spouts used to spatter on the

stones, and we are puzzled, for this was like the boiling of a pot.”

Not being able to read, think, or work, Bathsheba asked Liddy to stay

and breakfast with her. The tongue of the more childish woman still ran

upon recent events. “Are you going across to the church, ma’am?” she

asked.

“Not that I know of,” said Bathsheba.

“I thought you might like to go and see where they have put Fanny. The

tree hides the place from your window.”

Bathsheba had all sorts of dreads about meeting her husband. “Has Mr.

Troy been in to-night?” she said

“No, ma’am; I think he’s gone to Budmouth.”

Budmouth! The sound of the word carried with it a much diminished

perspective of him and his deeds; there were thirteen miles interval

betwixt them now. She hated questioning Liddy about her husband’s

movements, and indeed had hitherto sedulously avoided doing so; but now

all the house knew that there had been some dreadful disagreement

between them, and it was futile to attempt disguise. Bathsheba had

reached a stage at which people cease to have any appreciative regard

for public opinion.

“What makes you think he has gone there?” she said.

“Laban Tall saw him on the Budmouth road this morning before

breakfast.”

Bathsheba was momentarily relieved of that wayward heaviness of the

past twenty-four hours which had quenched the vitality of youth in her

without substituting the philosophy of maturer years, and the resolved

to go out and walk a little way. So when breakfast was over, she put on

her bonnet, and took a direction towards the church. It was nine

o’clock, and the men having returned to work again from their first

meal, she was not likely to meet many of them in the road. Knowing that

Fanny had been laid in the reprobates’ quarter of the graveyard, called

in the parish “behind church,” which was invisible from the road, it

was impossible to resist the impulse to enter and look upon a spot

which, from nameless feelings, she at the same time dreaded to see. She

had been unable to overcome an impression that some connection existed

between her rival and the light through the trees.

Bathsheba skirted the buttress, and beheld the hole and the tomb, its

delicately veined surface splashed and stained just as Troy had seen it

and left it two hours earlier. On the other side of the scene stood

Gabriel. His eyes, too, were fixed on the tomb, and her arrival having

been noiseless, she had not as yet attracted his attention. Bathsheba

did not at once perceive that the grand tomb and the disturbed grave

were Fanny’s, and she looked on both sides and around for some humbler

mound, earthed up and clodded in the usual way. Then her eye followed

Oak’s, and she read the words with which the inscription opened:—

“Erected by Francis Troy in memory of Fanny Robin.”

Oak saw her, and his first act was to gaze inquiringly and learn how

she received this knowledge of the authorship of the work, which to

himself had caused considerable astonishment. But such discoveries did

not much affect her now. Emotional convulsions seemed to have become

the commonplaces of her history, and she bade him good-morning, and

asked him to fill in the hole with the spade which was standing by.

Whilst Oak was doing as she desired, Bathsheba collected the flowers,

and began planting them with that sympathetic manipulation of roots and

leaves which is so conspicuous in a woman’s gardening, and which

flowers seem to understand and thrive upon. She requested Oak to get

the churchwardens to turn the leadwork at the mouth of the gurgoyle

that hung gaping down upon them, that by this means the stream might be

directed sideways, and a repetition of the accident prevented. Finally,

with the superfluous magnanimity of a woman whose converse and narrower

instincts have brought down bitterness upon her instead of love, she

wiped the mud spots from the tomb as if she rather liked its words than

otherwise, and went home again.

CHAPTER XVII.

ADVENTURES BY THE SHORE

Troy wandered along towards the west. A composite feeling, made up of

disgust with the, to him, humdrum tedium of a farmer’s life, gloomily

images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a general

aversion to his wife’s society, impelled him to seek a home in any

place on earth save Weatherbury. The sad accessories of Fanny’s end

confronted him as vivid pictures which threatened to be indelible, and

made life in Bathsheba’s house intolerable. At three in the afternoon

he found himself at the foot of a slope more than a mile in length,

which ran to the ridge of a range of hills lying parallel with the

shore, and forming a monotonous barrier between the basin of cultivated

country inland and the wilder scenery of the coast. Up the hill

stretched a road perfectly straight and perfectly white, the two sides

approaching each other in a gradual taper till they met the sky at the

top about two miles off. Throughout the length of this narrow and

irksome inclined plane not a sign of life was visible on this garish

afternoon. Troy toiled up the road with a languor and depression

greater than any he had experienced for many a day and year before. The

air was warm and muggy, and the top seemed to recede as he approached.

At last he reached the summit, and a new and novel prospect burst upon

him with an effect almost like that of the Pacific upon Balboa’s gaze.

The broad steely sea, marked only by faint lines, which had a semblance

of being etched thereon to a degree not deep enough to disturb its

general evenness, stretched the whole width of his front and round to

the left, where, near the town and port of Budmouth, the sun bristled

down upon it, and banished all colour, to substitute in its place a

clear oily polish. Nothing moved in sky, land, or sea, except a frill

of milkwhite foam along the nearer angles of the shore, shreds of which

licked the contiguous stones like tongues.

He descended and came to a small basin of sea enclosed by the cliffs.

Troy’s nature freshened within him; he thought he would rest and bathe

here before going farther. He undressed and plunged in. Inside the cove

the water was uninteresting to a swimmer, being smooth as a pond, and

to get a little of the ocean swell, Troy presently swam between the two

projecting spurs of rock which formed the pillars of Hercules to this

miniature Mediterranean. Unfortunately for Troy a current unknown to

him existed outside, which, unimportant to craft of any burden, was

awkward for a swimmer who might be taken in it unawares. Troy found

himself carried to the left and then round in a swoop out to sea.

He now recollected the place and its sinister character. Many bathers

had there prayed for a dry death from time to time, and, like Gonzalo

also, had been unanswered; and Troy began to deem it possible that he

might be added to their number. Not a boat of any kind was at present

within sight, but far in the distance Budmouth lay upon the sea, as it

were quietly regarding his efforts, and beside the town the harbour

showed its position by a dim meshwork of ropes and spars. After

well-nigh exhausting himself in attempts to get back to the mouth of

the cove, in his weakness swimming several inches deeper than was his

wont, keeping up his breathing entirely by his nostrils, turning upon

his back a dozen times over, swimming _en papillon_ and so on, Troy

resolved as a last resource to tread water at a slight incline, and so

endeavour to reach the shore at any point, merely giving himself a

gentle impetus inwards whilst carried on in the general direction of

the tide. This, necessarily a slow process, he found to be not

altogether so difficult, and though there was no choice of a

landing-place—the objects on shore passing by him in a sad and slow

procession—he perceptibly approached the extremity of a spit of land

yet further to the left, now well defined against the sunny portion of

the horizon. While the swimmer’s eyes were fixed upon the spit as his

only means of salvation on this side of the Unknown, a moving object

broke the outline of the extremity, and immediately a ship’s boat

appeared, manned with several sailor lads, her bows towards the sea.

All Troy’s vigour spasmodically revived to prolong the struggle yet a

little further. Swimming with his right arm, he held up his left to

hail them, splashing upon the waves, and shouting with all his might.

From the position of the setting sun his white form was distinctly

visible upon the now deep-hued bosom of the sea to the east of the

boat, and the men saw him at once. Backing their oars and putting the

boat about, they pulled towards him with a will, and in five or six

minutes from the time of his first halloo, two of the sailors hauled

him in over the stern.

They formed part of a brig’s crew, and had come ashore for sand.

Lending him what little clothing they could spare among them as a

slight protection against the rapidly cooling air, they agreed to land

him in the morning; and without further delay, for it was growing late,

they made again towards the roadstead where their vessel lay.

And now night drooped slowly upon the wide watery levels in front; and

at no great distance from them, where the shore-line curved round, and

formed a long riband of shade upon the horizon, a series of points of

yellow light began to start into existence, denoting the spot to be the

site of Budmouth, where the lamps were being lighted along the parade.

The cluck of their oars was the only sound of any distinctness upon the

sea, and as they laboured amid the thickening shades the lamp-lights

grew larger, each appearing to send a flaming sword deep down into the

waves before it, until there arose, among other dim shapes of the kind,

the form of the vessel for which they were bound.

CHAPTER XVIII.

DOUBTS ARISE—DOUBTS VANISH

Bathsheba underwent the enlargement of her husband’s absence from hours

to days with a slight feeling of surprise, and a slight feeling of

relief; yet neither sensation rose at any time far above the level

commonly designated as indifference. She belonged to him: the

certainties of that position were so well defined, and the reasonable

probabilities of its issue so bounded, that she could not speculate on

contingencies. Taking no further interest in herself as a splendid

woman, she acquired the indifferent feelings of an outsider in

contemplating her probable fate as a singular wretch; for Bathsheba

drew herself and her future in colours that no reality could exceed for

darkness. Her original vigorous pride of youth had sickened, and with

it had declined all her anxieties about coming years, since anxiety

recognizes a better and a worse alternative, and Bathsheba had made up

her mind that alternatives on any noteworthy scale had ceased for her.

Soon, or later—and that not very late—her husband would be home again.

And then the days of their tenancy of the Upper Farm would be numbered.

There had originally been shown by the agent to the estate some

distrust of Bathsheba’s tenure as James Everdene’s successor, on the

score of her sex, and her youth, and her beauty; but the peculiar

nature of her uncle’s will, his own frequent testimony before his death

to her cleverness in such a pursuit, and her vigorous marshalling of

the numerous flocks and herds which came suddenly into her hands before

negotiations were concluded, had won confidence in her powers, and no

further objections had been raised. She had latterly been in great

doubt as to what the legal effects of her marriage would be upon her

position; but no notice had been taken as yet of her change of name,

and only one point was clear—that in the event of her own or her

husband’s inability to meet the agent at the forthcoming January

rent-day, very little consideration would be shown, and, for that

matter, very little would be deserved. Once out of the farm, the

approach of poverty would be sure.

Hence Bathsheba lived in a perception that her purposes were broken

off. She was not a woman who could hope on without good materials for

the process, differing thus from the less far-sighted and energetic,

though more petted ones of the sex, with whom hope goes on as a sort of

clockwork which the merest food and shelter are sufficient to wind up;

and perceiving clearly that her mistake had been a fatal one, she

accepted her position, and waited coldly for the end.

The first Saturday after Troy’s departure she went to Casterbridge

alone, a journey she had not before taken since her marriage. On this

Saturday Bathsheba was passing slowly on foot through the crowd of

rural business-men gathered as usual in front of the market-house, who

were as usual gazed upon by the burghers with feelings that those

healthy lives were dearly paid for by the lack of possible

aldermanship, when a man, who had apparently been following her, said

some words to another on her left hand. Bathsheba’s ears were keen as

those of any wild animal, and she distinctly heard what the speaker

said, though her back was towards him

“I am looking for Mrs. Troy. Is that she there?”

“Yes; that’s the young lady, I believe,” said the the person addressed.

“I have some awkward news to break to her. Her husband is drowned.”

As if endowed with the spirit of prophecy, Bathsheba gasped out, “Oh,

it is not true; it cannot be true!” Then she said and heard no more.

The ice of self-command which had latterly gathered over her was

broken, and the currents burst forth again, and overwhelmed her. A

darkness came into her eyes, and she fell.

But not to the ground. A gloomy man, who had been observing her from

under the portico of the old corn-exchange when she passed through the

group without, stepped quickly to her side at the moment of her

exclamation, and caught her in his arms as she sank down.

“What is it?” said Boldwood, looking up at the bringer of the big news,

as he supported her.

“Her husband was drowned this week while bathing in Carrow Cove. A

coastguardsman found his clothes, and brought them into Budmouth

yesterday.”

Thereupon a strange fire lighted up Boldwood’s eye, and his face

flushed with the suppressed excitement of an unutterable thought.

Everybody’s glance was now centred upon him and the unconscious

Bathsheba. He lifted her bodily off the ground, and smoothed down the

folds of her dress as a child might have taken a storm-beaten bird and

arranged its ruffled plumes, and bore her along the pavement to the

Three Choughs Inn. Here he passed with her under the archway into a

private room; and by the time he had deposited—so lothly—the precious

burden upon a sofa, Bathsheba had opened her eyes, and remembering all

that had occurred, murmured, “I want to go home!”

Boldwood left the room. He stood for a moment in the passage to recover

his senses. The experience had been too much for his consciousness to

keep up with, and now that he had grasped it it had gone again. For

those few heavenly, golden moments she had been in his arms. What did

it matter about her not knowing it? She had been close to his breast;

he had been close to hers.

He started onward again, and sending a woman to her, went out to

ascertain all the facts of the case. These appeared to be limited to

what he had already heard. He then ordered her horse to be put into the

gig, and when all was ready returned to inform her. He found that,

though still pale and unwell, she had in the meantime sent for the

Budmouth man who brought the tidings, and learnt from him all there was

to know.

Being hardly in a condition to drive home as she had driven to town,

Boldwood, with every delicacy of manner and feeling, offered to get her

a driver, or to give her a seat in his phaeton, which was more

comfortable than her own conveyance. These proposals Bathsheba gently

declined, and the farmer at once departed. About half an hour later she

invigorated herself by an effort, and took her seat and the reins as

usual—in external appearance much as if nothing had happened. She went

out of the town by a tortuous back street, and drove slowly along,

unconscious of the road and the scene. The first shades of evening were

showing themselves when Bathsheba reached home, when, silently

alighting and leaving the horse in the hands of the boy, she proceeded

at once upstairs. Liddy met her on the landing. The news had preceded

Bathsheba to Weatherbury by half an hour, and Liddy looked inquiringly

into her mistress’s face. Bathsheba had nothing to say.

She entered her bedroom and sat by the window, and thought and thought

till night enveloped her, and the extreme lines only of her shape were

visible. Somebody came to the door, knocked, and opened it.

“Well, what is it, Liddy?” she said.

“I was thinking there must be something got for you to wear,” said

Liddy, with hesitation.

“What do you mean?”

“Mourning.”

“No, no, no,” said Bathsheba, hurriedly.

“But I suppose there must be something done for poor——”

“Not at present, I think. It is not necessary.”

“Why not, ma’am?”

“Because he’s still alive.”

“How do you know that?” said Liddy, amazed.

“I don’t know it. But wouldn’t it have been different, or shouldn’t I

have heard more, or wouldn’t they have found him, Liddy?—or—I don’t

know how it is, but death would have been different from how this is. I

am full of a feeling that he is still alive!”

Bathsheba remained firm in this opinion till Monday, when two

circumstances conjoined to shake it. The first was a short paragraph

in the local newspaper, which, beyond making by a methodizing pen

formidable presumptive evidence of Troy’s death by drowning, contained

the important testimony of a young Mr. Barker, M.D., of Budmouth, who

spoke to being an eye-witness of the accident, in a letter to the

editor. In this he stated that he was passing over the cliff on the

remoter side of the cove just as the sun was setting. At that time he

saw a bather carried along in the current outside the mouth of the

cove, and guessed in an instant that there was but a poor chance for

him unless he should be possessed of unusual muscular powers. He

drifted behind a projection of the coast, and Mr. Barker followed

along the shore in the same direction. But by the time that he could

reach an elevation sufficiently great to command a view of the sea

beyond, dusk had set in, and nothing further was to be seen.

[Illustration: HE SAW A BATHER CARRIED ALONG IN THE CURRENT.]

The other circumstance was the arrival of his clothes, when it became

necessary for her to examine and identify them—though this had

virtually been done long before by those who inspected the letters in

his pockets. It was so evident to her in the midst of her agitation

that Troy had undressed in the full conviction of dressing again almost

immediately, that the notion that anything but death could have

prevented him was never entertained.

Then Bathsheba said to herself that others were assured in their

opinion, and why should not she be? A strange reflection occurred to

her, causing her face to flush. Troy had left her, and followed Fanny

into another world. Had he done this intentionally, yet contrived to

make his death appear like an accident? Oddly enough, 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—blinded her

to the perception of any other possible difference, less tragic, but to

herself far more terrible.

When alone late that evening beside a small fire, and much calmed down,

Bathsheba took Troy’s watch into her hand, which had been restored to

her with the rest of the articles belonging to him. She opened the case

as he had opened it before her a week ago. There was the little coil of

pale hair which had been as the fuze to this great explosion.

“He was hers and she was his, and they are gone together,” she said. “I

am nothing to either of them, and why should I keep her hair?” She took

it in her hand, and held it over the fire. “No—I’ll not burn it—I’ll

keep it in memory of her, poor thing!” she added, snatching back her

hand.

CHAPTER XIX.

OAK’S ADVANCEMENT—A GREAT HOPE

The later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves lay thick

upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods. Bathsheba,

having previously been living in a state of suspended feeling which was

not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude which was not precisely

peacefulness. While she had known him to be alive she could have

thought of his death with equanimity; but now that she believed she had

lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still. She kept the farm

going, raked in her profits without caring keenly about them, and

expended money on ventures because she had done so in bygone days,

which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitely removed from her

present. She looked back upon that past over a great gulf, as if she

were now a dead person, having the faculty of meditation still left in

her, by means of which, like the mouldering gentlefolk of the poet’s

story, she could sit and ponder what a gift life used to be.

However, one excellent result of her general apathy was the long

delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having virtually

exercised that function for a long time already, the change, beyond the

substantial increase of wages it brought, was little more than a

nominal one addressed to the outside world.

Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much of his wheat and all his

barley of that season had been spoilt by the rain. It sprouted, grew

into intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in armfuls.

The strange neglect which had produced this ruin and waste became the

subject of whispered talk among all the people round; and it was

elicited from one of Boldwood’s men that forgetfulness had nothing to

do with it, for he had been reminded of the danger to his corn as many

times and as persistently as inferiors dared to do. The sight of the

pigs turning in disgust from the rotten ears seemed to arouse Boldwood,

and he one evening sent for Oak. Whether it was suggested by

Bathsheba’s recent act of promotion or not, the farmer proposed at the

interview that Gabriel should undertake the superintendence of the

Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba’s, because of the necessity Boldwood

felt for such aid, and the impossibility of discovering a more

trustworthy man. Gabriel’s malignant star was assuredly setting fast.

Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal—for Oak was obliged to

consult her—at first languidly objected. She considered that the two

farms together were too extensive for the observation of one man.

Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personal rather than

commercial reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with a horse

for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty, the two

farms lying side by side. Boldwood did not directly communicate with

her during these negotiations, only speaking to Oak, who was the

go-between throughout. All was harmoniously arranged at last, and we

now see Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trotting the length

breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful spirit of

surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him—the actual mistress

of the one half, and the master of the other, sitting in their

respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion.

Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in the

parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest fast. “Whatever d’ye

think,” said Susan Tall, “Gable Oak is coming it quite the dand. He now

wears shining boots with hardly a hob in ’em, two or three times

a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and ’a hardly knows the name of

smockfrock. When I see people strut enough to be cut up into bantam

cocks, I stand dormant with wonder, and says no more.”

It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed wage by

Bathsheba independent of the fluctuations of agricultural profits, had

made an engagement with Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a share of

the receipts—a small share certainly, yet it was money of a higher

quality than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way that wages

were not. Some were beginning to consider Oak a near man, for though

his condition had thus far improved, he lived in no better style than

before, occupying the same cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending

his stockings, and sometimes even making his bed with his own hands.

But as Oak was not only provokingly indifferent to public opinion, but

a man who clung persistently to old habits and usages, simply because

they were old, there was room for doubt as to his motives.

A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose unreasoning

devotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madness

which neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could weaken

or destroy. This fevered hope had grown up again like a grain of

mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the universal belief that

Troy was drowned. He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned the

contemplation of it in earnest, lest facts should reveal the wildness

of the dream. Bathsheba having at last been persuaded to wear mourning,

her appearance as she entered the church in that guise was in itself a

weekly addition to his faith that a time was coming—very far off

perhaps, yet surely nearing—when his waiting on events should have its

reward. How long he might have to wait he had not yet closely

considered. What he would try to recognize was that the severe

schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathsheba much more

considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings of others, and

he trusted that, should she be willing at any time in the future to

marry any man at all, that man would be himself. There was a substratum

of good feeling in her: her self reproach for the injury she had

thoughtlessly done him might be depended upon now to a much greater

extent than before her infatuation and disappointment. It would be

possible to approach her by the channel of her good-nature, and to

suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them for fulfilment at

some future day, keeping the passionate side of his desire entirely out

of her sight. Such was Boldwood’s hope.

To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionally

charming just now. Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; the

original phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright for

human nature’s daily food, and she had been able to enter this second

poetical phase without losing much of the first in the process.

Bathsheba’s return from a two months’ visit to her old aunt at Norcombe

afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for inquiring

directly after her—now presumably in the ninth month of her

widowhood—and endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mind

regarding him. This occurred in the middle of the haymaking, and

Boldwood contrived to be near Liddy, who was assisting in the fields.

“I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia,” he said, pleasantly.

She simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak so frankly

to her.

“I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence,” he continued,

in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbour could

scarcely say less about her.

“She is quite well, sir.”

“And cheerful, I suppose.”

“Yes, cheerful.”

“Fearful, did you say?”

“Oh no. I merely said she was cheerful.”

“Tells you all her affairs?”

“No, sir.

“Some of them?”

“Yes, sir.

“Mrs. Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia; and very wisely,

perhaps.”

“She do, sir. I’ve been with her all through her troubles, and was with

her at the time of Mr. Troy’s death and all. And if she were to marry

again I expect I should bide with her.”

“She promises that you shall—quite natural,” said the strategic lover,

throbbing throughout him at the presumption which Liddy’s words

appeared to warrant—that his darling had thought of re-marriage.

“No—she doesn’t promise it exactly. I merely judge on my own account.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to the possibility of

marrying again, you conclude——”

“She never do allude to it, sir,” said Liddy, thinking how very stupid

Mr. Boldwood was getting.

“Of course not,” he returned hastily, his hope falling again. “You

needn’t take quite such long reaches with your rake, Lydia—short and

quick ones are best. Well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistress again

now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up her freedom.”

“My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that she

supposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from last

year, if she wished.”

“Ah, six years from the present time. Said that she might. She might

marry at once in every reasonable person’s opinion, whatever the

lawyers may say to the contrary.”

“Have you been to ask them?” said Liddy, innocently.

“Not I!” said Boldwood, growing red. “Liddy, you needn’t stay here a

minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says. I am now going on a little

farther. Good afternoon.”

He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this one

time in his life done anything which could be called underhand. Poor

Boldwood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he was

uneasy with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and, what

was worse, mean. But he had, after all, lighted upon one fact by way of

repayment. It was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact, and though

not without its sadness it was pertinent and real. In little more than

six years from this time Bathsheba might certainly marry him. There was

something definite in that hope, for admitting that there might have

been no deep thought in her words to Liddy about marriage, they showed

at least her creed on the matter.

This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind. Six years were a

long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for so long

been obliged to endure! Jacob had served twice seven years for Rachel:

what were six for such a woman as this? He tried to like the notion of

waiting for her better than that of winning her at once. Boldwood felt

his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was possible she

had never yet known its full volume, and this patience in delay would

afford him an opportunity of giving sweet proof on the point. He would

annihilate the six years of his life as if they were minutes—so little

did he value his time on earth beside her love. He would let her see,

all those six years of intangible ethereal courtship, how little care

he had for anything but as it bore upon the consummation.

Meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week in which

Greenhill Fair was held. This fair was frequently attended by the folk

of Weatherbury.

CHAPTER XX.

THE SHEEP FAIR—TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE’S HAND

Greenhill was the Nijnii Novgorod of South Wessex; and the busiest,

merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of the

sheep-fair. This yearly gathering was upon the summit of a hill which

retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient earthwork,

consisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval form

encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here and

there. To each of the two chief openings on opposite sides a winding

road ascended, and the level green space of twenty or thirty acres

enclosed by the bank was the site of the fair. A few permanent

erections dotted the spot, but the majority of visitors patronized

canvas alone for resting and feeding under during the time of their

sojourn here.

Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances started

from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair, driving

their charges a few miles each day—not more than ten or twelve—and

resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previously

chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. The

shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit for

the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook, which

he used as the staff of his pilgrimage. Several of the sheep would get

worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the road. To meet

these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to accompany the

flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into which the weakly

ones were taken for the remainder of the journey.

The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance from the

hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case. But the

large united flocks of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a valuable

and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and on this

account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood’s shepherd and Cain Ball,

accompanied them along the way—old George the dog of course behind

them.

When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and lighted the

dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of dust were to be seen

floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect

around in all directions. These gradually converged upon the base of

the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the

serpentine ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession, they

entered the opening to which the roads wended, multitude after

multitude, horned and hornless—blue flocks and red flocks, buff flocks

and brown flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks, according to the

fancy of the colourist and custom of the farm. Men were shouting, dogs

were barking, with greatest animation, but the thronging travellers in

so long a journey had grown nearly indifferent to such terrors, though

they still bleated piteously at the unwontedness of their experiences,

a tall shepherd rising here and there in the midst of them, like a

gigantic idol amid a crowd of prostrate devotees.

The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs and the

old Wessex horned breeds; to the latter class Bathsheba’s and Farmer

Boldwood’s mainly belonged. These filed in about nine o’clock, their

vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in

geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling

under each horn. Before and behind came other varieties, perfect

leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only lacking

the spots. There were also a few of the Oxfordshire breed, whose wool

was beginning to curl like a child’s flaxen hair, though surpassed in

this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in turn less

curly than the Cotswolds. But the most picturesque by far was a small

flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there this year. Their pied faces

and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool hanging round their

swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony of the flocks in that

quarter. All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered

and were penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging

to each flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it. Alleys

for pedestrians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with

buyers and sellers from far and near.

In another part of the hill an altogether different scene began to

force itself upon the eye towards midday. A circular tent, of

exceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here. As the

day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the

shepherd’s responsibilities; and they turned their attention to this

tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed

concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going on.

“The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin’s Ride to York and the

Death of Black Bess,” replied the man promptly, without turning his

eyes or leaving off tying.

As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly stimulating

harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Black Bess standing

in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living proof, if proof

were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances from the stage

over which the people were to enter. These were so convinced by such

genuine appeals to heart and understanding both that they soon began to

crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being visible Jan Coggan and

Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday keeping here to-day.

“That’s the great ruffin pushing me!” screamed a woman in front of Jan

over her shoulder to him when the rush was at its fiercest.

“How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?” said Coggan,

in a deprecating tone, turning his head towards the aforesaid folk as

far as he could without turning his body, which was jammed as in a

vice.

There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent forth their

echoing notes. The crowd was again ecstasied, and gave another lurch in

which Coggan and Poorgrass were again thrust by those behind upon the

women in front.

“Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such ruffins!”

exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed like a reed shaken

by the wind.

Now,” said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the public at large

as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades, “did ye ever hear such

a unreasonable woman as that? Upon my carcase, neighbours, if I could

only get out of this cheesewring, the d—— women might eat the show for

me!”

“Don’t ye lose yer temper, Jan!” implored Joseph Poorgrass, in a

whisper. “They might get their men to murder us, for I think by the

shine of their eyes that they are a sinful form of womankind.”

Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified to please

a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder, Poorgrass

being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for admission,

which he had got ready half an hour earlier, having become so reeking

hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the woman in

spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with chalked face

and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily dropped it again from

a fear that some trick had been played to burn her fingers. So they all

entered, and the sides of the tent, to the eyes of an observer on the

outside, became bulged into innumerable pimples such as we observe on a

sack of potatoes, caused by the various human heads, backs, and elbows

at high pressure within.

At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents. One

of these, alloted to the male performers, was partitioned into halves

by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on the grass,

pulling on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we instantly

recognize as Sergeant Troy.

Troy’s appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for. The

brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads was about to start on

a voyage, though somewhat short of hands. Troy read the articles and

joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the bay to

Carrow Cove; but, as he had half expected, his clothes were gone. He

ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a

precarious living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword

Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give

him a distaste for this kind of life. There was a certain animal form

of refinement in his nature; and however pleasant a strange condition

might be whilst privations were easily warded off, it was

disadvantageously coarse when money was short. There was ever present,

too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but

chose to return to England and Weatherbury Farm. Whether Bathsheba

thought him dead was a frequent subject of curious conjecture. To

England he did return at last; but the but the fact of drawing nearer

to Weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his intention to enter

his old groove at the place became modified. It was with gloom he

considered on landing at Liverpool that if he were to go home his

reception would be of a kind very unpleasant to contemplate; for what

Troy had in the way of emotion was an occasional fitful sentiment which

sometimes caused him as much inconvenience as emotion of a strong and

healthy kind. Bathsheba was not a 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 unlikely that his wife would

fail at her farming, if she had not already done so; and he would then

become liable for her maintenance: and what a life such a future of

poverty with her would be, the spectre of Fanny constantly between

them, harrowing his temper and embittering her words! Thus, for reasons

touching on distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his

return from day to day, and would have decided to put it off altogether

if he could have found anywhere else the ready-made establishment which

existed for him there.

At this time—the July preceding the September in which we find at

Greenhill Fair—he fell in with a travelling circus which was performing

in the outskirts of a northern town. Troy introduced himself to the

manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe, hitting a suspended

apple with pistol-bullet fired from the animal’s back when in full

gallop, and other feats. For his merits in these—all more or less based

upon his experiences as a dragoon-guardsman—Troy was taken into the

company, and the play of Turpin was prepared with a view to his

personation of the chief character. Troy was not greatly elated by the

appreciative spirit in which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought

the engagement might afford him a few weeks for consideration. It was

thus carelessly, and without having formed any definite plan for the

future, that Troy found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the

company on this day.

And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pavilion the

following incident had taken place. Bathsheba—who was driven to the

fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass—had, like every one else, read

or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great Cosmopolite

Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of Turpin, and she was

not yet too old and careworn to be without a little curiosity to see

him. This particular show was by far the largest and grandest in the

fair, a horde of little shows grouping themselves under its shade like

chickens around a hen. The crowd had passed in, and Boldwood, who had

been watching all the day for an opportunity of speaking to her, seeing

her comparatively isolated, came up to her side.

“I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?” he said,

nervously.

“Oh yes, thank you,” said Bathsheba, colour springing up in the centre

of her cheeks. “I was fortunate enough to sell them all before we got

upon the hill, so we hadn’t to pen at all.”

“And now you are entirely at leisure?”

“Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two hours’ time:

otherwise I should be going home. I was looking at this large tent and

the announcement. Have you ever seen the play of ‘Turpin’s Ride to

York?’ Turpin was a real man, was he not?”

“Oh yes, perfectly true—all of it. Indeed, I think I’ve heard Jan

Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King, Turpin’s friend, quite

well.”

“Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his

relations, we must remember. I hope they can all be believed.”

“Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You have never

seen it played, I suppose?”

“Never. I was not allowed to go into these places when I was young.

Hark! what’s that prancing? How they shout!”

“Black Bess just started off, I suppose. Am I right in supposing you

would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy? Please excuse my mistake,

if it is one; but if you would like to, I’ll get a seat for you with

pleasure.” Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, “I myself shall not

stay to see it: I’ve seen it before.”

Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only withheld

her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone. She had

been hoping that Oak might appear, whose assistance in such cases was

always accepted as an inalienable right, but Oak was nowhere to be

seen; and hence it was that she said, “Then if you will just look in

first, to see if there’s room, I think I will go in for a minute or

two.”

And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the tent with

Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a “reserved” seat, again

withdrew.

This feature consisted of one raised bench in very conspicuous part of

the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a piece of carpet,

and Bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion, that she was the

single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of the crowded

spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the borders of the

arena, where they got twice as good a view of the performance for half

the money. Hence as many eyes were turned upon her, enthroned alone in

this place of honour, against a scarlet background, as upon the ponies

and clown who were engaged in preliminary exploits in the centre,

Turpin not having yet appeared. Once there, Bathsheba was forced to

make the best of it and remain: she sat down, spreading her skirts with

some dignity over the unoccupied space on each side of her, and giving

a new and feminine aspect to the pavilion. In a few minutes she noticed

the fat red nape of Coggan’s neck among those standing just below her,

and Joseph Poorgrass’s saintly profile a little further on.

The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. The strange luminous

semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into

Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through holes and

divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust across the

dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they alighted

on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like little lamps

suspended there.

Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a

reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before

him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament. He started back

in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually concealed his

personality, he instantly felt that she would be sure to recognize his

voice. He had several times during the day thought of the possibility

of some Weatherbury person or other appearing and recognizing him; but

he had taken the risk carelessly. If they see me, let them, he had

said. But here was Bathsheba in her own person; and the reality of the

scene was so much intenser than any of his prefigurings that he felt he

had not half enough considered the point. She looked so charming and

fair that his cool mood about Weatherbury people was changed. He had

not expected her to exercise this power over him in the twinkling of an

eye. Should he go on, and care nothing? He could not bring himself to

do that. Beyond a politic wish to remain unknown, there suddenly arose

in him now a sense of shame at the possibility that his attractive

young wife, who already despised him, should despise him more by

discovering him in so mean a condition after so long a time. He

actually blushed at the thought, and was vexed beyond measure that his

sentiments of dislike towards Weatherbury should have led him to dally

about the country in this way. But Troy was never more clever than when

absolutely at his wit’s end. He hastily thrust aside the curtain

dividing his own little dressing space from that of the manager and

proprietor, who now appeared as the individual called Tom King as far

down as his waist, and the aforesaid respectable manager thence to his

toes.

“Here’s the d—— to pay!” said Troy.

“How’s that?”

“Why, there’s a good-for-nothing scamp in the tent I don’t want to see,

who’ll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I open my mouth.

What’s to be done?”

“You must appear now, I think.”

“I can’t.”

“But the play must proceed.”

“Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can’t speak his

part, but that he’ll perform it just the same without speaking.”

The proprietor shook his head.

“Anyhow, play or no play, I won’t open my mouth, said Troy, firmly.

“Very well, then let me see. I tell you how we’ll manage,” said the

other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to offend his

leading man just at this time. “I won’t tell them anything about your

keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you

can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods in the

heroic places, you know. They’ll never find out that the speeches are

omitted.”

This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin’s speeches were not many or

long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and

accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time Black Bess leapt

into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators. At the

turnpike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by

the officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled nightcap

denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan uttered a broad-chested

“Well done!” which could be heard all over the fair above the bleating,

and Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast

between our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in the

form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be

let through. At the death of Tom King, he could not refrain from

seizing Coggan by the hand, and whispering, with tears in his eyes, “Of

course he’s not really shot, Jan—only seemingly!” And when the last sad

scene came on, and the body of the gallant and faithful Bess had to be

carried out on a shutter by twelve volunteers from among the

spectators, nothing could restrain Poorgrass from lending a hand,

exclaiming, as he asked Jan to join him, “’Twill be something to tell

of at Warren’s in future years, Jan, and hand down to our children.”

For many a year in Weatherbury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who

had had experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand the

hoof of Bess as she lay upon the board upon his shoulder. If, as some

thinkers hold, immortality consists in being enshrined in others’

memories, then did Black Bess become immortal that day if she never had

done so before.

Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for the

character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though he had

felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis effected by

judiciously “lining” his face with a wire rendered him safe from the

eyes of Bathsheba and her men. Nevertheless, he was relieved when it

was got through. There a second performance in the evening, and the

tent was lighted up. Troy had taken his part very quietly this time,

venturing to introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just

concluding it when, whilst standing at the edge of the circle

contiguous to the first row of spectators, he observed within a yard of

him the eye of a man darted keenly into his side features. Troy hastily

shifted his position, after having recognized in the scrutineer the

knavish bailiff Pennyways, his wife’s sworn enemy, who still hung about

the outskirts of Weatherbury.

At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances.

That he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet there

was room for a doubt. Then the great objection he had felt to allowing

news of his proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the event of his

return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present occupation

would discredit him still further in his wife’s eyes, returned in full

force. Moreover, should he resolve not to return at all, a tale of his

being alive and being in the neighbourhood would be awkward; and he was

anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife’s temporal affairs before

deciding which to do.

In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre. It occurred to

him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible, would

be a very wise act. He had put on a thick beard borrowed from the

establishment, and in this he wandered about the fair-field. It was now

almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts and gigs

ready to go home.

The largest refreshment-booth in the fair was provided by an innkeeper

from a neighbouring town. This was considered an unexceptionable place

for obtaining the necessary food and rest: Host Trencher (as he was

jauntily called by the local newspaper) being a substantial man of high

repute for catering through all the county round. The tent was divided

into first and second-class compartments, and at the end of the

first-class division was a yet further enclosure for the most

exclusive, fenced off from the body of the tent by a luncheon-bar,

behind which the host himself stood, bustling about in white apron and

shirt-sleeves, and looking as if he had never lived anywhere but under

canvas all his life. In these penetralia were chairs and a table,

which, on candles being lighted, made quite a cozy and luxurious show,

with an urn, silver tea and coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes.

Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was frying

pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a penny

a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within. He could see

nothing of Pennyways, but he soon discerned Bathsheba through an

opening into the reserved space at the further end. Troy thereupon

retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and listened. He

could hear Bathsheba’s voice immediately inside the canvas; she was

conversing with a man. A warmth overspread his face: surely she was not

so unprincipled as to flirt in a fair! He wondered if, then, she

reckoned upon his death as an absolute certainty. To get at the root of

the matter, Troy took a penknife from his pocket and softly made two

little cuts crosswise in the cloth, which, by folding back the corners

left a hole the size of a wafer. Close to this he placed his face,

withdrawing it again in a movement of surprise; for his eye had been

within twelve inches of the top of Bathsheba’s head. It was too near to

be convenient. He made another hole a little to one side and lower

down, in a shaded place beside her chair, from which it was easy and

safe to survey her by looking horizontally.

Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sipping a

cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male voice

was Boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her,

Bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the canvas

that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was, in fact,

as good as in Troy’s arms; and he was obliged to keep his breast

carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth through the cloth

as he gazed in.

Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again within him

as they had been stirred earlier in the day. She was handsome as ever,

and she was his. It was some minutes before he could counteract his

sudden wish to go in, and claim her. Then he thought how the proud girl

who had always looked down upon him even whilst it was to love him,

would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling player. Were he to

make himself known, that chapter of his life must at all risks be kept

for ever from her and from the Weatherbury people, or his name would be

a byword throughout the parish. He would be nicknamed “Turpin” as long

as he lived. Assuredly before he could claim her these few past months

of his existence must be entirely blotted out.

“Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma’am?” said Farmer

Boldwood.

“Thank you,” said Bathsheba. “But I must be going at once. It was great

neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late. I should have

gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him. I had no idea of coming

in here; but there’s nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea, though I

should never have got one if you hadn’t helped me.”

Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched each

varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her

little ear. She took out her purse and was insisting to Boldwood on

paying for her tea for herself, when at this moment Pennyways entered

the tent. Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability

endangered at once. He was about to leave his hole of espial, attempt

to follow Pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had recognized him,

when he was arrested by the conversation, and found he was too late.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Pennyways; “I’ve some private information for

your ear alone.”

“I cannot hear it now,” she said, coldly. That Bathsheba could not

endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to her

with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at the

expense of persons maligned.

“I’ll write it down,” said Pennyways, confidently. He stooped over the

table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon the

paper, in a round hand—

“_Your husband is here. I’ve seen him. Who’s the fool now?_”

This he folded small, and handed towards her. Bathsheba would not read

it; she would not even put out her hand to take it. Pennyways, then,

with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning away,

left her.

From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had not been

able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment’s doubt that

the note referred to him. Nothing that he could think of could be done

to check the exposure. “Curse my luck!” he whispered, and added

imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind.

Meanwhile Boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap—

“Don’t you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy? If not, I’ll destroy it.”

“Oh, well,” said Bathsheba, carelessly, “perhaps it is unjust not to

read it; but I can guess what it is about. He wants me to recommend

him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected

with my workpeople. He’s always doing that.”

Bathsheba held the note in her right hand. Boldwood handed towards her

a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order to take a slice, she

put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding the purse,

and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to the canvas. The

moment had come for saving his game, and Troy impulsively felt that he

would play the card, For yet another time he looked at the fair hand,

and saw the pink finger-tips, and the blue veins of the wrist,

encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings which she wore: how familiar

it all was to him! Then, with the lightning action in which he was such

an adept, he noiselessly slipped his hand under the bottom of the

tent-cloth, which was far from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a

little way, keeping his eye to the hole, snatched the note from her

fingers, dropped the canvas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank

and ditch, smiling at the scream of astonishment which burst from her.

Troy then slid down on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in

the bottom of the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards,

ascended again, and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards the front

entrance of the tent. His object was now to get to Pennyways, and

prevent a repetition of the announcement until such time as he should

choose.

Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there

gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishing to make

himself prominent by inquiring for him. One or two men were speaking of

a daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young lady by lifting

the canvas of the tent beside her. It was supposed that the rogue had

imagined a slip of paper which she held in her hand to be a bank note,

for he had seized it, and made off with it, leaving her purse behind.

His chagrin and disappointment at discovering its worthlessness would

be a good joke, it was said. However, the occurrence seemed to have

become known to few, for it had not interrupted a fiddler, who had

lately begun playing by the door of the tent, nor the four bowed old

men with grim countenances and walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing

“Major Malley’s Reel” to the tune. Behind these stood Pennyways. Troy

glided up to him, beckoned, and whispered a few words; and with a

mutual glance of concurrence the two men went into the night together.

CHAPTER XXI.

BATHSHEBA TALKS WITH HER OUTRIDER

The arrangement for getting back again to Weatherbury had been that Oak

should take the place of Poorgrass in Bathsheba’s conveyance and drive

her home, it being discovered late in the afternoon that Joseph was

suffering from his old complaint, a multiplying eye, and was,

therefore, hardly trustworthy as coachman and protector to a lady. But

Oak had found himself so occupied, and was full of so many cares

relative to those portions of Boldwood’s flocks that were not disposed

of, that Bathsheba, without telling Oak or anybody, resolved to drive

home herself, as she had many times done from Casterbridge Market, and

trust to her good angel for performing the journey unmolested. But

having fallen in with Farmer Boldwood accidentally (on her part at

least) at the refreshment-tent, she found it impossible to refuse his

offer to ride on horseback beside her as escort. It had grown twilight

before she was aware, but Boldwood assured her that there was no cause

for uneasiness, as the moon would be up in half an hour.

Immediately after the incident in the tent, she had risen to go—now

absolutely alarmed and really grateful for her old lover’s

protection—though regretting Gabriel’s absence, whose company she would

have much preferred, as being more proper as well as more pleasant,

since he was her own managing-man and servant. This, however, could not

be helped; she would not, on any consideration, treat Boldwood harshly,

having once already illused him, and the moon having risen, and the gig

being ready, she drove across the hill-top in the wending ways which

led downwards—to oblivious obscurity, as it seemed, for the moon and

the hill it flooded with light were in appearance on a level, the rest

of the world lying as a vast shady concave between them. Boldwood

mounted his horse, and followed in close attendance behind. Thus they

descended into the lowlands, and the sounds of those left on the hill

came like voices from the sky, and the lights were as those of a camp

in heaven. They soon passed the merry stragglers in the immediate

vicinity of the hill, and got upon the high road.

The keen instincts of Bathsheba had perceived that the farmer’s staunch

devotion to herself was still undiminished, and she sympathized deeply.

The sight had quite depressed her this evening; had reminded her of her

folly; she wished anew, as she had wished many months ago, for some

means of making reparation for her fault. Hence her pity for the man

who so persistently loved on to his own injury and permanent gloom had

betrayed Bathsheba into an injudicious considerateness of manner, which

appeared almost like tenderness, and gave new vigour to the exquisite

dream of a Jacob’s seven years’ service in poor Boldwood’s mind.

He soon found an excuse for advancing from his position in the rear,

and rode close by her side. They had gone two or three miles in the

moonlight, speaking desultorily across the wheel of her gig concerning

the fair, farming, Oak’s usefulness to them both, and other indifferent

subjects, when Boldwood said suddenly and simply—

“Mrs. Troy, you will marry again some day?”

This point-blank query unmistakably confused her, 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 so I

suppose I am not legally a widow,” she said, catching at the straw of

escape that the fact afforded.

“Not absolutely proved, perhaps, but it was proved circumstantially. A

man saw him drowning, too. No reasonable person has any doubt of his

death; nor have you, ma’am, I should imagine.”

“I have one now, or I should have acted differently,” she said, gently.

“I certainly, at first, had a strange unaccountable feeling that he

could not have perished, but I have been able to explain that in

several ways since. But though I am fully persuaded that I shall see

him no more, I am far from thinking of marriage with another. I should

be very contemptible to indulge in such a thought.”

They were silent now awhile, and having struck into an unfrequented

track across a common, the creaks of Boldwood’s saddle and her gig

springs were all the sounds to be heard. Boldwood ended the pause.

“Do you remember when I carried you fainting in my arms into the Three

Choughs, in Casterbridge? Every dog has his day: that was mine.”

“I know—I know it all,” she said, hurriedly.

“I, for one, shall never cease regretting that events so fell out as to

deny you to me.”

“I, too, am very sorry,” she said, and then checked herself. “I mean,

you know, I am sorry you thought I—”

“I have always this dreary pleasure in thinking over those past times

with you—that I was something to you before _he_ was anything, and that

you belonged _almost_ to me. But, of course, that’s nothing. You never

liked me.”

“I did; and respected you, too.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes.”

“Which?”

“How do you mean which?”