by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER LVI
BEAUTY IN LONELINESS--AFTER ALL
Bathsheba revived with the spring. The utter prostration thathad followed the low fever from which she had suffered diminishedperceptibly when all uncertainty upon every subject had come toan end.
But she remained alone now for the greater part of her time, andstayed in the house, or at furthest went into the garden. Sheshunned every one, even Liddy, and could be brought to make noconfidences, 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 formertimes. One Friday evening in August she walked a little way alongthe road and entered the village for the first time since the sombreevent of the preceding Christmas. None of the old colour had as yetcome to her cheek, and its absolute paleness was heightened by thejet black of her gown, till it appeared preternatural. When shereached a little shop at the other end of the place, which stoodnearly opposite to the churchyard, Bathsheba heard singing inside thechurch, and she knew that the singers were practising. She crossedthe road, opened the gate, and entered the graveyard, the high sillsof the church windows effectually screening her from the eyes ofthose gathered within. Her stealthy walk was to the nook whereinTroy had worked at planting flowers upon Fanny Robin's grave, andshe came to the marble tombstone.
A motion of satisfaction enlivened her face as she read the completeinscription. 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--, AGED 26 YEARS
Whilst she stood and read and meditated the tones of the organbegan again in the church, and she went with the same light stepround to the porch and listened. The door was closed, and thechoir was learning a new hymn. Bathsheba was stirred by emotionswhich latterly she had assumed to be altogether dead within her.The little attenuated voices of the children brought to her earin distinct utterance the words they sang without thought orcomprehension--
Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on.
Bathsheba's feeling was always to some extent dependent upon herwhim, as is the case with many other women. Something big came intoher throat and an uprising to her eyes--and she thought that shewould allow the imminent tears to flow if they wished. They didflow and plenteously, and one fell upon the stone bench beside her.Once that she had begun to cry for she hardly knew what, she couldnot leave off for crowding thoughts she knew too well. She wouldhave given anything in the world to be, as those children were,unconcerned at the meaning of their words, because too innocent tofeel the necessity for any such expression. All the impassionedscenes of her brief experience seemed to revive with added emotion atthat moment, and those scenes which had been without emotion duringenactment had emotion then. Yet grief came to her rather as a luxurythan as the scourge of former times.
Owing to Bathsheba's face being buried in her hands she did notnotice a form which came quietly into the porch, and on seeingher, first moved as if to retreat, then paused and regarded her.Bathsheba did not raise her head for some time, and when she lookedround 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 thechurch as from a prompter--
I 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. Ihave 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 into-night."
"Oh no--you don't drive me away."
Then they stood in a state of some embarrassment, Bathsheba trying towipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without his noticingher. At length Oak said, "I've not seen you--I mean spoken toyou--since ever so long, have I?" But he feared to bring distressingmemories back, and interrupted himself with: "Were you going intochurch?"
"No," she said. "I came to see the tombstone privately--to see ifthey had cut the inscription as I wished. Mr. Oak, you needn't mindspeaking to me, if you wish to, on the matter which is in both ourminds 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!" Gabrielmurmured 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 deadbetween. And now I am going home, Mr. Oak."
Oak walked after her. "I wanted to name a small matter to you assoon as I could," he said, with hesitation. "Merely 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 thespot 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 thereas manager for the trustees, but no more."
"And what shall I do without you? Oh, Gabriel, I don't think youought to go away. You've been with me so long--through bright timesand dark times--such old friends as we are--that it seems unkindalmost. I had fancied that if you leased the other farm as master,you might still give a helping look across at mine. And now goingaway!"
"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 distressedtone. "And it is because of that very helplessness that I feel boundto go. Good afternoon, ma'am" he concluded, in evident anxiety toget away, and at once went out of the churchyard by a path she couldfollow on no pretence whatever.
Bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with a new trouble, whichbeing rather harassing than deadly was calculated to do good bydiverting her from the chronic gloom of her life. She was setthinking a great deal about Oak and of his wish to shun her;and there occurred to Bathsheba several incidents of her latterintercourse with him, which, trivial when singly viewed, amountedtogether to a perceptible disinclination for her society. It brokeupon her at length as a great pain that her last old disciple wasabout to forsake her and flee. He who had believed in her and arguedon her side when all the rest of the world was against her, had atlast 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 inher was forthcoming. She noticed that instead of entering the smallparlour or office where the farm accounts were kept, and waiting, orleaving a memorandum as he had hitherto done during her seclusion,Oak never came at all when she was likely to be there, only enteringat unseasonable hours when her presence in that part of the housewas least to be expected. Whenever he wanted directions he sent amessage, or note with neither heading nor signature, to which she wasobliged to reply in the same offhand style. Poor Bathsheba began tosuffer now from the most torturing
sting of all--a sensation that shewas despised.
The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these melancholyconjectures, and Christmas-day came, completing a year of her legalwidowhood, and two years and a quarter of her life alone. Onexamining her heart it appeared beyond measure strange that thesubject of which the season might have been supposed suggestive--theevent in the hall at Boldwood's--was not agitating her at all; butinstead, an agonizing conviction that everybody abjured her--for whatshe 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 overheadin a most unconcerned manner, might chance to linger in her path inthe old way. There he was, as usual, coming down the path behindher. But on seeing Bathsheba turn, he looked aside, and as soonas he got beyond the gate, and there was the barest excuse for adivergence, he made one, and vanished.
The next morning brought the culminating stroke; she had beenexpecting it long. It was a formal notice by letter from him that heshould not renew his engagement with her for the following Lady-day.
Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter most bitterly. Shewas aggrieved and wounded that the possession of hopeless love fromGabriel, which she had grown to regard as her inalienable right forlife, should have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in thisway. She was bewildered too by the prospect of having to rely on herown resources again: it seemed to herself that she never could againacquire 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 shouldshe do now? Her life was becoming a desolation.
So desolate was Bathsheba this evening, that in an absolute hungerfor pity and sympathy, and miserable in that she appeared to haveoutlived the only true friendship she had ever owned, she put on herbonnet 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 fewdays old.
A lively firelight shone from the window, but nobody was visible inthe room. She tapped nervously, and then thought it doubtful ifit were right for a single woman to call upon a bachelor who livedalone, although he was her manager, and she might be supposed to callon 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--O howstupid of me, not to know you, mistress!"
"I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall I Gabriel?" shesaid, in pathetic tones.
"Well, no. I suppose--But come in, ma'am. Oh--and I'll get alight," 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'tproper accommodation. Will you sit down, please? Here's a chair, andthere's one, too. I am sorry that my chairs all have wood seats, andare rather hard, but I--was thinking of getting some new ones." Oakplaced 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 old furniture,
all a-sheenen Wi' long years o' handlen, [3]
[Footnote 3: W. Barnes]
that formed Oak's array of household possessions, which sent back adancing reflection in reply. It was very odd to these two persons,who knew each other passing well, that the mere circumstance of theirmeeting in a new place and in a new way should make them so awkwardand constrained. In the fields, or at her house, there had neverbeen any embarrassment; but now that Oak had become the entertainertheir lives seemed to be moved back again to the days when they werestrangers.
"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 Ihave offended you, and that you are going away on that account. Itgrieved 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 forelse?"
"I am not going to emigrate, you know; I wasn't aware that you wouldwish me not to when I told 'ee or I shouldn't ha' thought of doingit," he said, simply. "I have arranged for Little Weatherbury Farmand shall have it in my own hands at Lady-day. You know I've had ashare in it for some time. Still, that wouldn't prevent my attendingto your business as before, hadn't it been that things have been saidabout 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 partof mentor to me many times, and I don't see why you should fear to doit now."
"It is nothing that you have done, this time. The top and tailo't is this--that I am sniffing about here, and waiting for poorBoldwood's farm, with a thought of getting you some day."
"Getting me! What does that mean?"
"Marrying of 'ee, in plain British. You asked me to tell, so youmustn't blame me."
Bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if a cannon had beendischarged by her ear, which was what Oak had expected. "Marryingme! I didn't know it was that you meant," she said, quietly. "Sucha 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 plain enough by this time. Surely, surelyyou be the last person in the world I think of marrying. It is tooabsurd, as you say."
"'Too--s-s-soon' were the words I used."
"I must beg your pardon for correcting you, but you said, 'tooabsurd,' and so do I."
"I beg your pardon too!" she returned, with tears in her eyes. "'Toosoon' was what I said. But it doesn't matter a bit--not at all--butI only meant, 'too soon.' Indeed, I didn't, Mr. Oak, and you mustbelieve me!"
Gabriel looked her long in the face, but the firelight being faintthere was not much to be seen. "Bathsheba," he said, tenderly and insurprise, and coming closer: "if I only knew one thing--whether youwould allow me to love you and win you, and marry you after all--ifI 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 owndear--"
"You ought not to have sent me that harsh letter this morning," sheinterrupted. "It shows you didn't care a bit about me, and wereready to desert me like all the rest of them! It was very cruel ofyou, considering I was the first sweetheart that you ever had, andyou 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 abusiness for you as a very taking young woman, had a proper hard partto play--more particular that people knew I had a sort of feeling for'ee; and I fancied, from the way we were mentioned together, that itmight injure your good name. Nobody knows the heat and fret I havebeen caused by it."
"And was that all?"
"All."
"Oh, how glad I am I came!" she exclaimed, thankfully, as she rosefrom her seat. "I have thought so much more of you since I fanciedyou did not want even to see me again. But I must be going now, orI shall be missed. Why Gabriel," she said, with a slight laugh, asthey went to the door, "it seems exactly as if I had come courtingyou--how dreadful!"
"And quite right too," said Oak. "I've danced at your skittishheels, my beautiful Bathsheba, for many a long mile, and many a longday; and it is hard to begrudge me this one visit."
He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details ofhis forthcoming tenure of the other farm. They spoke very littleof their mutual feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions beingprobably unnecessary between such tried friends. Theirs was thatsubstantial affection which arises (if any
arises at all) when thetwo who are thrown together begin first by knowing the roughersides of each other's character, and not the best till further on,the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaicreality. This good-fellowship--_camaraderie_--usually occurringthrough similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superaddedto love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not intheir labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happycircumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling provesitself to be the only love which is strong as death--that love whichmany waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, beside which thepassion usually called by the name is evanescent as steam.
CHAPTER LVII
A FOGGY NIGHT AND MORNING--CONCLUSION
"The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible tohave."
Those had been Bathsheba's words to Oak one evening, some time afterthe event of the preceding f, and he meditated a full hour bythe clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter.
"A license--O yes, it must be a license," he said to himself at last."Very well, then; first, a license."
On a dark night, a few days later, Oak came with mysterious stepsfrom the surrogate's door, in Casterbridge. On the way home he hearda heavy tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him tobe Coggan. They walked together into the village until they came toa little lane behind the church, leading down to the cottage of LabanTall, who had lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and wasyet in mortal terror at church on Sundays when he heard his lonevoice among certain hard words of the Psalms, whither no man venturedto 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 sobold Mr. Oak?"
It seemed rather ungenerous not to tell Coggan, under thecircumstances, for Coggan had been true as steel all through the timeof Gabriel's unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, "You cankeep a secret, Coggan?"
"You've proved me, and you know."
"Yes, I have, and I do know. Well, then, mistress and I mean to getmarried to-morrow morning."
"Heaven's high tower! And yet I've thought of such a thing from timeto time; true, I have. But keeping it so close! Well, there, 'tisno consarn of of mine, and I wish 'ee joy o' her."
"Thank you, Coggan. But I assure 'ee that this great hush is notwhat I wished for at all, or what either of us would have wished ifit hadn't been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seemhardly the thing. Bathsheba has a great wish that all the parishshall not be in church, looking at her--she's shy-like and nervousabout 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 nowgoing 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 hornit 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 workingso far off, and leaves early."
"I'll tell 'ee how we could tackle her," said Coggan. "I'll knockand ask to speak to Laban outside the door, you standing in thebackground. Then he'll come out, and you can tell yer tale. She'llnever guess what I want en for; and I'll make up a few words aboutthe farm-work, as a blind."
This scheme was considered feasible; and Coggan advanced boldly, andrapped 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'vebeen forced to go over to Yalbury since shutting out work. I shalldo quite as well."
"I hardly think you will. Stop a moment;" and Coggan stepped roundthe 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 morningat 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 factis, '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 'ee, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn't ha' doneif I hadn't loved 'ee so hopeless well."
Coggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they calledat the vicar's in a manner which excited no curiosity at all. ThenGabriel went home, and prepared for the morrow.
"Liddy," said Bathsheba, on going to bed that night, "I want you tocall 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 ofwhen the time comes, and it's best to make sure."
Bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she by anycontrivance get to sleep again. About six, being quite positive thather 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 bewilderedLiddy. "And it isn't six yet."
"Indeed it is; how can you tell such a story, Liddy? I know it mustbe ever so much past seven. Come to my room as soon as you can; Iwant 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. "WhateverIS going on, ma'am?" she said.
"Well, I'll tell you," said Bathsheba, with a mischievous smile inher 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, after what's been said?" asked 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 minutesto 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 a large and asmaller umbrella might have been seen moving from the same door, andthrough the mist along the road to the church. The distance was notmore than a quarter of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemedit unnecessary to drive. An observer must have been very closeindeed to discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those ofOak and Bathsheba, arm-in-arm for the first time in their lives, Oakin a greatcoat extending to his knees, and Bathsheba in a cloak thatreached her clogs. Yet, though so plainly dressed, there was acertain 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'srequest, arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years agoon Norcombe Hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like a girl ofthat fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now onlythree or four-and-twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful. In thechurch were Tall, Liddy, and the parson, and in a remarkably shortspace of time the deed was done.
The two sat down very quietly to tea in Bathsheba's parlour in theevening of the same day, for it had been arranged that Farmer Oakshould go there to live, since he had as yet neither money, house,nor furniture worthy of the name, th
ough he was on a sure way towardsthem, whilst Bathsheba was, comparatively, in a plethora of allthree.
Just as Bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears weregreeted by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like atremendous blowing of trumpets, in the front of the house.
"There!" said Oak, laughing, "I knew those fellows were up tosomething, by the look on their faces"
Oak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by Bathshebawith a shawl over her head. The rays fell upon a group of malefigures gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw thenewly-married couple in the porch, set up a loud "Hurrah!" and at thesame moment bang again went the cannon in the background, followed bya hideous clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarionet, serpent,hautboy, tenor-viol, and double-bass--the only remaining relicsof the true and original Weatherbury band--venerable worm-eateninstruments, which had celebrated in their own persons the victoriesof Marlborough, under the fingers of the forefathers of those whoplayed them now. The performers came forward, and marched up to thefront.
"Those bright boys, Mark Clark and Jan, are at the bottom of allthis," said Oak. "Come in, souls, and have something to eat anddrink wi' me and my wife."
"Not to-night," said Mr. Clark, with evident self-denial. "Thankye all the same; but we'll call at a more seemly time. However, wecouldn't think of letting the day pass without a note of admirationof 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 andhis comely bride!"
"Thank ye; thank ye all," said Gabriel. "A bit and a drop shall besent to Warren's for ye at once. I had a thought that we might verylikely get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I wassaying 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 JacobSmallbury. "It might have been a little more true to nater if't hadbeen spoke a little chillier, but that wasn't to be expected justnow."
"That improvement will come wi' time," said Jan, twirling his eye.
Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readilynow), and their friends turned to go.
"Yes; I suppose that's the size o't," said Joseph Poorgrass with acheerful sigh as they moved away; "and I wish him joy o' her; thoughI were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in myscripture manner, which is my second nature, 'Ephraim is joined toidols: let him alone.' But since 'tis as 'tis, why, it might havebeen worse, and I feel my thanks accordingly."