by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XLIX
OAK'S ADVANCEMENT--A GREAT HOPE
The later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves laythick upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods.Bathsheba, having previously been living in a state of suspendedfeeling which was not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude whichwas not precisely peacefulness. While she had known him to be aliveshe could have thought of his death with equanimity; but now that itmight be she had lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still.She kept the farm going, raked in her profits without caring keenlyabout them, and expended money on ventures because she had done soin bygone days, which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitelyremoved from her present. She looked back upon that past over agreat gulf, as if she were now a dead person, having the faculty ofmeditation still left in her, by means of which, like the moulderinggentlefolk of the poet's story, she could sit and ponder what a giftlife used to be.
However, one excellent result of her general apathy was thelong-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having virtuallyexercised that function for a long time already, the change, beyondthe substantial increase of wages it brought, was little more than anominal one addressed to the outside world.
Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much of his wheat and all hisbarley of that season had been spoilt by the rain. It sprouted,grew into intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs inarmfuls. The strange neglect which had produced this ruin and wastebecame the subject of whispered talk among all the people round; andit was elicited from one of Boldwood's men that forgetfulness hadnothing to do with it, for he had been reminded of the danger to hiscorn as many times and as persistently as inferiors dared to do.The sight of the pigs turning in disgust from the rotten ears seemedto arouse Boldwood, and he one evening sent for Oak. Whether itwas suggested by Bathsheba's recent act of promotion or not, thefarmer proposed at the interview that Gabriel should undertake thesuperintendence of the Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba's, becauseof the necessity Boldwood felt for such aid, and the impossibilityof discovering a more trustworthy man. Gabriel's malignant star wasassuredly setting fast.
Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal--for Oak was obliged toconsult her--at first languidly objected. She considered that thetwo farms together were too extensive for the observation of oneman. Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personal rather thancommercial reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with ahorse for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty,the two farms lying side by side. Boldwood did not directlycommunicate with her during these negotiations, only speaking to Oak,who was the go-between throughout. All was harmoniously arranged atlast, and we now see Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trottingthe length and breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful spiritof surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him--the actualmistress of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting intheir respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion.
Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in theparish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest fast.
"Whatever d'ye think," said Susan Tall, "Gable Oak is coming it quitethe dand. He now wears shining boots with hardly a hob in 'em, twoor three times a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and 'a hardly knowsthe name of smockfrock. When I see people strut enough to be cut upinto bantam cocks, I stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!"
It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed wage byBathsheba independent of the fluctuations of agricultural profits,had made an engagement with Boldwood by which Oak was to receive ashare of the receipts--a small share certainly, yet it was money ofa higher quality than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a waythat wages were not. Some were beginning to consider Oak a "near"man, for though his condition had thus far improved, he lived in nobetter style than before, occupying the same cottage, paring his ownpotatoes, mending his stockings, and sometimes even making his bedwith his own hands. But as Oak was not only provokingly indifferentto public opinion, but a man who clung persistently to old habits andusages, simply because they were old, there was room for doubt as tohis motives.
A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose unreasoningdevotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madnesswhich neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, couldweaken or destroy. This fevered hope had grown up again like a grainof mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the hasty conjecturethat Troy was drowned. He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunnedthe contemplation of it in earnest, lest facts should reveal thewildness of the dream. Bathsheba having at last been persuaded towear mourning, her appearance as she entered the church in thatguise was in itself a weekly addition to his faith that a time wascoming--very far off perhaps, yet surely nearing--when his waiting onevents should have its reward. How long he might have to wait he hadnot yet closely considered. What he would try to recognize was thatthe severe schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathshebamuch more considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings ofothers, and he trusted that, should she be willing at any time in thefuture to marry any man at all, that man would be himself. There wasa substratum of good feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injuryshe had thoughtlessly done him might be depended upon now to a muchgreater extent than before her infatuation and disappointment. Itwould be possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature,and to suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them forfulfilment at some future day, keeping the passionate side of hisdesire entirely out of her sight. Such was Boldwood's hope.
To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionallycharming just now. Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; theoriginal phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too brightfor human nature's daily food, and she had been able to enter thissecond poetical phase without losing much of the first in theprocess.
Bathsheba's return from a two months' visit to her old aunt atNorcombe afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext forinquiring directly after her--now possibly in the ninth month of herwidowhood--and endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mindregarding him. This occurred in the middle of the haymaking, andBoldwood contrived to be near Liddy, who was assisting in the fields.
"I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia," he said pleasantly.
She simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak sofrankly to her.
"I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence," hecontinued, in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbourcould scarcely say less about her.
"She is quite well, sir."
"And cheerful, I suppose."
"Yes, cheerful."
"Fearful, did you say?"
"Oh no. I merely said she was cheerful."
"Tells you all her affairs?"
"No, sir."
"Some of them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mrs. Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia, and very wisely,perhaps."
"She do, sir. I've been with her all through her troubles, and waswith her at the time of Mr. Troy's going and all. And if she wereto marry again I expect I should bide with her."
"She promises that you shall--quite natural," said the strategiclover, throbbing throughout him at the presumption which Liddy'swords appeared to warrant--that his darling had thought ofre-marriage.
"No--she doesn't promise it exactly. I merely judge on my ownaccount."
"Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to the possibility ofmarrying again, you conclude--"
"She never do allude to it, sir," said Liddy, thinking how verystupid Mr. Boldwood was getting.
"Of course not," he returned hastily, his hope falling again. "Youneedn't take quite such long reaches with your rake, Lydia--shortand quick ones are best. Well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistressagain now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up herfreedom."
"My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that
shesupposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from lastyear, if she cared to risk Mr. Troy's coming back and claiming her."
"Ah, six years from the present time. Said that she might. Shemight marry at once in every reasonable person's opinion, whateverthe lawyers may say to the contrary."
"Have you been to ask them?" said Liddy, innocently.
"Not I," said Boldwood, growing red. "Liddy, you needn't stay herea minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says. I am now going on alittle farther. Good-afternoon."
He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this onetime in his life done anything which could be called underhand. PoorBoldwood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and hewas uneasy with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and,what was worse, mean. But he had, after all, lighted upon one factby way of repayment. It was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact,and though not without its sadness it was pertinent and real. Inlittle more than six years from this time Bathsheba might certainlymarry him. There was something definite in that hope, for admittingthat there might have been no deep thought in her words to Liddyabout marriage, they showed at least her creed on the matter.
This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind. Six years werea long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for solong been obliged to endure! Jacob had served twice seven years forRachel: what were six for such a woman as this? He tried to like thenotion of waiting for her better than that of winning her at once.Boldwood felt his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, thatit was possible she had never yet known its full volume, and thispatience in delay would afford him an opportunity of giving sweetproof on the point. He would annihilate the six years of his life asif they were minutes--so little did he value his time on earth besideher love. He would let her see, all those six years of intangibleethereal courtship, how little care he had for anything but as itbore upon the consummation.
Meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week inwhich Greenhill Fair was held. This fair was frequently attended bythe folk of Weatherbury.