by Hardy Thomas
"Poor thing!" said Liddy, with tears in her eyes, Do hearten yourself up a little, ma'am. However did - - "
"I can't speak above a whisper - my voice is gone for the present." said Bathsheba, hurriedly." I suppose the damp air from that hollow has taken it away Liddy, don't question me, mind. Who sent you -anybody?"
"Nobody. I thought, when I found you were not at home, that something cruel had happened. I fancy I heard his voice late last night; and so, knowing something was wrong - - "
"Is he at home?"
"No; he left just before I came out."
"Is Fanny taken away?"
"Not yet. She will soon be - at nine o'clock."
"we won't go home at present, then. Suppose we walk about in this wood?"
Liddy, without exactly understanding everything, or anything, in this episode, assented, and they walked together further among the trees.
"But you had better come in, ma'am, and have something to eat. You will die of a chill!"
"I shall not come indoors yet - perhaps never."
"Shall I get you something to eat, and something else to put over your head besides that little shawl?"
"If you will, Liddy."
Liddy vanished, and at the end of twenty minutes returned with a cloak, hat, some slices of bread and butter, a tea-cup, and some hot tea in a little china jug "Is Fanny gone?" said Bathsheba.
"No." said her companion, pouring out the tea.
Bathsheba wrapped herself up and ate and drank sparingly. Her voice was then a little clearer, and trifling colour returned to her face. "Now we'll walk about again." she said.
They wandered about the wood for nearly two hours, Bathsheba replying in monosyllables to Liddy's prattle, for her mind ran on one subject, and one only.
She interrupted with -"l wonder if Fanny is gone by this time?"
"I will go and see."
She came back with the information that the men were just taking away the corpse; that Bathsheba had been inquired for; that she had replied to the effect that her mistress was unwell and could not be seen.
"Then they think I am in my bedroom?"
"Yes." Liddy then ventured to add:" You said when I first found you that you might never go home again - you didn't mean it, ma'am?"
"No; I've altered my mind. It is only women with no pride in them who run away from their husbands.
There is one position worse than that of being found dead in your husband's house from his ill usage, and that is, to be found alive through having gone away to The house of somebody else. I've thought of it all this morning, and I've chosen my course. A runaway wife is an encumbrance to everybody, a burden to herself and a byword - all of which make up a heap of misery greater than any that comes by staying at home -though this may include the trifling items of insult, beating, and starvation. Liddy, if ever you marry -God forbid that you ever should! - you'll find yourself in a fearful situation; but mind this, don't you flinch.
Stand your ground, and be cut to pieces. That's what I'm going to do."
"O, mistress, don't talk so!" said Liddy,-taking her hand; "but I knew you had too much sense to bide away. May I ask what dreadful thing it is that has happened between you and him?"
"You may ask; but I may not tell."
In about ten minutes they returned to the house by a circuitous route, entering at the rear. Bathsheba glided up the back stairs to a disused attic, and her companion followed.
"Liddy." she said, with a lighter heart, for youth and hope had begun to reassert themselves;" you are to be my confidante for the present - somebody must be - and I choose you. Well, I shall take up my abode here for a while. Will you get a fire lighted, put down a piece of carpet, and help me to make the place comfortable.
Afterwards, I want you and Maryann to bring up that little stump bedstead in the small room, and the be belonging to it, and a table, and some other things.
What shall I do to pass the heavy time away?"
"Hemming handkerchiefs is a very good thing." said Liddy.
"O no, no! I hate needlework-i always did."
"knitting?"
"And that, too."
"You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and peacocks want filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside your aunt" ma'am."
"Samplers are out of date - horribly countrified. No Liddy, I'll read. Bring up some books - not new ones.
I haven't heart to read anything new."
"Some of your uncle's old ones, ma'am?"
"Yes. Some of those we stowed away in boxes." A faint gleam of humour passed over her face as she said:
"Bring Beaumont and Fletcher's Maid's Tragedy, and the Mourning Bride, and let me see - Night Thoughts, and the Vanity of Human Wishes."
"And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife Desdemona? It is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now."
"Now, Liddy, you've been looking into my book without telling me; and I said you were not to! How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn't suit me a all."
"But if the others do - - "
"No, they don't; and I won't read dismal books.
Why should I read dismal books, indeed? Bring me Love in a Village, and Maid of the Mill, and Doctor Syntax, and some volumes of the Spectator."
All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic in a state of barricade; a precaution which proved to be needless as against Troy, for he did not appear in the neighbourhood or trouble them at all. Bathsheba sat at the window till sunset, sometimes attempting to read, at other times watching every movement outside without much purpose, and listening without much interest to every sound.
The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud received its rays in the east. Up against this dark background the west front of the church tower - the only part of the edifice visible from the farm-house windows - rose distinct and lustrous, the vane upon the summit bristling with rays. Hereabouts, at six o'clock, the young men of the village gathered, as was their custom, for a game of Prisoners' base. The spot had been consecrated to this ancient diversion from time immemorial, the old stocks conveniently forming a base facing the boundary of the churchyard, in front of which the ground was trodden hard and bare as a pavement by the players. She could see the brown and black heads of the young lads darting about right and left, their white shirt-sleeves gleaming in the sun; whilst occasionally a shout and a peal of hearty laughter varied the stillness of the evening air. They continued playing for a quarter of an hour or so, when the game concluded abruptly, and the players leapt over the wall and vanished round to the other side behind a yew-tree, which was also half behind a beech, now spreading in one mass of golden foliage, on which the branches traced black lines.
"Why did the base-players finish their game so suddenly?" Bathsheba inquired, the next time that Liddy entered the room.
"I think 'twas because two men came just then from Casterbridge and began putting up grand carved tombstone." said Liddy. "The lads went to see whose it was."
"Do you know?" Bathsheba asked.
"I don't." said Liddy.
CHAPTER XLV
TROY'S ROMANTICISM
WHEN Troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight his first act was to cover the dead from sight.
This done he ascended the stairs, and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was, he waited miserably for the morning.
Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last fourand-twenty hours. His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially from his intentions regarding it. There is always an inertia to be overcome in striking out a new line of conduct - not more in ourselves, it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appear as if leagued together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.
Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to add to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account, which had been seven pounds ten. With this money, twenty-seven pounds ten
in all, he had hastily driven from the gate that morning to keep his appointment with Fanny Robin.
On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and at five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end of the town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struck the hour, and no Fanny appeared. In fact, at that moment she was being robed in her grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union poorhouse - the first and last tiring-women the gentle creature had ever been honoured with. The quarter went, the half hour. A rush of recollection came upon Troy as he waited: this was the second time she had broken a serious engagement with him In anger he vowed it should be the last, and at eleven o'clock, when he had lingered and watched the stone of the bridge till he knew every lichen upon their face and heard the chink of the ripples underneath till they oppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to the inn for his gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning the past, and recklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth races.
He reached the race-course at two o'clock, and remained either there or in the town till nine, But Fanny's image, as it had appeared to him in the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his mind, backed up by Bathsheba's reproaches. He vowed he would not bet, and he kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o'clock in the evening he had diminish his cash only to the extent of a few shillings.
He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that was struck for the first time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by illness from keeping her promise. This time she could have made no mistake He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and made inquiries. Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and came indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him.
As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose from the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference to Bathsheba's whereabouts, a almost oblivious of her existence, he stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. His walk was towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he found a newly dug unoccupied grave -the grave dug the day before for Fanny. The position of this having been marked, he hastened on to Casterbridge, only pausing whereon he had last seen Fanny alive.
Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered a pair of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, "Lester, stone and marble mason."
Within were lying about stones of all sizes and designs, inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons who had not yet died.
Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the want of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness. His method of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was that of an absolutely unpractised man. He could not bring himself to consider, calculate, or economize. He waywardly wished for something, and he set about obtaining it like a child in a nursery. 'I want a good tomb." he said to the man who stood in a little office within the yard.
"I want as good a one as you can give me for twentyseven pounds,"
It was all the money he possessed.
"That sum to include everything?"
"Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, and erection. And I want it now at once."
"We could not get anything special worked this week.
"If you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready immediately."
"Very well." said Troy, impatiently. "Let's see what you have."
"The best I have in stock is this one," said the stonecutter, going into a shed." Here's a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with medallions beneath of typical subjects; here's the footstone after the same pattern, and here's the coping to enclose the- grave. The slabs are the best of their kind, and I can warrant them "Well, I could add the name, and put it up at visitor who wore not a shred of mourning. Troy then settled the account and went away. In the afternoon almost done. He waited in the yard till the tomb was way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the two men the grave of the person named in the inscription. bridge. He carried rather a heavy basket upon his occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited returning in the darkness, the men and the waggon the work was done, and, on being assured that it was, Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten had marked the vacant grave early in the morning. It extent from the view of passers along the road - a spot and bushes of alder, but now it was cleared and made the ground elsewhere.
Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snowwhite and shapely in the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing border of marble-work uniting them. In the midst was mould, suitable for plants.
Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few minutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the light of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilst he read the inscription. He hung his lantern on the lowest bough of the yew-tree, and took from his basket flowerroots of several varieties. There were bundles of snowdrop, hyacinth and crocus bulbs, violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in early spring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley, forget-menot, summer's-farewell, meadow-saffron and others, for the later seasons of the year.
Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set to work to plant them. The snowdrops were arranged in a line on the outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the grave. The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of the summer flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and forget-me-nots over her heart. The remainder were dispersed in the spaces between these.
Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity. Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman, together with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on mawkishness, characteristic of the French. lt was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy's lantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating power, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud above. He felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and presently one came and entered one of the holes of the lantern, whereupon the candle sputtered and went outTroy was weary and it being now not far from midnight, and the rain threatening to increase, he resolved to leave the finishing touches of his labour until the day should break. He groped along the wall and over the graves in the dark till he found himself round at the north side.
Here he entered the porch, and, reclining upon the bench within, fell asleep.
CHAPTER XLVI
THE GURGOYLE: ITS DOINGS
THE tower of Weatherbury Church was a square erection of fourteenth-century date, having two stone gurgoyles on each of the four faces of its parapet. Of these eight carved protuberances only two at this time continued to serve the purpose of their erection - that of spouting the water from the lead roof within. One mouth in each front had been closed by bygone churchwardens as superfluous, and two others were broken away and choked - a matter not of much consequence to the wellbeing of the tower, for the two mouths which still remained open and active were gaping enough to do all the work.
It has been sometimes argued that there is no truer criterion of the vitality of any given art-period than the power of the master-spirits of that time in grotesque; and certainly in the instance of Gothic art there is no disputing the proposition. Weatherbury tower was a somewhat early instance of the use of an ornamental parapet in parish as distinct from cathedral churches, and the gurgoyles, which are the necessary correlatives of a parapet, were exceptionally prominent - of the boldest cut that the hand could shape, and of the most original design that a human brain could conceive.
There was, so to speak, that symmetry in their distortion which is less the characteristic of British than of Continental grotesques of t
he period. All the eight were different from each other. A beholder was convinced that nothing on earth could be more hideous than those he saw on the north side until he went round to the south. Of the two on this latter face, only that at the south-eastern corner concerns the story. It was too human to be called like a dragon, too impish to be like a man, too animal to be like a fiend, and not enough like a bird to be called a griffin. This horrible stone entity was fashioned as if covered with a wrinkled hide; it had short, erect ears, eyes starting from their sockets, and its fingers and hands were seizing the corners of its mouth, which they thus seemed to pull open to give free passage to the water it vomited. The lower row of teeth was quite washed away, though the upper still remained. Here and thus, jutting a couple of feet from the wall against which its feet rested as a support, the creature had for four hundred years laughed at the surrounding landscape, voicelessly in dry weather, and in wet with a gurgling and snorting sound.
Troy slept on in the porch, and the rain increased outside. Presently the gurgoyle spat. In due time a small stream began to trickle through the seventy feet of aerial space between its mouth and the ground, which the water-drops smote like duckshot in their accelerated velocity. The stream thickened in substance, and increased in power, gradually spouting further and yet further from the side of the tower. When the rain fell in a steady and ceaseless torrent the stream dashed downward in volumes.
We follow its course to the ground at this point of time. The end of the liquid parabola has come forward from the wall, has advanced over the plinth mouldings, over a heap of stones, over the marble border, into the midst of Fanny Robin's grave.
The force of the stream had, until very lately, been received upon some loose stones spread thereabout, which had acted as a shield to the soil under the onset.
These during the summer had been cleared from the ground, and there was now nothing to resist the downfall but the bare earth. For several years the stream had not spouted so far from the tower as it was doing on this night, and such a contingency had been overlooked. Sometimes this obscure corner received no inhabitant for the space of two or three years, and then it was usually but a pauper, a poacher, or other sinner of undignified sins.