“Do you like me, or do you respect me?”

“I don’t know—at least, I cannot tell you. It is difficult for a woman

to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to

express theirs. My treatment of you was thoughtless, inexcusable,

wicked. I shall eternally regret it. If there had been anything I could

have done to make amends I would most gladly have done it—there was

nothing on earth I so longed to do as to repair the error. But that was

not possible.”

“Don’t blame yourself—you were not so far in the wrong as you suppose.

Bathsheba, suppose you had real complete proof that you are what, in

fact, you are—a widow—would you repair the old wrong to me by marrying

me?”

“I cannot say. I shouldn’t yet, at any rate.”

“But you might at some future time of your life?”

“Oh yes, I might at some time.”

“Well, then, do you know that without further proof of any kind you may

marry again in about six years from the present—subject to nobody’s

objection or blame?”

“Oh yes,” she said, quickly. “I know all that. But don’t talk of

it—seven or six years—where may we all be by that time?”

“They will soon glide by, and it will seem an astonishingly short time

to look back upon when they are past—much less than to look forward to

now.”

“Yes, yes; I have found that in my own experience.”

“Now, listen once more,” Boldwood pleaded. “If I wait that time, will

you marry me? You own that you owe me amends—let that be your way of

making them.”

“But, Mr. Boldwood—six years—”

“Do you want to be the wife of any other man?”

“No indeed! I mean, that I don’t like to talk about this matter now.

Perhaps it is not proper, and I ought not to allow it. Let us drop it

for the present, please do!”

“Of course, I’ll drop the subject if you wish. But propriety has

nothing to do with reasons. I am a middle-aged man, willing to protect

you for the remainder of our lives. On your side, at least, there is no

passion or blameable haste—on mine, perhaps, there is. But I can’t help

seeing that if you choose from a feeling of pity, and, as you say, a

wish to make amends, to make a bargain with me for a far-ahead time—an

agreement which will set all things right and make me happy, late

though it may be—there is no fault to be found with you as a woman.

Hadn’t I the first place beside you? Haven’t you been almost mine once

already? Surely you can say to me as much as this, you will have me

back again should circumstances permit? Now, pray speak! O Bathsheba,

promise—it is only a little promise—that if you marry again, you will

marry me!”

His tone was so excited that she almost feared him at this moment, even

whilst she sympathized. It was a simple physical fear—the weak of the

strong; there no emotional aversion or inner repugnance. She said, with

some distress in her voice, for she remembered vividly his outburst on

the Yalbury Road, and shrank from a repetition of his anger:—

“I will never marry another man whilst you wish me to be your wife,

whatever comes—but to say more—you have taken me so by surprise—”

“But let it stand in these simple words—that in six years’ time you

will be my wife? Unexpected accidents we’ll not mention, because those,

of course, must be given way to. Now, this time I know you will keep

your word.”

“That’s why I hesitate to give it.”

“But do give it! Remember the past, and be kind.”

She breathed; and then said mournfully: “Oh what shall I do! I don’t

love you, and I much fear that I never shall love you as much as a

woman ought to love a husband. If you, sir, know that, and I can yet

give you happiness by a mere promise without feeling, and just in

friendliness, to marry at the end of six years, it is a great honour to

me. And if you value such an act of friendship from a woman who doesn’t

esteem herself as she did, and has little love left, why I—I will—”

“Promise!”

“—Consider, if I cannot promise soon.”

“But soon is perhaps never?”

“Oh no, it is not! I mean soon. Christmas, we’ll say.”

“Christmas!” He said nothing further till he added: “Well, I’ll say no

more to you about it till that time.”

Bathsheba was in a very peculiar state of mind, which showed how

entirely the soul is the slave of the body, the ethereal spirit

dependent for its quality upon the tangible flesh and blood. It is

hardly too much to say that she felt coerced by a force stronger than

her own will, not only into the act of promising upon this singularly

remote and vague matter, but into the emotion of fancying that she

ought to promise. When the weeks intervening between the night of this

conversation and Christmas day began perceptibly to diminish, her

anxiety and perplexity increased.

One day she was led by an accident into an oddly confidential dialogue

with Gabriel about her difficulty. It afforded her a little relief—of a

dull and cheerless kind. They were auditing accounts, and something

occurred in the course of their labours which led Oak to say, speaking

of Boldwood, “He’ll never forget you, ma’am, never.”

Then out came her trouble before she was aware; and she told him how

she had again got into the toils; what Boldwood had asked her, and how

he was expecting her assent. “The most mournful reason of all for my

agreeing to it,” she said sadly, “and the true reason why I think to do

so for good or for evil, is this—it is a thing I have not breathed to a

living soul as yet—I believe that if I don’t give my word, he’ll go out

of his mind.”

“Really, do ye?” said Gabriel, gravely.

“I believe this,” she continued, with reckless frankness; “and Heaven

knows I say it in a spirit the very reverse of vain, for I am grieved

and troubled to my soul about it—I believe I hold that man’s future in

my hand. His career depends entirely upon my treatment of him. O

Gabriel, I tremble at my responsibility, for it is terrible!”

“Well, I think this much, ma’am, as I told you years ago,” said Oak,

“that his life is a total blank whenever he isn’t hoping for you; but I

can’t suppose—I hope that nothing so dreadful hangs on to it as you

fancy. His natural manner has always been dark and strange, you know.

But since the case is so sad and odd-like, why don’t ye give the

conditional promise? I think I would.”

“But is it right? Some rash acts of my past life have taught me that a

watched woman must have very much circumspection to retain only a very

little credit, and I do want and long to be discreet in this! And six

years—why we may all be in our graves by that time! Indeed the long

time and the uncertainty of the whole thing give a sort of absurdity to

the scheme. Now, isn’t it preposterous, Gabriel? However he came to

dream of it, I cannot think. But is it wrong? You know—you are older

than I.”

“Eight years older, ma’am.”

“Yes, eight years—and is it wrong?”

“Perhaps it would be an uncommon agreement for a man and woman to make:

I don’t see anything really wrong about it,” said Oak slowly. “In fact

the very thing that makes it doubtful if you ought to marry en under

any condition, that is, your not caring about him—for I may suppose——”

“Yes, you may suppose that love is wanting,” she said shortly. “Love is

an utterly bygone, sorry, worn-out, miserable thing with me—for him or

any one else.”

“Well, your want of love seems to me the one thing that takes away harm

from such an agreement with him. If wild heat had to do wi’ it, making

ye long to overcome the awkwardness about your husband’s death, it

might be wrong; but a cold-hearted agreement to oblige a man seems

different, somehow. The real sin, ma’am, in my mind, lies in thinking

of ever wedding with a man you don’t love honest and true.”

“That I’m willing to pay the penalty of,” said Bathsheba, firmly. “You

know, Gabriel, this is what I cannot get off my conscience—that I once

seriously injured him in sheer idleness. If I had never played a trick

upon him, he would never have wanted to marry me. Oh! if I could only

pay some heavy damages in money to him for the harm I did, and so get

the sin off my soul that way!… Well, there’s the debt, which can only

be discharged in one way, and I believe I am bound to do it if it

honestly lies in my power, without any consideration of my own future

at all. When a rake gambles away his expectations, the fact that it is

an inconvenient debt doesn’t make him the less liable. I’ve been a

rake, and the single point I ask you is, considering that my own

scruples, and the fact that in the eye of the law my husband is only

missing, will keep any man from marrying me until seven years have

passed—am I free to entertain such an idea, even though ’tis a sort of

penance—for it will be that. I _hate_ the act of marriage under such

circumstances, and the class of women I should seem to belong to by

doing it!”

“It seems to me that all depends upon whe’r you think, as everybody

else does, that your husband is dead.”

“Yes—I’ve long ceased to doubt that. I well know what would have

brought him back long before this time if he had lived.”

“Well, then, in religious sense you must be as free to think o’

marrying again as any other widow of one year’s standing. But why don’t

ye ask Mr. Thirdly’s advice on how to treat Mr. Boldwood?”

“No. When I want a broad-minded opinion for general enlightenment,

distinct from special advice, I never go to a man who deals in the

subject professionally. So I like the parson’s opinion on law, the

lawyer’s on doctoring, the doctor’s on business, and my

business-man’s—that is, yours—on morals.”

“And on love——”

“My own.”

“I’m afraid there’s a hitch in that argument,” said Oak, with a grave

smile.

She did not reply at once, and then saying, “Good evening Mr. Oak,”

went away.

She had spoken frankly, and neither asked nor expected any reply from

Gabriel more satisfactory than that she had obtained. Yet in the

centremost parts of her complicated heart there existed at this minute

a little pang of disappointment, for a reason she would not allow

herself to recognize. Oak had not once wished her free that he might

marry her himself—had not once said, “I could wait for you as well as

he.” That was the insect sting. Not that she would have listened to any

such hypothesis. Oh no—for wasn’t she saying all the time that such

thoughts of the future were improper, and wasn’t Gabriel far too poor a

man to speak sentiment to her? Yet he might have just hinted about that

old love of his, and asked, in a playful off hand way, if he might

speak of it. It would have seemed pretty and sweet, if no more; and

then she would have shown how kind and inoffensive a woman’s “No” can

sometimes be. But to give such cool advice—the very advice she had

asked for—it ruffled our heroine all the afternoon.

CHAPTER XXII.

CONVERGING COURSES

I.

Christmas-Eve came, and a party that Boldwood was to give in the

evening was the great subject of talk in Weatherbury. It was not that

the rarity of Christmas parties in the parish made this one a wonder,

but that Boldwood should be the giver. The announcement had had an

abnormal and incongruous sound, as if one should hear of

croquet-playing in a cathedral aisle, or that some much-respected judge

was going upon the stage. That the party was intended to be a truly

jovial one there was no room for doubt. A large bough of mistletoe had

been brought from the woods that day, and suspended in the hall of the

bachelor’s home. Holly and ivy had followed in armfuls. From six that

morning till past noon the huge wood fire in the kitchen roared and

sparkled at its highest, the kettle, the saucepan, and the three-legged

pot appearing in the midst of the flames like Shadrach, Meshach, and

Abednego; moreover, roasting and basting operations were continually

carried on in front of the genial blaze.

As it grew later the fire was made up in the large long hall into which

the staircase descended, and all encumbrances were cleared out for

dancing. The log which was to form the back-brand of the evening fire

was the uncleft trunk of a tree, so unwieldy that it could be neither

brought nor rolled to its place; and accordingly four men were to be

observed dragging and heaving it in by chains and levers as the hour of

assembly drew near.

In spite of all this, the spirit of revelry was wanting in the

atmosphere of the house. Such a thing had never been attempted before

by its owner, and it was now done as by a wrench. Intended gaieties

would insist upon appearing like solemn grandeurs, the organization of

the whole effort was carried out coldly, by hirelings, and a shadow

seemed to move about the rooms, saying that the proceedings were

unnatural to the place and the lone man who lived therein, and hence

not good.

II.

Bathsheba was at this time in her room, dressing for the event. She had

called for candles, and Liddy entered and placed one on each side of

her mistress’s glass.

“Don’t go away, Liddy,” said Bathsheba, almost timidly. “I am foolishly

agitated—I cannot tell why. I wish I had not been obliged to go to this

dance; but there’s no escaping now. I have not spoken to Mr. Boldwood

since the autumn, when I promised to see him at Christmas on business,

but I had no idea there was to be anything of this kind.”

“But I would go now,” said Liddy, who was going with her; for Boldwood

had been indiscriminate in his invitations.

“Yes, I shall make my appearance, of course,” said Bathsheba.” But I am

_the cause_ of the party, and that upsets me.—Don’t tell, Liddy.”

“Oh no, ma’am, You the cause of it, ma’am?”

“Yes. I am the reason of the party—I. If it had not been for me, there

would never have been one. I can’t explain any more—there’s no more to

be explained. I wish I had never seen Weatherbury.”

“That’s wicked of you—to wish to be worse off than you are.”

“No, Liddy. I have never been free from trouble since I have lived

here, and this party is likely to bring me more. Now, fetch my black

silk dress, and see how it sits upon me.”

“But you will leave off that, surely, ma’am? You have been a widow-lady

fourteen months, and ought to brighten up a little on such a night as

this.”

“Is it necessary? No; I will appear as usual, for if I were to wear any

light dress people would say things about me, and I should seem to be

rejoicing when I am solemn all the time. The party doesn’t suit me a

bit; but never mind, stay and help to finish me off.”

III.

Boldwood was dressing also at this hour. A tailor from Casterbridge was

with him, assisting him in the operation of trying on a new coat that

had just been brought home.

Never had Boldwood been so fastidious, unreasonable about the fit, and

generally difficult to please. The tailor walked round and round him,

tugged at the waist, pulled the sleeve, pressed out the collar, and for

the first time in his experience Boldwood was not bored. Times had been

when the farmer had exclaimed against all such niceties as childish,

but now no philosophic or hasty rebuke whatever was provoked by this

man for attaching as much importance to a crease in the coat as to an

earthquake in South America. Boldwood at last expressed himself nearly

satisfied, and paid the bill, the tailor passing out of the door just

as Oak came in to report progress for the day.

“Oh, Oak,” said Boldwood. “I shall of course see you here to-night.

Make yourself merry. I am determined that neither expense nor trouble

shall be spared.”

“I’ll try to be here, sir, though perhaps it may not be very early,”

said Gabriel, quietly. “I am glad indeed to see such a change in ye

from what it used to be.”

“Yes—I must own it—I am bright to-night: cheerful and more than

cheerful—so much so that I am almost sad again with the sense that all

of it is passing away. And sometimes, when I am excessively hopeful and

blithe, a trouble is looming in the distance: so that I often get to

look upon gloom in me with content, and to fear a happy mood. Still

this may be absurd—I feel that it is absurd. Perhaps my day is dawning

at last.”

“I hope it will be a long and a fair one.”

“Thank you—thank you. Yet perhaps my cheerfulness rests on a slender

hope. And yet I trust my hope. It is faith, not hope. I think this time

I reckon with my host.—Oak, my hands are a little shaky, or something;

I can’t tie this neckerchief properly. Perhaps you will tie it for me.

The fact is, I have not been well lately, you know.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I want it done as well as you can, please. Is there

any late knot in fashion, Oak?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Oak. His tone had sunk to sadness.

Boldwood approached Gabriel, and as Oak tied the neckerchief the farmer

went on feverishly—

“Does a woman keep her promise, Gabriel?”

“If it is not inconvenient to her she may.”

“—Or rather an implied promise.”

“I won’t answer for her implying,” said Oak, with faint bitterness.

“That’s a word as full o’ holes as a sieve with them.”

“Oak, don’t talk like that. You have got quite cynical lately—how is

it? We seem to have shifted our positions: I have become the young and

hopeful man, and you the old and unbelieving one. However, does a woman

keep a promise, not to marry, but to enter on an engagement to marry at

some time? Now you know women better than I—tell me.”

“I am afeard you honour my understanding too much. However, she may

keep such a promise, if it is made with an honest meaning to repair a

wrong.”

“It has not gone far yet, but I think it will soon—yes, I know it

will,” he said, in an impulsive whisper. “I have pressed her upon the

subject, and she inclines to be kind to me, and to think of me as a

husband at a long future time, and that’s enough for me. How can I

expect more? She has a notion that a woman should not marry within

seven years of her husband’s death—that her own self shouldn’t, I

mean—because his body was not found. It may be merely this legal reason

which influences her, or it may be a religious one, but she is

reluctant to talk on the point. Yet she has promised—implied—that she

will ratify an engagement to-night.”

“Seven years,” murmured Oak.

“No, no—it’s no such thing!” he said, with impatience. Five years, nine

months, and a few days. Fifteen months nearly have passed since his

death, and is there anything so wonderful in an engagement of little

more than five years?”

“It seems long in a forward view. Don’t build too much upon such

promises, sir. Remember, you have once been deceived. Her maning may be

good; but there—she’s young yet.”

“Deceived? Never!” said Boldwood, vehemently. “She never promised me at

that first time, and hence she did not break her promise. If she

promises me, she’ll marry me. Bathsheba is a woman to her word.”

IV.

Troy was sitting in a small apartment in a small tavern at

Casterbridge, smoking and drinking a steaming mixture from a glass. A

knock was given at the door, and Pennyways entered.

“Well, have you seen him?” Troy inquired, pointing to a chair.

“Boldwood?”

“No—Lawyer Long.”

“He wadn’ at home. I went there first, too.”

“That’s a nuisance.”

“’Tis rather, I suppose.”

“Yet I don’t see that, because a man appears to be drowned and was not,

he should be liable for anything. I shan’t ask any lawyer—not I.”

“But that’s not it, exactly. If a man changes his name and so forth,

and takes steps to deceive the world and his own wife, he’s a cheat,

and that in the eye of the law is ayless a rogue, and that is ayless a

vagabond; and that’s a punishable situation.”

“Ha-ha! Well done, Pennyways.” Troy had laughed, but it was with some

anxiety that he said, “Now, what I want to know is this, do you think

there’s really anything going on between her and Boldwood? Upon my

soul, I should never have believed it! How she must detest me! Have you

found out whether she has encouraged him?”

“I haen’t been able to learn. There’s a deal of feeling on his side

seemingly, but I don’t answer for her. I didn’t know a word about any

such thing till yesterday, and all I heard then was that she was gwine

to the party at his house to-night. This is the first time she has ever

gone there, they say. And they say that she’ve not so much as spoke to

him since they were at Greenhill Fair: but what can folk believe o’t?

However, she’s not fond of him—quite offish and quite careless, I

know.”

“I’m not so sure of that…. She’s a handsome woman, Pennyways, is she

not? Own that you never saw a finer or more splendid creature in your

life. Upon my honour, when I set eyes upon her that day I wondered what

I could have been made of to be able to leave her by herself so long.

And then I was hampered with that bothering show, which I’m free of at

last, thank the stars.” He smoked on awhile, and then added, “How did

she look when you passed by yesterday?”

“Oh, she took no great heed of me, ye may well fancy; but she looked

well enough, far’s I know. Just flashed her haughty eyes upon my poor

scram body, and then let them go past me to what was yond, much as if

I’d been no more than a leafless tree. She had just got off her mare to

look at the last wring-down of cider for the year; she had been riding,

and so her colours were up and her breath rather quick, so that her

bosom plimmed and fell—plimmed and fell—every time plain to my eye. Ay,

and there were the fellers round her wringing down the cheese and

bustling about and saying, ‘Ware o’ the pommy, ma’am: ’twill spoil yer

gown.’ ‘Never mind me,’ says she. Then Gabe brought her some of the new

cider, and she must needs go drinking it through a strawmote, and not

in a nateral way at all. ‘Liddy,’ says she, ‘bring indoors a few

gallons, and I’ll make some cider-wine.’ Sergeant, I was no more to her

than a morsel of scroff in the fuel house!”

“I must go and find her out at once—Oh yes, I see that—I must go. Oak

is head man still, isn’t he?”

“Yes, ’a b’lieve. And at Lower Farm too. He manages everything.”

“’Twill puzzle him to manage her, or any other man of his compass.”

“I don’t know about that. She can’t do without him, and knowing it well

he’s pretty independent. And she’ve a few soft corners to her mind,

though I’ve never been able to get into one, the devil’s in’t.”

“Ah baily she’s a notch above you, and you must own it: a higher class

of animal—a finer tissue. However, stick to me, and neither this

haughty goddess, dashing piece of womanhood, Juno-wife of mine (Juno

was a goddess, you know), nor anybody else shall hurt you. But all this

wants looking into, I perceive. What with one thing and another, I see

that my work is well cut out for me.”

V.

“How do I look to-night, Liddy?” said Bathsheba, giving a final

adjustment to her dress before leaving the glass.

“I never saw you look so well before. Yes—I’ll tell you when you looked

like it—that night, a year and a half ago, when you came in so

wildlike, and scolded us for making remarks about you and Mr. Troy.”

“Everybody will think that I am setting myself to captivate Mr.

Boldwood, I suppose,” she murmured. “At least they’ll say so. Can’t my

hair be brushed down a little flatter? I dread going—yet I dread the

risk of wounding him by staying away.”

“Anyhow, ma’am, you can’t well be dressed plainer than you are, unless

you go in sackcloth at once. ’Tis your excitement is what makes you

look so noticeable to-night.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter, I feel wretched at one time, and

buoyant at another. I wish I could have continued quite alone as I have

been for the last year or so, with no hopes and no fears, and no

pleasure and no grief.”

“Now just suppose Mr. Boldwood should ask you—only just suppose it—to

run away with him, what would you do, ma’am?”

“Liddy—none of that,” said Bathsheba, gravely. “Mind, I won’t hear

joking on any such matter. Do you hear?”

“I beg pardon, ma’am. But knowing what rum things we women are, I just

said—however, I won’t speak of it again.”

“No marrying for me yet for many a year; if ever, ’twill be for reasons

very, very different from those you think, or others will believe. Now

get my cloak, for it is time to go.”

VI.

“Oak,” said Boldwood, “before you go I want to mention what has been

passing in my mind lately—that little arrangement we made about your

share in the farm I mean. That share is small, too small, considering

how little I attend to business now, and how much time and thought you

give to it. Well, since the world is brightening for me, I want to show

my sense of it by increasing your proportion in the partnership. I’ll

make a memorandum of the arrangement which struck me as likely to be

convenient, for I haven’t time to talk about it now; and then we’ll

discuss it at our leisure. My intention is ultimately to retire from

the management altogether, and until you can take all the expenditure

upon your shoulders, I’ll be a sleeping partner in the stock. Then, if

I marry her—and I hope—I feel I shall, why——”

“Pray don’t speak of it, sir,” said Oak, hastily. “We don’t know what

may happen. So many upsets may befall ye. There’s many a slip, as they

say—and I would advise you—I know you’ll pardon me this once—not to be

_too sure_.”

“I know, I know. But the feeling I have about increasing your share is

on account of what I know of you. Oak, I have learnt a little about

your secret: your interest in her is more than that of bailiff for an

employer. But you have behaved like a man, and I, as a sort of

successful rival—successful partly through your goodness of

heart—should like definitely to show my sense of your friendship under

what must have been a great pain to you.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, thank ye,” said Oak, hurriedly. “I must get

used to such as that; other men have, and so shall I.”

Oak then left him. He was uneasy on Boldwood’s account, for he saw anew

that this constant passion of the farmer made him not the man he once

had been.

As Boldwood continued awhile in his room alone—ready and dressed to

receive his company—the mood of anxiety about his appearance seemed to

pass away, and to be succeeded by a deep solemnity. He looked out of

the window, and regarded the dim outline of the trees upon the sky, and

the twilight deepening to darkness.

Then he went to a locked closet, and took from a locked drawer therein

a small circular case the size of a pill-box, and was about to put it

into his pocket. But he lingered to open the cover and take a momentary

glance inside. It contained a woman’s finger-ring, set all the way

round with small diamonds, and from its appearance had evidently been

recently purchased. Boldwood’s eyes dwelt upon its many sparkles a long

time, though that its material aspect concerned him little was plain

from his manner and mien, which were those of a mind following out the

presumed thread of that jewel’s future history.

The noise of wheels at the front of the house became audible. Boldwood

closed the box, stowed it away carefully in his pocket, and went out

upon the landing. The old man who was his indoor factotum came at the

same moment to the foot of the stairs.

“They be coming, sir—lots of ’em—a-foot and a-driving!”

“I was coming down this moment. Those wheels I heard—is it Mrs. Troy?”

“No, sir—’tis not she yet.”

A reserved and sombre expression had returned to Boldwood’s face again,

but it poorly cloaked his feelings when he pronounced Bathsheba’s name;

and his feverish anxiety continued to show its existence by a galloping

motion of his fingers upon the side of his thigh as he went down the

stairs.

VII.

“How does this cover me?” said Troy to Pennyways, “Nobody would

recognize me now, I’m sure.”

He was buttoning on a heavy grey overcoat of Noachian cut, with cape

and high collar, the latter being erect and rigid, like a girdling

wall, and nearly reaching to the verge of travelling cap which was

pulled down over his ears.

Pennyways snuffed the candle, and then looked up and deliberately

inspected Troy.

“You’ve made up your mind to go then?” he said.

“Made up my mind? Yes; of course I have.”

“Why not write to her? ’Tis a very queer corner that you have got into,

sergeant. You see all these things will come to light if you go back,

and they won’t sound well at all. Faith, if I was you I’d even bide as

you be—a single man of the name of Francis. A good wife is good, but

the best wife is not so good as no wife at all. Now that’s my outspoke

mind, and I’ve been called a long-headed feller here and there.”

“All nonsense!” said Troy, angrily. “There she is with plenty of money,

and a house and farm, and horses, and comfort, and here am I living

from hand to mouth—a needy adventurer. Besides, it is no use talking

now; it is too late, and I am glad of it; I’ve been seen and recognized

here this very afternoon. I should have gone back to her the day after

the fair, if it hadn’t been for you talking about the law, and rubbish

about getting a separation; and I don’t put it off any longer. What the

deuce put it into my head to run away at all, I can’t think! Humbugging

sentiment—that’s what it was. But what man on earth was to know that

his wife would be in such a hurry to get rid of his name!”

“I should have known it. She’s bad enough for anything.”

“Pennyways, mind who you are talking to.”

“Well, sergeant, all I say is this, that if I were you I’d go abroad

again where I came from—’tisn’t too late to do it now. I wouldn’t stir

up the business and get a bad name for the sake of living with her—for

all that about your play-acting is sure to come out, you know, although

you think otherwise. My eyes and limbs, there’ll be a racket if you go

back just now—in the middle of Boldwood’s Christmasing!”

“H’m, yes. I expect I shall not be a very welcome guest if he has her

there,” said the sergeant, with a slight laugh. “A sort of Alonzo the

Brave; and when I go in the guests will sit in silence and fear, and

all laughter and pleasure will be hushed, and the lights in the chamber

burn blue, and the worms—Ugh, horrible!—Ring for some more brandy,

Pennyways, I felt an awful shudder just then. Well, what is there

besides? A stick—I must have a walking-stick.”

Pennyways now felt himself to be in something of a difficulty, for

should Bathsheba and Troy become reconciled it would be necessary to

regain her good opinion if he would secure the patronage of her

husband. “I sometimes think she likes you yet, and is a good woman at

bottom,” he said, as a saving sentence. “But there’s no telling to a

certainty from a body’s outside. Well, you’ll do as you like about

going, of course, sergeant, and as for me, I’ll do as you tell me.”

“Now, let me see what the time is,” said Troy, after emptying his glass

in one draught as he stood. “Half-past six o’clock. I shall not hurry

along the road, and shall be there then before nine.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

CONCURRITUR—HORÆ MOMENTO

Outside the front of Boldwood’s house a group of men stood in the dark,

with their faces towards the door, which occasionally opened and closed

for the passage of some guest or servant, when a golden rod of light

would stripe the ground for the moment and vanish again, leaving

nothing outside but the glowworm shine of the pale lamp amid the

evergreens over the door.

“He was seen in Casterbridge this afternoon—so the boy said,” one of

them remarked in a whisper. “And I for one believe it. His body was

never found, you know.”

“’Tis a strange story,” said the next. “You may depend upon’t that she

knows nothing about it.”

“Not a word.”

“Perhaps he don’t mean that she shall,” said another man.

“If he’s alive and here in the neighbourhood, he means mischief,” said

the first. “Poor young thing: I do pity her, if ’tis true. He’ll drag

her to the dogs.”

“Oh, no; he’ll settle down quiet enough,” said one disposed to take a

more hopeful view of the case.

“What a fool she must have been ever to have had anything to do with

the man! She is so self-willed and independent too, that one is more

minded to say it serves her right than pity her.”

“No, no! I don’t hold with ye there. She was no otherwise than a girl

mind, and how could she tell what the man was made of. If ’tis really

true, ’tis too hard a punishment, and more than she ought to

hae.—Hullo, who’s that?” This was to some footsteps that were heard

approaching.

“William Smallbury,” said a dim figure in the shades, coming up and

joining them. “Dark as a hedge, to-night, isn’t it? I all but missed

the plank over the river ath’art there in the bottom—never did such a

thing before in my life. Be ye any of Boldwood’s workfolk?” He peered

into their faces.

“Yes—all o’ us. We met here a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, I hear now—that’s Sam Samway: thought I knowed the voice, too.

Going in?”

“Presently. But I say, William,” Samway whispered, “have ye heard this

strange tale?”

“What—that about Sergeant Troy being seen, d’ye mean, souls?” said

Smallbury, also lowering his voice.

“Ay: in Casterbridge.”

“Yes, I have. Laban Tall named a hint of it to me but now—but I don’t

think it. Hark, here Laban comes himself, ’a b’lieve.” A footstep drew

near.

“Laban?”

“Yes, ’tis I,” said Tall.

“Have ye heard any more about that?”

“No,” said Tall, joining the group. “And I’m inclined to think we’d

better keep quiet. If so be ’tis not true, ’twill flurry her, and do

her much harm to repeat it; and if so be ’tis true, ’twill do no good

to forestall her time o’ trouble. God send that it may be a lie, for

though Henery Fray and some of ’em do speak against her, she’s never

been anything but fair to me. She’s hot and hasty, but she’s a brave

girl who’ll never tell a lie however much the truth may harm her, and

I’ve no cause to wish her evil.”

“She never do tell women’s little lies, that’s true; and ’tis a thing

that can be said of very few. Ay, all the harm she thinks she says to

yer face: there’s nothing underhand wi’ her.”

They stood silent then, every man busied with his own thoughts, during

which interval sounds of merriment could be heard within. Then the

front door again opened, the rays streamed out, the well-known form of

Boldwood was seen in the rectangular area of light, the door closed,

and Boldwood walked slowly down the path.

“’Tis master,” one of the men whispered, as he neared them. “We’d

better stand quiet—he’ll go in again directly. He would think it

unseemly o’ us to be loitering here.”

Boldwood came on, and passed by the men without seeing them, they being

under the bushes on the grass. He paused, leant over the gate, and

breathed a long breath. They heard low words come from him.

“I hope to God she’ll come, or this night will be nothing but misery to

me. Oh my darling, my darling, why do you keep me in suspense like

this!”

He said this to himself, and they all distinctly heard it. Boldwood

remained silent after that, and the noise from indoors was again just

audible, until, a few minutes later, light wheels could be

distinguished coming down the hill. They drew nearer, and ceased at the

gate. Boldwood hastened back to the door, and opened it; and the light

shone upon Bathsheba coming up the path.

Boldwood compressed his emotion to mere welcome: the men marked her

light laugh and apology as she met him: he took her into the house; and

the door closed again.

“Gracious heaven, I didn’t know it was like that with him!” said one of

the men. “I thought that fancy of his was over long ago.

“You don’t know much of master, if you thought that,” said Samway.

“I wouldn’t he should know we heard what ’a said for the world,”

remarked a third.

“I wish we had told of the report at once,” the first uneasily

continued. “More harm may come of this than we know of. Poor Mr.

Boldwood, it will be hard upon en. I wish Troy was in——. Well, God

forgive me for such a wish! A scoundrel to play a poor wife such

tricks. Nothing has prospered in Weatherbury since he came here. And

now I’ve no heart to go in. Let’s look into Warren’s, shall us,

neighbours?”

Samway, Tall, and Smallbury agreed to go, and went out at the gate, the

remaining ones entering the house. The three soon drew near the

malt-house, approaching it from the adjoining orchard, and not by way

of the street. The pane of glass was illuminated as usual. Smallbury

was a little in advance of the rest, when, pausing, he turned suddenly

to his companions and said, “Hist! See there.”

The light from the pane was now perceived to be shining not upon the

ivied wall as usual, but upon some object close to the glass. It was a

human face.

“Let’s come closer,” whispered Samway; and they approached on tiptoe.

There was no disbelieving the report any longer. Troy’s face was almost

close to the pane, and he was looking in. Not only was he looking in,

but he appeared to have been arrested by a conversation which was in

progress in the malt-house, the voices of the interlocutors being those

of Oak and the maltster.

“The spree is all in her honour, isn’t it—hey?” said the old man.

“Although he made believe ’tis only keeping up o’ Christmas?”

“I cannot say,” replied Oak.

“O ’tis true enough, faith. I cannot understand Farmer Boldwood being

such a fool at his time of life as to ho and hanker after thik woman in

the way ’a do, and she not care a bit about en.”

The men, after recognizing Troy’s features, withdrew across the orchard

as quietly as they had come. The air was big with Bathsheba’s fortunes

to-night: every word everywhere concerned her. When they were quite out

of earshot all by one instinct paused.

“It gave me quite a turn—his face,” said Tall, breathing.

“And so it did me,” said Samway. “What’s to be done?”

“I don’t see that ’tis any business of ours,” Smallbury murmured

dubiously.

“Oh, yes. ’Tis a thing which is everybody’s business,” said Samway. “We

know very well that master’s on a wrong tack, and that she’s quite in

the dark, and we should let ’em know at once. Laban, you know her

best—you’d better go and ask to speak to her.”

“I bain’t fit for any such thing,” said Laban, nervously. “I should

think William ought to do it if anybody. He’s oldest.”

“I shall have nothing to do with it,” said Smallbury. “’Tis a ticklish

business altogether. Why, he’ll go on to her himself in a few minutes,

ye’ll see.”

“We don’t know that he will. Come, Laban.”

“Very well, if I must I must, I suppose,” Tall reluctantly answered.

“What must I say?”

“Just ask to see master.”

“Oh no; I shan’t speak to Mr. Boldwood. If I tell anybody, ’twill be

mistress.”

“Very well,” said Samway.

Laban then went to the door. When he opened it the hum of bustle rolled

out as a wave upon a still strand—the assemblage being immediately

inside the hall—and was deadened to a murmur as he closed it again.

Each man waited intently, and looked around at the dark tree tops

gently rocking against the sky and occasionally shivering in a slight

wind, as if he took interest in the scene, which neither did. One of

them began walking up and down, and then came to where he started from

and stopped again, with a sense that walking was a thing not worth

doing now.

“I should think Laban must have seen mistress by this time,” said

Smallbury, breaking the silence. “Perhaps she won’t come and speak to

him.”

The door opened. Tall appeared, and joined them.

“Well?” said both.

“I didn’t like to ask for her after all,” Laban faltered out. “They

were all in such a stir, trying to put a little spirit into the party.

Somehow the fun seems to hang fire, though everything’s there that a

heart can desire, and I couldn’t for my soul interfere and throw damp

upon it—if ’twas to save my life, I couldn’t!”

“I suppose we had better all go in together,” said Samway, gloomily.

“Perhaps I may have a chance of saying a word to master.”

So the men entered the hall, which was the room selected and arranged

for the gathering because of its size. The younger men and maids were

at last just beginning to dance. Bathsheba had been perplexed how to

act, for she was not much more than a slim young maid herself, and the

weight of stateliness sat heavy upon her. Sometimes she thought she

ought not to have come under any circumstances; then she considered

what cold unkindness that would have been, and finally resolved upon

the middle course of staying for about an hour only, and gliding off

unobserved, having from the first made up her mind that she could on no

account dance, sing, or take any active part in the proceedings.

Her allotted hour having been passed in chatting and looking on,

Bathsheba told Liddy not to hurry herself, and went to the small

parlour to prepare for departure, which, like the hall, was decorated

with holly and ivy, and well lighted up.

Nobody was in the room, but she had hardly been there a moment when the

master of the house entered.

“Mrs. Troy—you are not going?” he said. “We’ve hardly begun.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I should like to go now.” Her manner was restive,

for she remembered her promise, and imagined what he was about to say.

“But as it is not late,” she added, “I can walk home, and leave my man

and Liddy to come when they choose.”

“I’ve been trying to get an opportunity of speaking to you,” said

Boldwood. “You know perhaps what I long to say?”

Bathsheba silently looked on the floor.

“You do give it?” he said, eagerly.

“What?” she whispered.

“Now, that’s evasion! Why, the promise. I don’t want to intrude upon

you at all, or to let it become known to anybody. But do give your

word! A mere business compact, you know, between two people who are

beyond the influence of passion.” Boldwood knew how false this picture

was as regarded himself; but he had proved that it was the only tone in

which she would allow him to approach her. “A promise to marry me at

the end of five years and three-quarters. You owe it to me!”

“I feel that I do,” said Bathsheba; “that is, if you demand it. But I

am a changed woman—an unhappy woman—and not—not——”

“You are still a very beautiful woman, said Boldwood. Honesty and pure

conviction suggested the remark, unaccompanied by any perception that

it might have been adopted by blunt flattery to soothe and win her.

However, it had not much effect now, for she said, in a passionless

murmur which was in itself a proof of her words: “I have no feeling in

the matter at all. And I don’t at all know what is right to do in my

diddicult position, and I have nobody to advise me. But I give my

promise, if I must. I give it as the rendering of a debt.”

“You’ll marry me between five and six years hence.”

“Don’t press me too hard. I’ll marry nobody else.”

“But surely you will name the time, or there’s nothing in the promise

at all.”

“Oh I don’t know, pray let me go!” she said, her bosom beginning to

rise. “I am afraid what to do! I want to be just to you, and to be that

seems to be wronging myself, and perhaps it is breaking the

commandments. There is a shadow of a doubt of his death, and then it is

dreadful; let me ask a solicitor, Mr. Boldwood, if I ought or no!”

“Say the words, dear one, and the subject shall be dismissed; a

blissful loving intimacy of six years, and then marriage—O Bathsheba,

say them!” he begged in a husky voice, unable to sustain the forms of

mere friendship any longer. “Promise yourself to me; I deserve it,

indeed I do, for I have loved you more than anybody in the world. And

if I said hasty words and showed uncalled-for heat of manner towards

you, believe me, dear, I did not mean to distress you; I was in agony,

Bathsheba, and I did not know what I said. You wouldn’t let a dog

suffer what I have suffered, could you but know it! Sometimes I shrink

from your knowing what I have felt for you, and sometimes I am

distressed that all of it you never will know. Be gracious, and give up

a little to me, when I would give up my life for you!”

The trimmings of her dress, as they quivered against the light, showed

how agitated she was, and at last she burst out crying. “And you’ll

not—press me—about anything more—if I say in five or six years?” she

sobbed, when she had power to frame the words.

“Yes, then I’ll leave it to time.”

She waited a moment. “Very well. I’ll marry you in six years from this

day, if we both live,” she said solemnly.

“And you’ll take this as a token from me?”

Boldwood had come close to her side, and now he clasped one of her

hands in both his own, and lifted it to his breast.

“What is it? Oh I cannot wear a ring!” she exclaimed, on seeing what he

held; “besides, I wouldn’t have a soul know that it’s an engagement.

Perhaps it is improper. Besides, we are not engaged in the usual sense,

are we? Don’t insist, Mr. Boldwood—don’t!” In her trouble at not being

able to get her hand away from him at once, she stamped passionately on

the floor with one foot, and tears crowded to her eyes again.

“It means simply a pledge—no sentiment—the seal of a practical

compact,” he said more quietly, but still retaining her hand in his

firm grasp. “Come, now!” And Boldwood slipped the ring on her finger.

“I cannot wear it,” she said, weeping as if her heart would break. “You

frighten me, almost. So wild a scheme! Please let me go home!”

“Only to-night: wear it just to-night, to please me.”

Bathsheba sat down in a chair, and buried her face in her handkerchief,

though Boldwood kept her hand yet. At length she said, in a sort of

hopeless whisper,—

“Very well, then, I will to-night, if you wish it so earnestly. Now

loosen my hand; I will, indeed I will wear it to-night.”

“And it shall be the beginning of a pleasant secret courtship of six

years, with a wedding at the end?”

“It must be, I suppose, since you will have it so!” she said, fairly

beaten into non-resistance.

Boldwood pressed her hand, and allowed it to drop in her lap. “I am

happy now,” he said. “God bless you!”

He left the room, and when he thought she might be sufficiently

composed sent one of the maids to her. Bathsheba cloaked the effects of

the late scene as she best could, followed the girl, and in a few

moments came downstairs with her hat and cloak on, ready to go. To get

to the door it was necessary to pass through the hall, and before doing

so she paused on the bottom of the staircase which descended into one

corner, to take a last look at the gathering.

There was no music or dancing in progress just now. At the lower end,

which had been arranged for the workfolk specially, a group conversed

in whispers, and with clouded looks. Boldwood was standing by the

fireplace, and he, too, though so absorbed in visions arising from her

promise that he scarcely saw anything, seemed at that moment to have

observed their peculiar manner and their looks askance.

“What is it you are in doubt about, men?” he said.

One of them turned and replied uneasily: “It was something Laban heard

of, that’s all, sir.”

“News? Anybody married or engaged, born or dead?” inquired the farmer,

gaily. “Tell it to us, Tall. One would think from your looks and

mysterious ways that it was something very dreadful indeed.”

“Oh no, sir, nobody is dead,” said Tall.

“I wish somebody was,” said Samway, in a whisper.

“What do you say, Samway?” asked Boldwood, somewhat sharply. “If you

have anything to say, speak out; if not, get up another dance.”

“Mrs. Troy has come downstairs,” said Samway to Tall. “If you want to

tell her, you had better do it now.”

“Do you know what they mean?” the farmer asked Bathsheba, across the

room.

“I don’t in the least,” said Bathsheba.

There was a smart rapping at the door. One of the men opened it

instantly, and went outside.

“Mrs. Troy is wanted,” he said, on returning.

“Quite ready,” said Bathsheba. “Though I didn’t tell them to send.”

“It is a stranger, ma’am,” said the man by the door.

“A stranger?” she said.

“Ask him to come in,” said Boldwood.

The message was given, and Troy, wrapped up to his eyes as we have seen

him, stood in the doorway.

There was an unearthly silence, all looking towards the new-comer.

Those who had just learnt that he was in the neighbourhood recognized

him instantly; those who did not, were perplexed. Nobody noted

Bathsheba. She was leaning on the stairs. Her brow had heavily

contracted; her whole face was pallid, her lips apart, her eyes rigidly

staring at their visitor.

Boldwood was among those who did not notice that he was Troy. “Come in,

come in!” he repeated, cheerfully, “and drain a Christmas beaker with

us, stranger!”

Troy next advanced into the middle of the room, took off his cap,

turned down his coat-collar, and looked Boldwood in the face. Even then

Boldwood did not recognize that the impersonator of Heaven’s persistent

irony towards him, who had once before broken in upon his bliss,

scourged him, and snatched his delight away, had come to do these

things a second time. Troy began to laugh a mechanical laugh: Boldwood

recognized him now.

[Illustration: TROY NEXT ADVANCED INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM AND TOOK

OFF HIS CAP.]

Troy turned to Bathsheba. The poor girl’s wretchedness at this time was

beyond all fancy or narration. She had sunk down on the lowest stair;

and there she sat, her mouth blue and dry, and her dark eyes fixed

vacantly upon him, as if she wondered whether it were not all a

terrible illusion.

Then Troy spoke. “Bathsheba, I come here for you!”

She made no reply.

“Come home with me: come!”

Bathsheba moved her feet a little, but did not rise. Troy went across

to her.

“Come, madam, do you hear what I say?” he said, peremptorily.

A strange voice came from the fireplace—a voice sounding far off and

confined, as if from a dungeon. Hardly a soul in the assembly

recognized the thin tones to be those of Boldwood. Sudden despair had

transformed him.

“Bathsheba, go with your husband!”

Nevertheless, she did not move. The truth was that Bathsheba was beyond

the pale of activity—and yet not in a swoon. She was in a state of

mental _gutta serena;_ her mind was for the minute totally deprived of

light at the same time that no obscuration was apparent from without.

Troy stretched out his hand to pull her towards him, when she quickly

shrank back. This visible dread of him seemed to irritate Troy, and he

seized her arm and pulled it sharply. Whether his grasp pinched her, or

whether his mere touch was the cause, was never known, but at the

moment of his seizure she writhed, and gave a quick, low scream.

The scream had been heard but a few seconds when it was followed by

sudden deafening report that echoed through the room and stupefied them

all. The oak partition shook with the concussion, and the place was

filled with grey smoke.

In bewilderment they turned their eyes to Boldwood. At his back, as

stood before the fireplace, was a gun-rack, as is usual in farmhouses,

constructed to hold two guns. When Bathsheba had cried out in her

husband’s grasp, Boldwood’s face of gnashing despair had changed. The

veins had swollen, and a frenzied look had gleamed in his eye. He had

turned quickly, taken one of the guns, cocked it, and at once

discharged it at Troy.

Troy fell. The distance apart of the two men was so small that the

charge of shot did not spread in the least, but passed like a bullet

into his body. He uttered a long guttural sigh—there was a

contraction—an extension—then his muscles relaxed, and he lay still.

Boldwood was seen through the smoke to be now again engaged with the

gun. It was double-barrelled, and he had, meanwhile, in some way

fastened his handkerchief to the trigger, and with his foot on the

other end was in the act of turning the second barrel upon himself.

Samway his man was the first to see this, and in the midst of the

general horror darted up to him. Boldwood had already twitched the

handkerchief, and the gun exploded a second time, sending its contents,

by a timely blow from Samway, into the beam which crossed the ceiling.

“Well, it makes no difference,” Boldwood gasped. “There is another way

for me to die.”

Then he broke from Samway, crossed the room to Bathsheba, and kissed

her hand. He put on his hat, opened the door, and went into the

darkness, nobody thinking of preventing him.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AFTER THE SHOCK

Boldwood passed into the high road and turned in the direction of

Casterbridge. Here he walked at an even, steady pace over Buck’s Head,

along the dead level beyond, mounted Casterbridge Hill, and between

eleven and twelve o’clock descended into the town. The streets were

nearly deserted now, and the waving lamp-flames only lighted up rows of

grey shop-shutters, and strips of white paving upon which his step

echoed as he passed along. He turned to the left, and halted before an

archway of old brown brick, which was closed by an iron studded pair of

doors. This was the entrance to the gaol, and over it a lamp was fixed,

the light enabling the wretched traveller to find a bell-pull.

The small wicket at last opened, and a porter appeared. Boldwood

stepped forward, and said something in a low tone, when, after a delay,

another man came. Boldwood entered, and the door was closed behind him,

and he walked the world no more.

Long before this time Weatherbury had been thoroughly aroused, and the

wild deed which had terminated Boldwood’s merrymaking became known to

all. Of those out of the house Oak was one of the first to hear of the

catastrophe, and when he entered the room, which was about five minutes

after Boldwood’s exit, the scene was terrible. All the female guests

were huddled aghast against the walls like sheep in a storm, and the

men were bewildered as to what to do. As for Bathsheba, she had

changed. She was sitting on the floor beside the body of Troy, his head

pillowed in her lap, where she had herself lifted it. With one hand she

held her handkerchief to his breast and covered the wound, though

scarcely a single drop of blood had flowed, and with the other she

tightly clasped one of his. The household convulsion had made her

herself again. The temporary coma had ceased, and activity had come

with the necessity for it. Deeds of endurance, which seem ordinary in

philosophy, are rare in conduct, and Bathsheba was astonishing all

around her now, for her philosophy was her conduct, and she seldom

thought practicable what she did not practise. She was of the stuff of

which great men’s mothers are made. She was indispensable to high

generation, feared at tea parties, hated in shops, and loved at crises.

Troy in his recumbent wife’s lap formed now the sole spectacle in the

middle of the spacious room.

“Gabriel,” she said, automatically, when he entered, turning up a face

of which only the well-known lines remained to tell him it was hers,

all else in the picture having faded quite. “Ride to Casterbridge

instantly for a surgeon. It is, I believe, useless, but go. Mr.

Boldwood has shot my husband.”

Her statement of the fact in such quiet and simple words came with more

force than a tragic declamation, and had somewhat the effect of setting

the distorted images in each mind present into proper focus. Oak,

almost before he had comprehended anything beyond the briefest abstract

of the event, hurried out of the room, saddled a horse and rode away.

Not till he had ridden more than a mile did it occur to him that he

would have done better by sending some other man on this errand,

remaining himself in the house. What had become of Boldwood? He should

have been looked after. Was he mad—had there been a quarrel? Then how

had Troy got there? Where had he come from? How did this remarkable

reappearance come to pass when he was supposed to be at the bottom of

the sea? Oak had in some slight measure been prepared for the presence

of Troy by hearing a rumour of his return just before entering

Boldwood’s house; but before he had weighed that information, this

fatal event had been superimposed. However, it was too late now to

think of sending another messenger, and he rode on, in the excitement

of these self-inquiries not discerning, when about three miles from

Casterbridge, a square-figured pedestrian passing along under the dark

hedge in the same direction as his own.

The miles necessary to be traversed, and other hindrances incidental to

the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, delayed the

arrival of Mr. Granthead, the surgeon; and more than three hours passed

between the time at which the shot was fired and that of his entering

the house. Oak was additionally detained in Casterbridge through having

to give notice to the authorities of what had happened; and he then

found that Boldwood had also entered the town, and delivered himself

up.

In the meantime the surgeon, having hastened into the hall at

Boldwood’s, found it in darkness and quite deserted. He went on to the

back of the house, where he discovered in the kitchen an old man, of

whom he made inquiries.

“She’s had him took away to her own house, sir,” said his informant.

“Who has?” said the doctor.

“Mrs. Troy. ’A was quite dead, sir.”

This was astonishing information. “She had no right to do that,” said

the doctor. “There will have to be an inquest, and she should have

waited to know what to do.”

“Yes, sir; it was hinted to her that she had better wait till the law

was known. But she said law was nothing to her, and she wouldn’t let

her dear husband’s corpse bide neglected for folks to stare at for all

the crowners in England.”

Mr. Granthead drove at once back again up the hill to Bathsheba’s. The

first person he met was poor Liddy, who seemed literally to have

dwindled smaller in these few latter hours. “What has been done?” he

said.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Liddy, with suspended breath. “My mistress

has done it all.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs with him, sir. When he was brought home and taken upstairs,

she said she wanted no further help from the men. And then she called

me, and made me fill the bath, and after that told me I had better go

and lie down because I looked so ill. Then she locked herself into the

room alone with him, and would not let a nurse come in, or anybody at

all. But I thought I’d wait in the next room in case she should want

me. I heard her moving about inside for more than an hour, but she only

came out once, and that was for more candles, because hers had burnt

down into the socket. She said we were to let her know when you or Mr.

Thirdly came, sir.”

Oak entered with the parson at this moment, and they all went upstairs

together, preceded by Liddy Smallbury. Everything was silent as the

grave when they paused on the landing. Liddy knocked, and Bathsheba’s

dress was heard rustling across the room: the key turned in the lock,

and she opened the door. Her looks were calm and nearly rigid, like a

slightly animated bust of Melpomene.

“Oh, Mr. Granthead, you have come at last,” she murmured from her lips

merely, and threw back the door. “Ah, and Mr. Thirdly. Well, all is

done, and anybody in the world may see him now.” She then passed by

him, crossed the landing, and entered another room.

Looking into the chamber of death she had vacated they saw by the light

of the candles which were on the drawers a tall straight shape lying at

the further end of the bedroom, wrapped in white. Everything around was

quite orderly. The doctor went in, and after a few minutes returned to

the landing again, where Oak and the parson still waited.

“It is all done, indeed, as she says,” remarked Mr. Granthead, in a

subdued voice. “The body has been undressed and properly laid out in

grave clothes. Gracious heaven—this mere girl! She must have the nerve

of a stoic!”

“The heart of a wife merely,” floated in a whisper about the ears of

the three, and turning they saw Bathsheba in the midst of them. Then as

if at that instant to prove that her fortitude had been more of will

than of spontaneity, she silently sank down between them and was a

shapeless heap of drapery on the floor. The simple consciousness that

superhuman strain was no longer required had at once put a period to

her power to continue it.

They took her away into a further room, and the medical attendance

which had been useless in Troy’s case was invaluable in Bathsheba’s,

who fell into a series of fainting-fits that had a serious aspect for a

time. The sufferer was got to bed, and Oak, finding from the bulletins

that nothing really dreadful was to be apprehended on her score, left

the house. Liddy kept watch in Bathsheba’s chamber, where she heard her

mistress, moaning in whispers through the dull slow hours of that

wretched night: “Oh, it is my fault—how can I live! Oh Heaven, how can

I live!”

CHAPTER XXV.

THE MARCH FOLLOWING—“BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD”

We pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day without

sunshine, frost, or dew. On Yallbury Hill, about midway between

Weatherbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over the

crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of the

greater number being frequently stretched afar in a northerly

direction. The groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of

javelin-men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one

of which contained the high sheriff. With the idlers, many of whom had

mounted to the top of a cutting formed for the road, were several

Weatherbury men and boys—among others Poorgrass, Coggan, and Cain Ball.

At the end of half an hour a faint dust was seen in the expected

quarter, and shortly after a travelling-carriage, bringing one of the

two judges on that circuit came up the hill and halted on the top. The

judge changed carriages whilst a flourish was blown by the big-cheeked

trumpeters, and a procession being formed of the vehicles and

javelin-men, they all proceeded towards the town, excepting the

Weatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off

returned home again to their work.

“Joseph, I seed you squeezing close to the carriage,” said Coggan, as

they walked. “Did ye notice my lord judge’s face?”

“I did,” said Poorgrass. “I looked hard at en, as if I would read his

very soul; and there was mercy in his eyes—or to speak with the exact

truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was towards

me.”

“Well, I hope for the best,” said Coggan, though bad that must be.

However, I sha’n’t go to the trial, and I’d advise the rest of ye that

bain’t wanted to bide away. ’Twill disturb his mind more than anything

to see us there staring at him as if he were a show.”

“The very thing I said this morning,” observed Joseph. “‘Justice is

come to weigh him in the balance,’ I said in my reflectious way, ‘and

if he’s found wanting, so be it unto him,’ and a bystander said ‘Hear,

hear! A man who can talk like that ought to be heard.’ But I don’t like

dwelling upon it, for my few words are my few words, and not much;

though the speech of some men is rumoured abroad as though by nature

formed for such.”

“So ’tis, Joseph. And now, neighbours, as I said, every man bide at

home.”

The resolution was adhered to; and all waited anxiously for the news

next day. Their suspense was diverted, however, by a discovery which

was made in the afternoon, throwing more light on Boldwood’s conduct

and condition than any details which had preceded it.

That he had been from the time of Greenhill Fair until the fatal

Christmas Eve in excited and unusual moods was known to those who had

been intimate with him; but nobody imagined that there had shown

unequivocal symptoms of the mental derangement which Bathsheba and

Troy, alone of all others and at different times, had momentarily

suspected. In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary

collection of articles. There were several sets of ladies’ dresses in

the piece, of sundry expensive materials; silks and satins, poplins and

velvets, all of colours which from Bathsheba’s style of dress might

have been judged to be her favourites. There were two muffs, sable and

ermine. Above all there was a case of jewellery, containing four heavy

gold bracelets and several lockets and rings, all of fine quality and

manufacture. These things had been bought in Bath and other towns from

time to time, and brought home by stealth. They were all carefully

packed in paper, and each package was labelled “Bathsheba Boldwood,” a

date being subjoined six years in advance in every instance.

These somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed with care and love

were the subject of discourse in Warren’s malthouse when Oak entered

from Casterbridge with tidings of the sentence. He came in the

afternoon, and his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale

sufficiently well. Boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had

pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death.

The conviction that Boldwood had not been morally responsible for his

later acts now became general. Facts elicited previous to the trial had

pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had not been of

sufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination into the state

of Boldwood’s mind. It was astonishing, now that a presumption of

insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances were remembered

to which a condition of mental disease seemed to afford the only

explanation—among others, the unprecedented neglect of his corn stacks

in the previous summer.

A petition was addressed to the Home Secretary, advancing the

circumstances which appeared to justify a request for a reconsideration

of the sentence. It was not “numerously signed” by the inhabitants of

Casterbridge, as is usual in such cases, for Boldwood had never made

many friends over the counter. The shops thought it very natural that a

man who, by importing direct from the producer, had daringly set aside

the first great principle of provincial existence, namely, that God

made country villages to supply customers to county towns, should have

confused ideas about the Decalogue. The prompters were a few merciful

men who had perhaps too feelingly considered the facts latterly

unearthed, and the result was that evidence was taken which it was

hoped might remove the crime, in a moral point of view, out of the

category of wilful murder, and lead it to be regarded as a sheer

outcome of madness.

The upshot of the petition was waited for in Weatherbury with

solicitous interest. The execution had been fixed for eight o’clock on

a Saturday morning about a fortnight after the sentence was passed, and

up to Friday afternoon no answer had been received. At that time

Gabriel came from Casterbridge Gaol, whither he had been to wish

Boldwood good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the town. When

past the last house he heard a hammering, and lifting his bowed head he

looked back for a moment. Over the chimneys he could see the upper part

of the gaol entrance, rich and glowing in the afternoon sun, and some

moving figures were there. They were carpenters lifting a post into a

vertical position within the parapet. He withdrew his eyes quickly, and

hastened on.

It was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to meet

him.

“No tidings,” Gabriel said, wearily. “And I’m afraid there’s no hope.

I’ve been with him more than two hours.”

“Do ye think he _really_ was out of his mind when he did it?” said

Smallbury.

“I can’t honestly say that I do,” Oak replied. “However, that we can

talk of another time. Has there been any change in mistress this

afternoon?”

“None at all.”

“Is she downstairs?”

“No. And getting on so nicely as she was too. She’s but very little

better now again than she was a-Christmas. She keeps on asking if you

be come, and if there’s news, till one’s wearied out wi’ answering her.

Shall I go and say you’ve come?”

“No,” said Oak. “There’s a chance yet; but I couldn’t stay in town any

longer—after seeing him too. So Laban—Laban is here, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Tall.

“What I’ve arranged is, that you shall ride to town the last thing

to-night; leave here about nine, and wait a while there, getting home

about twelve. If nothing has been received by eleven to-night, they say

there’s no chance at all.”

“I do so hope his life will be spared,” said Liddy. “If it is not,

she’ll go out of her mind too. Poor thing; her sufferings have been

dreadful; she deserves anybody’s pity.”

“Is she altered much?” said Coggan.

“If you haven’t seen poor mistress since Christmas, you wouldn’t know

her,” said Liddy. “Her eyes are so miserable that she’s not the same

woman. Only two years ago she was a romping girl, and now she’s this!”

Laban departed as directed, and at eleven o’clock that night several of

the villagers strolled along the road to Casterbridge and awaited his

arrival—among them Oak, and nearly all the rest of Bathsheba’s men.

Gabriel’s anxiety was great that Boldwood might be saved even though in

his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had been

qualities in the farmer which Oak loved. At last, when they all were

weary the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance—

“First dead, as if on turf it trode,

Then, clattering, on the village road

In other pace than forth he yode.”

“We shall soon know now, one way or other,” said Coggan, and they all

stepped down from the bank on which they had been standing into the

road, and the rider pranced into the midst of them.

“Is that you, Laban?” said Gabriel.

“Yes—’tis come. He’s not to die. ’Tis confinement during her Majesty’s

pleasure.”

“Hurrah!” said Coggan, with a swelling heart. “God’s above the devil

yet!”

CHAPTER XXVI.

BEAUTY IN LONELINESS—AFTER ALL

Bathsheba revived with the spring. The utter prostration that had

followed the low fever from which she had suffered diminished

perceptibly when all uncertainty upon every subject had come to an end.

But she remained alone now for the greater part of her time, and stayed

in the house, or at furthest went into the garden. She shunned every

one, even Liddy, and could be brought to make no confidences, and to

ask for no sympathy.

As the summer drew on she passed more of her time in the open air, and

began to examine into farming matters from sheer necessity, though she

never rode out or personally superintended as at former times. One

Friday evening in August she walked a little way along the road and

entered the orchard for the first time since the sombre event of the

preceding Christmas. None of the old colour had as yet come to her

cheek, and its absolute paleness was heightened by the jet black of her

dress till it appeared preternatural. When she reached the gate at the

other end of the orchard, which opened nearly opposite to the

churchyard, Bathsheba heard singing inside the church, and she knew

that the singers were practising. She opened the gate, crossed the road

and entered the graveyard, the high sills of the church windows

effectually screening her from the eyes of those gathered within. Her

stealthy walk was to the nook wherein Troy had worked at planting

flowers upon Fanny Robin’s grave, and she came to the marble tombstone.

A motion of satisfaction enlivened her face as she read the complete

inscription. First came the words of Troy himself:—

ERECTED BY FRANCIS TROY

IN MEMORY OF

FANNY ROBIN,

WHO DIED OCTOBER 9, 18—,

AGED 20 YEARS.

Underneath this was now inscribed in new letters:—

IN THE SAME GRAVE LIE

THE REMAINS OF THE AFORESAID

FRANCIS TROY,

WHO DIED DECEMBER 24TH, 18—,

AGED 26 YEARS.

Whilst she stood and read and meditated the tones of the organ began

again in the church, and she went with the same light step round to the

porch and listened. The door was closed, and the choir was learning a

new hymn. Bathsheba was stirred by emotions which latterly she had

assumed to be altogether dead within her. The little attenuated voices

of the children brought to her ear in distinct utterance the words they

sang without thought or comprehension—

“Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on.”

Bathsheba’s feeling was always to some extent dependent upon her whim,

as is the case with many other women. Something big came into her

throat and an uprising to her eyes—and she thought that she would allow

the imminent tears to flow if they wished. They did flow and

plenteously, and one fell upon the stone bench beside her. Once that

she had begun to cry for she hardly knew what, she could not leave off

for crowding thoughts she knew too well. She would have given anything

in the world to be, as those children were, unconcerned at the meaning

of their words, because too innocent to feel the necessity for any such

expression. All the impassioned scenes of her brief experience seemed

to revive with added emotion at that moment, and those scenes which had

been without emotion during enactment had emotion then. Yet grief came

to her rather as a luxury than as the scourge of former times.

Owing to Bathsheba’s face being buried in her hands she did not notice

a form which came quietly into the porch, and on seeing her, first

moved as if to retreat, then paused and regarded her. Bathsheba did not

raise her head for some time, and when she looked round her face was

wet, and her eyes drowned and dim. “Mr. Oak,” exclaimed she,

disconcerted, “how long have you been here?”

“A few minutes, ma’am,” said Oak, respectfully.

“Are you going in?” said Bathsheba; and there came from within the

church as from a prompter—

“I loved the garish day; in spite of fears

Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.”

“I was,” said Gabriel. “I am one of the bass singers, you know. I have

sung bass for several months.”

“Indeed: I wasn’t aware of that. I’ll leave you, then.”

“Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile,”

sang the children.

“Don’t let me drive you away, mistress. I think I won’t go in

to-night.”

“Oh no—you don’t drive me away.”

Then they stood in a state of some embarrassment, Bathsheba trying to

wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without his noticing

her. At length Oak said, “I’ve not seen you—I mean spoken to you—since

ever so long, have I?” But he feared to bring distressing memories

back, and interrupted himself with: “Were you going into church?”

“No,” she said. I came to see the tombstone privately—to see if they

had cut the inscription as I wished. Mr. Oak, you needn’t mind speaking

to me, if you wish to, on the matter which is in both our minds at this

moment.”

“And have they done it as you wished?” said Oak.

“Yes. Come and see it, if you have not already.”

So together they went and read the tomb. “Eight months ago!” Gabriel

murmured when he saw the date. “It seems like yesterday to me.”

“And to me as if it were years ago—long years, and I had been dead

between. And now I am going home, Mr. Oak.”

Oak walked after her. “I wanted to name a small matter to you as soon

as I could,” he said, with hesitation. “Merrily about business, and I

think I may just mention it now, if you’ll allow me.”

“Oh yes, certainly.”

“It is that I may soon have to give up the management of your farm,

Mrs. Troy. The fact is, I am thinking of leaving England—not yet, you

know—next spring.”

“Leaving England!” she said in surprise and genuine disappointment.

“Why, Gabriel, what are you going to do that for?”

“Well, I’ve thought it best,” Oak stammered out. “California is the

spot I’ve had in my mind to try.”

“But it is understood everywhere that you are going to take the Lower

Farm on your own account.”

“I’ve had the refusal o’ it ’tis true; but nothing is settled yet, and

I have reasons for giving up. I shall finish out my year there as

manager for the trustees, but no more.”

“And what shall I do without you? Oh, Gabriel, I don’t think you ought

to go away! You’ve been with me so long—through bright times and dark

times—such old friends as we are—that it seems unkind almost. I had

fancied that if you leased the other farm as master, you might still

give a helping look across at mine. And now going away!”

“I would have willingly.”

“Yet now that I am more helpless than ever you go away.”

“Yes, that’s the ill fortune o’ it,” said Gabriel, in a distressed

tone. “And it is because of that very helplessness that I feel bound to

go. Good afternoon, ma’am.” He concluded, in evident anxiety to get

away, and at once went out of the churchyard by a path she could follow

on no pretence whatever.

Bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with a new trouble, which being

rather harassing than deadly was calculated to do good by diverting her

from the chronic gloom of her life. She was set thinking a great deal

about Oak and of his wish to shun her; and there occurred to Bathsheba

several incidents of latter intercourse with him, which trivial when

singly viewed, amounted together to a perceptible disinclination for

her society. It broke upon her at length as a great pain that her last

old disciple was about to forsake her and flee. He who had believed in

her and argued on her side when all the rest of the world was against

her, had at last like the others become weary and neglectful of the old

cause, and was leaving her to fight her battles alone.

Three weeks went on, and more evidence of his want of interest in her

was forthcoming. She noticed that instead of entering the small parlour

or office where the farm accounts were kept, and waiting, or leaving a

memorandum as he had hitherto done during her seclusion, Oak never came

at all when she was likely to be there, only entering at unseasonable

hours when her presence in that part of the house was least to be

expected. Whenever he wanted directions he sent a message, or note with

neither heading nor signature, to which she was obliged to reply in the

same off-hand style. Poor Bathsheba began to suffer now from the most

torturing sting of all—a sensation that she was despised.

The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these melancholy conjectures,

and Christmas-day came, completing a year of her legal widowhood, and

two years and a quarter of her life alone. On examining her heart it

appeared beyond measure strange that the subject of which the season

might have been supposed suggestive—the event in the hall at

Boldwood’s—was not agitating her at all; but instead, an agonizing

conviction that everybody abjured her—for what she could not tell—and

that Oak was the ringleader of the recusants. Coming out of church that

day she looked round in hope that Oak, whose bass voice she had heard

rolling out from the gallery overhead in a most unconcerned manner,

might chance to linger in her path in the old way. There he was, as

usual, coming up the path behind her. But on seeing Bathsheba turn, he

looked aside, and as soon as he got beyond the gate, and there was the

barest excuse for a divergence, he made one, and vanished.

The next morning brought the culminating stroke; she had been expecting

it long. It was a formal notice by letter from him that he should not

renew his engagement with her for the following Lady-day.

Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter most bitterly. She

was aggrieved and wounded that the possession of hopeless love from

Gabriel, which she had grown to regard as her inalienable right for

life, should have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in this way.

She was bewildered too by the prospect of having to rely on her own

resources again: it seemed to herself that she never could again

acquire energy sufficient to go to market, barter, and sell. Since

Troy’s death Oak had attended all sales and fairs for her, transacting

her business at the same time with his own. What should she do now! Her

life was becoming a desolation.

So desolate was Bathsheba this evening, that in an absolute hunger for

pity and sympathy, and miserable in that she appeared to have outlived

the only true friendship she had ever owned, she put on her bonnet and

cloak and went down to Oak’s house just after sunset, guided on her way

by the pale primrose rays of a crescent moon a few days old.

A lively firelight shone from the window, but nobody was visible in the

room. She tapped nervously, and then thought it doubtful if it were

right for a single woman to call upon a bachelor who lived alone,

although he was her manager and she might be supposed to call on

business without any real impropriety. Gabriel opened the door, and the

moon shone upon his forehead.

“Mr. Oak,” said Bathsheba, faintly.

“Yes; I am Mr. Oak,” said Gabriel. “Who have I the honour—Oh! how

stupid of me, not to know you, mistress!”

“I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall I Gabriel?” she said,

in pathetic tones.

“Well, no. I suppose—But come in, ma’am. Oh—and I’ll get a light,” Oak

replied, with some awkwardness.

“No; not on my account.”

“It is so seldom that I get a lady visitor that I’m afraid I haven’t

proper accommodation. Will you sit down, please? Here’s a chair, and

there’s one, too. I am sorry that my chairs all have wood seats, and

are rather hard, but I—was thinking of getting some new ones.” Oak

placed two or three for her.

“They are quite easy enough for me.”

So down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dancing in their faces, and

upon

“The few worn-out traps, all a-sheenen

With long years of handlen,”

that formed Oak’s array of household possessions, which sent back a

dancing reflection in reply. It was very odd to these two persons, who

knew each other passing well, that the mere circumstance of their

meeting in a new place and in a new way should make them so awkward and

constrained. In the fields, or at her house, there had never been any

embarrassment; but now that Oak had become the entertainer their lives

seemed to be moved back again to the days when they were strangers.

“You’ll think it strange that I have come, but—”

“Oh, no; not at all!”

“But I thought—Gabriel, I have been uneasy in the belief that I have

offended you, and that you are going away on that account. It grieved

me very much, and I couldn’t help coming.”

“Offended me! As if you could do that, Bathsheba!”

“Haven’t I?” she asked, gladly. “But, what are you going away for

else?”

“I am not going to emigrate, you know; I wasn’t aware that you would

wish me not to when I told ye, or I shouldn’t ha’ thought of doing it,”

he said, simply. “I have arranged for Lower Farm, and shall have it in

my own hands at Lady-day. You know I’ve had a share in it for some

time. Still, that wouldn’t prevent my attending to your business as

before, hadn’t it been that things have been said about us.”

“What?” said Bathsheba, in surprise. “Things said about you and me!

What are they?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“It would be wiser if you were to, I think. You have played the part of

mentor to me many times, and I don’t see why you should fear to do it

now.”

“It is nothing that you have done, this time. The top and tail o’t is

this—that I am sniffing about here, and waiting for poor Boldwood’s

farm, with a thought of getting you some day.”

“Getting me! What does that mean?”

“Marrying o’ ye, in plain British. You asked me to tell, so you mustn’t

blame me.”

Bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if a cannon had been

discharged by her ear, which was what Oak had expected. “Marrying me! I

didn’t know it was that you meant,” she said, quietly. “Such a thing as

that is too absurd—too soon—to think of, by far!”

“Yes; of course, it is too absurd. I don’t desire any such thing; I

should think that was visible enough by this time. Surely, surely you

be the last person in the world I think of marrying. It is too absurd,

as you say.”

“‘Too—s-s-soon’ were the words I used.”

“I must beg your pardon for correcting you, but you said, ‘too absurd,’

and so do I.”

“I beg your pardon too!” she returned, with tears in her eyes. “‘Too

soon’ was what I said. But it doesn’t matter a bit—not at all—but I

only meant, ‘too soon.’ Indeed, I didn’t, Mr. Oak, and you must believe

me!”

Gabriel looked her long in the face, but the firelight being faint

there was not much to be seen. “Bathsheba,” he said, tenderly and in

surprise, and coming closer: “if I only knew one thing—whether you

would allow me to love you and win you, and marry you after all—if I

only knew that!”

“But you never will know,” she murmured.

“Why?”

“Because you never ask.”

“Oh—Oh!” said Gabriel, with a low laugh of joyousness. “My own dear—”

“You ought not to have sent me that harsh letter this morning,” she

interrupted. “It shows you didn’t care a bit about me, and were ready

to desert me like all the rest of them! It was very cruel of you,

considering I was the first sweetheart that you ever had, and you were

the first I ever had; and I shall not forget it!”

“Now, Bathsheba, was ever anybody so provoking?” he said, laughing.

“You know it was purely that I, as an unmarried man, carrying on a

business for you as a very taking young woman, had a proper hard part

to play—more particularly that people knew I had a sort of feeling for

ye; and I fancied, from the way we were mentioned together, that it

might injure your good name. Nobody knows the heat and fret I have been

caused by it.”

“And was that all?”

“All.”

“Oh, how glad I am I came!” she exclaimed, thankfully, as she rose from

her seat. “I have thought so much more of you since I fancied you did

not want even to see me again. But I must be going now, or I shall be

missed. Why Gabriel,” she said, with a slight laugh, as they went to

the door, “it seems exactly as if I had come courting you—how

dreadful!”

“And quite right too,” said Oak. “I’ve danced at your skittish heels,

my beautiful Bathsheba, for many a long mile, and many a long day; and

it is hard to begrudge me this one visit.”

He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of his

forthcoming tenure of the Lower Farm. They spoke very little of their

mutual feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably

unnecessary between such tried friends. Theirs was that substantial

affection which arises (if any arises at all) when the two who are

thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each

other’s character, and not the best till further on, the romance

growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality. This

good-fellowship—_camaraderie_—usually occurring through similarity of

pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes,

because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their

pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its

development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love

which is strong as death—that love which many waters cannot quench, nor

the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name

is evanescent as steam.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A FOGGY NIGHT AND MORNING—CONCLUSION

“The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to

have.”

Those had been Bathsheba’s words to Oak one evening, some time after

the event of the preceding chapter, and he meditated a full hour by the

clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter.

“A licence—Oh yes, it must be a licence,” he said to himself at last.

“Very well, then; first, a licence.”

On a dark night, a few days later, Oak came with mysterious steps from

the surrogate’s door, in Casterbridge. On the way home he heard a heavy

tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to be Coggan.

They walked together into the village until they came to a little lane

behind the church, leading down to the cottage of Laban Tall, who had

lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and was yet in mortal

terror at church on Sundays when he heard his lone voice among certain

hard words of the Psalms, whither no man ventured to follow him.

“Well, good night, Coggan,” said Oak, “I’m going down this way.”

“Oh!” said Coggan, surprised; “what’s going on to-night then, make so

bold, Mr. Oak?”

It seemed rather ungenerous not to tell Coggan, under the

circumstances, for Coggan had been true as steel all through the time

of Gabriel’s unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, “You can

keep a secret, Coggan?”

“You’ve proved me, and you know.”

“Yes, I have, and I do know. Well, then, mistress and I mean to get

married to-morrow morning.”

“Heaven’s high tower! And yet I’ve thought of such a thing from time to

time; true, I have. But keeping it so close! Well, there, ’tis no

consarn of mine, and I wish ye joy o’ her.”

“Thank you, Coggan. But I assure ye that this great hush is not what I

wished for at all, or what either of us would have wished if it hadn’t

been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seem hardly the

thing. Bathsheba has a great wish that all the parish shall not be in

church, looking at her—she’s sky-like and nervous about it, in fact—so

I be doing this to humour her.”

“Ay, I see: quite right, too, I suppose I must say. And you be now

going down to the clerk.”

“Yes; you may as well come with me.”

“I am afeard your labour in keeping it close will be throwed away,”

said Coggan, as they walked along. “Labe Tall’s old woman will horn it

all over parish in half an hour.”

“So she will, upon my life; I never thought of that,” said Oak,

pausing. “Yet I must tell him to-night, I suppose, for he’s working so

far off, and leaves early.”

“I’ll tell ye how we could tackle her,” said Coggan. “I’ll knock and

ask to speak to Laban outside the door, you standing in the background.

Then he’ll come out, and you can tell yer tale. She’ll never guess what

I want en for; and I’ll make up a few words about the farm-work, as a

blind.”

This scheme was considered feasible; and Coggan advanced boldly, and

rapped at Mrs. Tall’s door. Mrs. Tall herself opened it.

“I wanted to have a word with Laban.”

“He’s not at home, and won’t be this side of eleven o’clock. He’ve been

forced to go over to Yalbury since shutting out work. I shall do quite

as well.”

“I hardly think you will. Stop a moment.” And Coggan stepped round the

corner of the porch to consult Oak.

“Who’s t’other man, then?” said Mrs. Tall.

“Only a friend,” said Coggan.

“Say he’s wanted to meet mistress near church-hatch to-morrow morning

at ten,” said Oak, in a whisper. “That he must come without fail, and

wear his best clothes.”

“The clothes will floor us as safe as houses!” said Coggan.

“It can’t be helped,” said Oak. “Tell her.”

So Coggan delivered the message. “Mind, het or wet, blow or snow, he

must come,” added Jan. “’Tis very particular, indeed. The fact is ’tis

to witness her sign some law-work about taking shares wi’ another

farmer for a long span o’ years. There, that’s what ’tis, and now I’ve

told ye, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn’t ha’ done if I hadn’t loved

ye so hopeless well.”

Coggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they called

at the vicar’s in a way which excited no curiosity at all. Then Gabriel

went home, and prepared for the morrow.

“Liddy,” said Bathsheba, on going to bed that night, “I want you to

call me at seven o’clock to-morrow, in case I shouldn’t wake.”

“But you always do wake afore then, ma’am.”

“Yes, but I have something important to do, which I’ll tell you of when

the time comes, and it’s best to make sure.”

Bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she by any

contrivance get to sleep again. About six, being quite positive that

her watch had stopped during the night, she could wait no longer. She

went and tapped at Liddy’s door, and after some labour awoke her.

“But I thought it was I who had to call you?” said the bewildered

Liddy. “And it isn’t six yet.”

Indeed it is; how can you tell such a story, Liddy? I know it must be

ever so much past seven. Come to my room as soon as you can; I want you

to give my hair a good brushing.”

When Liddy came to Bathsheba’s room her mistress was already waiting.

Liddy could not understand this extraordinary promptness. “Whatever

_is_ going on, ma’am?” she said.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Bathsheba, with a mischievous smile in her

bright eyes. “Farmer Oak is coming here to dine with me to-day!”

“Farmer Oak—and nobody else?—you two alone?”

“Yes.”

“But is it safe, ma’am?” said her companion, dubiously. “A woman’s good

name is such a perishable article that——”

Bathsheba laughed with a flushed cheek, and whispered in Liddy’s ear,

although there was nobody present. Then Liddy stared and exclaimed,

“Souls alive, what news! It makes my heart go quite bumpity-bump!”

“It makes mine rather furious, too,” said Bathsheba. “However, there’s

no getting out of it now.”

It was a damp disagreeable morning. Nevertheless, at twenty minutes to

ten o’clock, Oak came out of his house, and

“Went up the hill side

With that sort of stride

A man puts out when walking in search of a bride,”

and knocked Bathsheba’s door. Ten minutes later two large umbrellas

might have been seen moving from the same door, and through the mist

along the road to the church. The distance was not more than a hundred

yards, and these two sensible persons deemed it unnecessary to drive.

An observer must have been very close indeed to discover that the forms

under the umbrellas were those of Oak and Bathsheba, arm-in-arm for the

first time in their lives, Oak in a great coat extending to his knees,

and Bathsheba in a cloak that reached her clogs. Yet, though so plainly

dressed, there was a certain rejuvenated appearance about her:—

“As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.”

Repose had again incarnadined her cheeks; and having, at Gabriel’s

request, arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago on

Norcombe Hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like the girl of that

fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now only three or

four-and-twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful. In the church were

Tall, Liddy, and the parson, and in a remarkably short space of time

the deed was done.

The two sat down very quietly to tea in Bathsheba’s parlour in the

evening of the same day, for it had been arranged that Farmer Oak

should go there to live, since he had as yet neither money, house, nor

furniture worthy of the name, though he was on a sure way towards them,

whilst Bathsheba was, comparatively, in a plethora of all three.

Just as Bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears were greeted

by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like a tremendous

blowing of trumpets, in the front of the house.

“There!” said Oak, laughing, “I knew those fellows were up to

something, by the look on their faces.”

Oak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by Bathsheba

with a shawl over her head. The rays fell upon a group of male figures

gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw the newly-married

couple in the porch, set up a loud “Hurrah!” and at the same moment

bang again went the cannon in the background, followed by a hideous

clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarionet, serpent, hautboy,

tenor-viol, and double-bass—the only remaining relics of the true and

original Weatherbury band—venerable worm-eaten instruments, which had

celebrated in their own persons the victories of Marlhorough, under the

fingers of the forefathers of those who played them now. The performers

came forward, and marched up to the front.

“Those bright boys, Mark Clark and Jan are at the bottom of all this,”

said Oak. “Come in, souls, and have something to eat and drink wi’ me

and my wife.”

“Not to-night,” said Mr. Clark, with evident self-denial. “Thank ye all

the same; but we’ll call at a more seemly time. However, we couldn’t

think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration of some

sort. If ye could send a drop of som’at down to Warren’s, why so it is.

Here’s long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and his comely bride!”

“Thank ye; thank ye all,” said Gabriel. “A bit and a drop shall be sent

to Warren’s for ye at once. I had a thought that we might very likely

get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was saying so to

my wife but now.”

“Faith,” said Coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his companions,

“the man hev learnt to say ‘my wife’ in a wonderful naterel way,

considering how very youthful he is in wedlock as yet—hey, neighbours

all?”

“I never heerd a skilful old married feller of twenty years’ standing

pipe ‘my wife’ in a more used note than ’a did,” said Jacob Smallbury.

“It might have been a little more true to nater if ’t had been spoke a

little chillier, but that wasn’t to be expected just now.”

“That improvement will come with time,” said Jan, twirling his eye.

Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readily

now), and their friends turned to go.

“Yes; I suppose that’s the size o’t,” said Joseph Poorgrass with a

cheerful sigh as they moved away; “and I wish him joy o’ her; though I

were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in my scripture

manner, which is my second nature. ‘Ephraim is joined to idols: let him

alone.’ But since ’tis as ’tis why, it might have been worse, and I

feel my thanks accordingly.”

THE END