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 thing not worth doing now.
"I should think Laban must have seen mistress by
this time." said Smallbury, breaking the silence. "Per-
haps 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 her-
self, 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 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, conditionally, of course, on my being a widow."
"You'll marry me between five and six years hence?"
"Don't press me too hard. I'll marry nobody
else."
"But surely you will name the time, or there's nothing
in the promise at all?"
O, I don't know, pray let me go!" she said, her
bosom beginning to rise. "I am afraid what to do!
want to be just to you, and to be that seems to be wrong-
ing myself, and perhaps it is breaking the commandments.
There is considerable doubt of his death, and then it
is dreadful; let me ask a solicitor, Mr. Boldwood, if I
ought or no!"
"Say the words, dear one, and the subject shall be
dismissed; a blissful loving intimacy of six years, and
then marriage - O Bathsheba, say them!" he begged in
a husky voice, unable to sustain the forms of mere
friendship any longer. "Promise yourself to me; I
deserve it, indeed I do, for I have loved you more than
anybody in the world! And if I said hasty words and
showed uncalled-for heat of manner towards you, believe
me, dear, I did not mean to distress you; I was in
agony, Bathsheba, and I did not know what I said.
You wouldn't let a dog suffer what I have suffered,
could you but know it! Sometimes I shrink from your
knowing what I have felt for you, and sometimes I am
distressed that all of it you never will know. Be
gracious, and give up a little to me, when I would give
up my life for you!"
The trimmings of her dress, as they quivered against
the light, showed how agitated she was, and at last she
burst out crying. 'And you'll not - press me - about
anything more - if I say in five or six years?" she
sobbed, when she had power to frame the words.
"Yes, then I'll leave it to time."
"Very well. If he does not return, 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 ex-
claimed, on seeing what he held; "besides, I wouldn't
have a soul know that it's an engagement! Perhaps it
is improper? Besides, we are not engaged in the usual
sense, are we? Don't insist, Mr. Boldwood - don't!"
In her trouble at not being able to get her hand away
from him at once, she stamped passionately on the floor
with one foot, and tears crowded to her eyes again.
"It means simply a pledge - no sentiment - the seal
of a practical compact." he said more quietly, but still
retaining her hand in his firm grasp. "Come, now!"
And Boldwood slipped the ring on her finger.
"I cannot wear it." she said, weeping as if her heart
would break. "You frighten me, almost. So wild a
scheme! Please let me go home!"
"Only to-night: wear it just to-night, to please me!"
Bathsheba sat down in a chair, and buried her face
in her handkerchief, though Boldwood kept her hand
yet. At length she said, in a sort of hopeless whisper -
"Very well, then, I will to-night, if you wish it so
earnestly. Now loosen my hand; I will, indeed I will
wear it to-night."
"And it shall be the beginning of a pleasant secret
courtship of six years, with a wedding at the end?"
"It must be, I suppose, since you will have it so!"
she said, fairly beaten into non-resistance.
Boldwood pressed her hand, and allowed it to drop
in her lap. "I am happy now." he said. "God bless
you!"
He left the room, and when he thought she might
be sufficiently composed sent one of the maids to her
Bathsheba cloaked the effects of the late scene as she
best could, followed the girl, and in a few moments
came downstairs with her hat and cloak on, ready to go.
To get to the door it was necessary to pass through the
hall, and before doing so she paused on the bottom of
the staircase which descended into one corner, to take
a last look at the gathering.
There was no music or dancing in progress just now.
At the lower end, which had been arranged for the work-
folk specially, a group conversed in whispers, and with
clouded looks. Boldwood was standing by the fireplace,
and he, too, though so absorbed in visions arising from
her promise that he scarcely saw anything, seemed at
that moment to have observed their peculiar manner,
and their looks askance.
"What is it you are in doubt about, men?" he said.
One of them turned and replied uneasily: "It was
something Laban heard of, that's all, sir."
"News? Anybody married or engaged, born or
dead?" inquired the farmer, gaily. "Tell it to us, Tall.
One would think from your looks and mysterious ways
that it was something very dreadful indeed."
"O no, sir, nobody is dead." said Tall.
"I wish somebody was." said Samway, in a whisper.
"What do you say, Samway?" asked Boldwood, some-
what sharply. "If you have anything to say, speak out;
if not, get up another dance."
"Mrs. Troy has come downstairs." said Samway to
Tall. "If you want to tell her, you had better do it now."
"Do you know what they mean?" the farmer asked
Bathsheba, across the room.
"I don't in the least," said Bathsheba.
There was a smart rapping at the door. One of
the men opened it instantly, and went outside.
"Mrs. Troy is wanted." he said, on returning.
"Quite ready." said Bathsheba. "Though I didn't
tell them to send."
"It is a stranger, ma'am." said the man by the door.
"A stranger?" she said.
"Ask him to come in." said Boldwood.
The message was given, and Troy, wrapped up to
his eyes as we have seen him, stood in the doorway.
There was an unearthly silence, all looking towards
the newcomer. Those who had just learnt that he
was in the neighbourhood recognized him instantly;
those who did not were perplexed. Nobody noted
Bathsheba. She was leaning on the stairs. Her brow
had heavily contracted; her whole face was pallid, her
lips apart, her eyes rigidly staring at their visitor.
Boldwood was among those who did not notice that
he was Troy. "Come in, come in!" he repeated,
cheerfully, "and drain a Christmas beaker with us,
stranger!"
Troy next advanced into the middle of the room,
took off his cap, turned down his coat-collar, and looked
Boldwood in the face. Even then Boldwood did not
recognize that the impersonator of Heaven's persistent
irony towards him, who had once before broken in
upon his bliss, scourged him, and snatched his delight
away, had come to do these things a second time.
Troy began to laugh a mechanical laugh: Boldwood
recognized him now.
Troy turned to Bathsheba. The poor girl's wretched-
ness 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 dispaire had trans-
formed him.
"Bathsheba, go with your husband!"
Nevertheless, she did not move. The truth was
that Bathsheba was beyond the pale of activity - and
yet not in a swoon. She was in a state of mental GUTTA
SERENA; her mind was for the minute totally deprived of
light at the same time no obscuration was apparent
from without.
Troy stretched out his hand to pull her 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 exten-
sion - then his muscles relaxed, and he lay still.
Boldwood was seen through the smoke to be now
again engaged with the gun. It was double-barrelled,
and he had, meanwhile, in some way fastened his hand-
kerchief to the trigger, and with his foot on the other
end was in the act of turning the second barrel upon
himself. Samway his man was the first to see this, and
in the midst of the general horror darted up to him.
Boldwood had already twitched the handkerchief, and
the gun exploded a second time, sending its contents,
by a timely blow from Samway, into the beam which
crossed the ceiling.
"Well, it makes no difference!" Boldwood gasped.
"There is another way for me to die."
Then he broke from Samway, crossed the room to
Bathsheba, and kissed her hand. He put on his hat,
opened the door, and went into the darkness, nobody
thinking of preventing him.
CHAPTER LIV
AFTER THE SHOCK
BOLDWOOD passed into the high road and turned
in the direction of Casterbridge. Here he walked at
an even, steady pace over Yalbury Hill, along the dead
level beyond, mounted Mellstock Hill, and between
eleven and twelve o'clock crossed the Moor into the town.
The streets were nearly deserted now, and the waving
lamp-flames only lighted up rows of grey shop-shutters,
and strips of white paving upon which his step echoed
as his passed along. He turned to the right, and halted
before an archway of heavy stonework, which was closed
by an iron studded pair of doors. This was the entrance
to the gaol, and over it a lamp was fixed, the light en-
abling the wretched traveller to find a bellpull.
The small wicket at last opened, and a porter
appeared. Boldwood stepped forward, and said some-
thing 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 ter-
minated 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 endur-
ance, which seem ordinary in philosophy, are rare in
conduct, and Bathsheba was astonishing all around her
now, for her philosophy was her conduct, and she
seldom thought practicable what she did not practise.
She was of the stuff of which great men's mothers
are made. She was indispensable to high generation,
hated at tea parties, feared in shops, and loved at crises.
Troy recumbent in his wife's lap formed now the sole
spectacle in the middle of the spacious room.
"Gabriel." she said, automatically, when he entered,
turning up a face of which only the wellknown lines
remained to tell him it was hers, all else in the picture
having faded quite. "Ride to Casterbridge instantly
for a surgeon. It is, I believe, useless, but go. Mr.
Boldwood has shot my husband."
Her statement of the fact in such quiet and simple
words came with more force than a tragic declamation,
and had somewhat the effect of setting the distorted
images in each mind present into proper focus. Oak,
almost before he had comprehended anything beyond
the briefest abstract of the event, hurried out of the
room, saddled a horse and rode away. Not till he had
ridden more than a mile did it occur to him that he
would have done better by sending some other man
on this errand, remaining himself in the house. What
had become of Boldwood? He should have been
looked after. Was he mad - had there been a quarrel?
Then how had Troy got there? Where had he come
from? How did this remarkable reappearance effect
itself when he was supposed by many to be at the
bottom of the sea? Oak had in some slight measure
been prepared for the presence of Troy by hearing a
rumour of his return just before entering Boldwood's
house; but before he had weighed that information, this
fatal event had been superimposed. However, it was too
late now to think of sending another messenger, and
he rode on, in the excitement of these self-inquiries
not discerning, when about three miles from Caster-
bridge, a square-figured pedestrian passing along
under the dark hedge in the same direction as his
own.
The miles necessary to be traversed, and other
hindrances incidental to the lateness of the hour and
the darkness of the night, delayed the arrival of Mr,
Aldritch, the surgeon; and more than three hours
passed between the time at which the shot was fired
and that of his entering the house. Oak was addition-
ally detained in Casterbridge through having to give
notice to the authorities of what had happened; and
he then found that Boldwood had also entered the
town, and delivered himself up.
In the meantime the surgeon, having hastened into
the hall at Boldwood's, found it in darkness and quite
deserted. He went on to the back of the house,
where he discovered in the kitchen an old man, of
whom he made inquiries.
"She's had him took away to her own house, sir,"
said his informant.
"Who has?" said the doctor.
"Mrs. Troy. 'A was quite dead, sir."
This was astonishing information. "She had no
right to do that." said the doctor. "There will have
to be an inquest, and she should have waited to know
what to do."
"Yes, sir; it was hinted to her that she had better
wait till the law was known. But she said law was
nothing to her, and she wouldn't let her dear husband's
corpse bide neglected for folks to stare at for all the
crowners in England."
Mr. Aldritch drove at once back again up the
hill to Bathsheba's. The first person he met was
poor Liddy, who seemed literally to have dwindled
smaller in these few latter hours. "What has been
done?" he said.
"I don't know, sir." said Liddy, with suspended
breath. "My mistress has done it all."
"Where is she?"
"Upstairs with him, sir. When he was brought
home and taken upstairs, she said she wanted no
further help from the men. And then she called me,
and made me fill the bath, and after that told me I
had better go and lie down because I looked so ill.
Then she locked herself into the room alone with him,
and would not let a nurse come in, or anybody at all.
But I thought I'd wait in the next room in case she
should want me. I heard her moving about inside
for more than an hour, but she only came out once,
and that was for more candles, because hers had burnt
down into the socket. She said we were to let her
know when you or Mr. Thirdly came, sir."
Oak entered with the parson at this moment, and
they all went upstairs together, preceded by Liddy
Smallbury. Everything was silent as the grave when
they paused on the landing. Liddy knocked, and
Bathsheba's dress was heard rustling across the room:
the key turned in the lock, and she opened the door.
Her looks were calm and nearly rigid, like a slightly
animated bust of Melpomene.
"Oh, Mr. Aldritch, you have come at last." she
murmured from her lips merely, and threw back the
door. "Ah, and Mr. Thirdly. Well, all is done, and
anybody in the world may see him now." She then
passed by him, crossed the landing, and entered
another room.
Looking into the chamber of death she had vacated
they saw by the light of the candles which were on the
drawers a tall straight shape lying at the further end
of the bedroom, wrapped in white. Everything around
was quite orderly. The doctor went in, and after a
few minutes returned to the landing again, where
Oak and the parson still waited.
"It is all done, indeed, as she says." remarked Mr.
Aldritch, in a subdued voice. "The body has been
undressed and properly laid out in grave clothes.
Gracious Heaven - this mere girl! She must have the
nerve of a stoic!"
"The heart of a wife merely." floated in a whisper
about the ears of the three, and turning they saw
Bathsheba in the midst of them. Then, as if at that
instant to prove that her fortitude had been more of
will than of spontaneity, she silently sank down between
them and was a shapeless heap of drapery on the floor.
The simple consciousness that superhuman strain was
no longer required had at once put a period to her
power to continue it.
They took her away into a further room, and the
medical attendance which had been useless in Troy's
case was invaluable in Bathsheba's, who fell into a
series of fainting-fits that had a serious aspect for a
time. The sufferer was got to bed, and Oak, finding
from the bulletins that nothing really dreadful was to
be apprehended on her score, left the house. Liddy
kept watch in Bathsheba's chamber, where she heard
her mistress, moaning in whispers through the dull
slow hours of that wretched night: "O it is my fault
- how can I live! O Heaven, how can I live!"
CHAPTER LV
THE MARCH FOLLOWING - "BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD"
WE pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a
breezy day without sunshine, frost, or dew. On Yai*-
bury 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 fre-
quently stretched afar in a northerly direction. The
groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of
javelin-men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst
were carriages, one of which contained the high
sheriff. With the idlers, many of whom had mounted
to the top of a cutting formed for the road, were several
Weatherbury men and boys - among others Poorgrass,
Coggan, and Cain Ball.
At the end of half-an-hour a faint dust was seen in
the expected quarter, and shortly after a travelling-
carriage, bringing one of the two judges on the Western
Circuit, came up the hill and halted on the top. The
judge changed carriages whilst a flourish was blown
by the big-cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being
formed of the vehicles and javelin-men, they all pro-
ceeded towards the town, excepting the Weatherbury
men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move
off returned home again to their work.
"Joseph, I seed you squeezing close to the carriage,"
said Coggan, as they walked. "Did ye notice my lord
judge's face?"
"I did." said Poorgrass. "I looked hard at en, as
if I would read his very soul; and there was mercy
in his eyes - or to speak with the exact truth required
of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was towards
me."
"Well, I hope for the best." said Coggan, though
bad that must be. However, I shan't go to the trial,
and I'd advise the rest of ye that bain't wanted to bide
away. 'Twill disturb his mind more than anything to
see us there staring at him as if he were a show."
"The very thing I said this morning." observed Joseph,
"Justice is come to weigh him in the balances," I said
in my reflectious way, "and if he's found wanting, so
be it unto him," and a bystander said "Hear, hear,
A man who can talk like that ought to be heard."
But I don't like dwelling upon it, for my few words
are my few words, and not much; though the speech
of some men is rumoured abroad as though by nature
formed for such."
"So 'tis, Joseph. And now, neighbours, as I said,
every man bide at home."
The resolution was adhered to; and all waited
anxiously for the news next day. Their suspense
was diverted, however, by a discovery which was made
in the afternoon, throwing more light on Boldwood's
conduct and condition than any details which had
preceded it.
That he had been from the time of Greenhill Fair
until the fatal Christmas Eve in excited and unusual
moods was known to those who had been intimate
with him; but nobody imagined that there had shown
in him unequivocal symptoms of the mental derange-
ment which Bathsheba and Oak, alone of all others
and at different times, had momentarily suspected.
In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary
collection of articles. There were several sets of ladies"
dresses in the piece, of sundry expensive materials;
silks and satins, poplins and velvets, all of colours
which from Bathsheba's style of dress might have been
judged to be her favourites. There were two muffs,
sable and ermine. Above all there was a case of
jewellery, containing four heavy gold bracelets and
several lockets and rings, all of fine quality and manu-
facture. These things had been bought in Bath and
other towns from time to time, and brought home by
stealth. They were all carefully packed in paper, and
each package was labelled " Bathsheba Boldwood." a
date being subjoined six years in advance in every
instance.
These somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed
with care and love were the subject of discourse in
Warren's malt-house when Oak entered from Caster-
bridge with tidings of 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 Caster-
bridge, 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 Weather-
bury 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 with-
drew 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. "How-
ever, that we can talk of another time. Has there been
any change in mistress this afternoon?"
"None at all."
"Is she downstairs?"
"No. And getting on so nicely as she was too.
She's but very little better now again than she was at
Christmas. She keeps on asking if you be come, and
if there's news, till one's wearied out wi' answering her.
Shall I go and say you've come?"
"No." said Oak. "There's a chance yet; but I
couldn't stay in town any longer - after seeing him too,
So Laban - Laban is here, isn't he?"
"Yes." said Tall.
"What I've arranged is, that you shall ride to town
the last thing to-night; leave here about nine, and wait
a while there, getting home about twelve. If nothing
has been received by eleven to-night, they say there's
no chance at all."
"I do so hope his life will be spared." said Liddy.
"If it is not, she'll go out of her mind too. Poor thing;
her sufferings have been dreadful; she deserves any-
body'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 confine-
ment during her Majesty's pleasure."
"Hurrah!" said Coggan, with a swelling heart. "God's
above the devil yet!"
CHAPTER LVI
BEAUTY IN LONELINESS - AFTER ALL
BATHSHEBA revived with the spring. The utter
prostration that had followed the low fever from which
she had suffered diminished perceptibly when all un-
certainty upon every subject had come to an end.
But she remained alone now for the greater part of
her time, and stayed in the house, or at furthest went
into the garden. She shunned every one, even Liddy,
and could be brought to make no confidences, and to
ask for no sympathy.
As the summer drew on she passed more of her time
in the open air, and began to examine into farming
matters from sheer necessity, though she never rode
out or personally superintended as at former times.
One Friday evening in August she walked a little way
along the road and entered the village for the first time
since the sombre event of the preceding Christmas.
None of the old colour had as yet come to her cheek,
and its absolute paleness was heightened by the jet black
of her gown, till it appeared preternatural. When she
reached a little shop at the other end of the place,
which stood nearly opposite to the churchyard, Bath-
sheba heard singing inside the church, and she knew
that the singers were practising. She crossed the road,
opened the gate, and entered the graveyard, the high
sills of the church windows effectually screening her
from the eyes of those gathered within. Her stealthy
walk was to the nook wherein Troy had worked at
planting flowers upon Fanny Robin's grave, and she
came to the marble tombstone.
A motion of satisfaction enlivened her face as she
read the complete inscription. First came the words of
Troy himself: -
ERECTED BY FRANCIS TROY
IN BELOVED MEMORY OF
FANNY ROBIN,
WHO DIED OCTOBER 9, 18 - ,
AGED 20 YEARS.
Underneath this was now inscribed in new letters: -
IN THE SAME GRAVE LIE
THE REMAINS OF THE AFORESAID
FRANCIS TROY,
WHO DIED DECEMBER 24TH, 18 - ,
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 destinct 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 de-
pendent 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 crowd-
ing thoughts she knew too well. She would have given
anything in the world to be, as those children were, un-
concerned at the meaning of their words, because too
innocent to feel the necessity for any such expression.
All the impassioned scenes of her brief expenence
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 -
l loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
"I was." said Gabriel. "I am one of the bass singers,
you know. I have sung bass for several months.
"Indeed: I wasn't aware of that. I'll leave you, then."
which I have loved long since, and lost awhile,
sang the children.
"Don't let me drive you away, mistress. I think I
won't go in to-night."
"O 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 distress-
ing 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."
"O yes, certainly."
It is that I may soon have to give up the manage-
ment of your farm, Mrs. Troy. The fact is, I am think-
ing of leaving England - not yet, you know - next
spring. "
"Leaving England!" she said, in surprise and
genuine disappointment." Why, Gabriel, what are you
going to do that for?"
"Well, I've thought it best." Oak stammered out.
"California is the spot I've had in my mind to try."
"But it is understood everywhere that you are going
to take poor Mr. Boldwood's farm on your own account."
"I've had the refusal o' it 'tis true; but nothing is
settled yet, and I have reasons for giving up. I shall
finish out my year there as manager for the trustees,
but no more."
"And what shall I do without you? Oh, Gabriel, I
don't think you ought to go away. You've been with
me so long - through bright times and dark times - such
old friends that 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 help-
lessness 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 which to shun her; and there
occurred to Bathsheba several incidents of latter in-
tercourse 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 ali-a sensation that she was
despised.
The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these