Characters
Gabriel Oak	The novel's hero, Gabriel Oak is a farmer, shepherd, and bailiff, marked by his humble and honest ways, his exceptional skill with animals and farming, and an unparalleled loyalty. He is Bathsheba's first suitor, and later later the bailiff on her farm. He occupies the position of quiet observer throughout most of the book, yet he knows just when to step in to save Bathsheba and others from catastrophe.
Bathsheba Everdene	The beautiful young woman at the center of the novel, who must choose among three very different suitors. At the beginning of the novel, she is penniless, but she quickly inherits and learns to run a farm in Weatherbury, where most of the novel takes place.Her first characteristic that we learn about is her vanity, and Hardy continually shows her to be rash and impulsive. However, not only is she independent in spirit, she is independent financially; this allows Hardy to use her character to explore the danger that such a woman faces of losing her identity and lifestyle through marriage.
Francis (Frank) Troy	The novel's antagonist, Troy is a less responsible male equivalent of Bathsheba. He is handsome, vain, young, and irresponsible, though he is capable of love. Early in the novel he is involved with Fanny Robin and gets her pregnant. At first, he plans to marry her, but when they miscommunicate about which church to meet at, he angrily refuses to marry her, and she is ruined. He forgets her and marries the rich, beautiful Bathsheba. Yet when Fanny dies of poverty and exhaustion later in the novel with his child in her arms, he cannot forgive himself.
William Boldwood	Bathsheba's second suitor and the owner of a nearby farm, Boldwood, as his name suggests, is a somewhat wooden, reserved man. He seems unable to fall in love until Bathsheba sends him a valentine on a whim, and suddenly he develops feelings for her. Once he is convinced he loves her, he refuses to give up his pursuit of her, and he is no longer rational. Ultimately, he becomes crazy with obsession.
Fanny Robin	A young orphaned servant girl at the farm who runs away the night Gabriel arrives, attempts to marry Sergeant Troy, and finally dies giving birth to his child at the poor house in Casterbridge. She is a foil to Bathsheba, showing the fate of women who are not well cared for in this society.
Liddy Smallbury	Bathsheba's maid and confidant, of about the same age as Bathsheba
Jan Coggan	Farm laborer and friend to Gabriel Oak
Joseph Poorgrass	Shy, timid farm laborer who blushes easily, Poorgrass carries Fanny's coffin from Casterbridge back to the farm for burial.
Cainy Ball	Young boy who works as Gabriel Oak's assistant shepherd on the Everdene farm
Pennyways	The bailiff on Bathsheba's farm who is caught stealing grain and dismissed. He disappears for most of the novel until he recognizes Troy at Greenhill Fair and helps Troy surprise Bathsheba at Boldwood's Christmas party.

　　　　When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread
till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes
were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round
them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a
rudimentary sketch of the rising sun.
　　　　His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he
was a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper
dress, and general good character. On Sundays he was a
man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered
by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the whole, one who
felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of
Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people
of the parish and the drunken section, -- that is, he went to
church, but yawned privately by the time the con-gegation
reached the Nicene creed, and thought of what there would
be for dinner when he meant to be listening to the sermon.
Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of public
opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was
considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was
rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose
moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture.
　　　　Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sun-
days, Oak's appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly
his own--the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imag-
ining him being always dressed in that way. He wore a low-
crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon
the head for security in high winds, and a coat like Dr. John-
son's; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather
leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each
foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer
might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp
--their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to
compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension
and solidity.
　　　　Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be
called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as
to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This
instrument being several years older than Oak's grandfather,
had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The
smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the
pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision,
nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to.
The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps
and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the
other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations
of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the
glass of his neighbours' windows, till he could discern the hour
marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. It may be
mentioned that Oak's fob being difficult of access, by reason
of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers
(which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch
was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side,
compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh
on account of the exertion required, and drawing up the watch by
its chain, like a bucket from a well.
　　　　But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking
across one of his fields on a certain December morning--sunny
and exceedingly mild--might have regarded Gabriel Oak in o-
ther aspects than these. In his face one might notice that many
of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to manhood:
there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of
the boy. His height and breadth would have been sufficient to
make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due
consideration. But there is a way some men have, rural and
urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than flesh
and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their
manner of showing them. And from a quiet modesty that would
have become a vestal which seemed continually to impress
upon him that he had no great claim on the world's room
Oak walked unassumingly and with a faintly perceptible bend,
yet distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. This may be said
to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his valua-
tion more upon his appearance than upon his capacity to wear
well, which Oak did not.
　　　　He had just reached the time of life at which "young"
is ceasing to be the prefix of "man" in speaking of one.
He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his
intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed
the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately
mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet
arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the
character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family.
In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.
　　　　The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge call-
ed Norcombe Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway
between Emminster and Chalk-Newton. Casually glancing over the
hedge, Oak saw coming down the incline before him an ornamental
spring waggon, painted yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two
horses, a waggoner walking alongside bearing a whip perpendicu-
larly. The waggon was laden with household goods and window
plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, young and at-
tractive. Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a
minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just be-
neath his eyes.

"The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss," said the waggoner.

"Then I heard it fall," said the girl, in a soft, though not
particularly low voice. "I heard a noise I could not account for
when we were coming up the hill."

"I'll run back."

"Do," she answered.

The sensible horses stood--perfectly still, and the waggoner's
steps sank fainter and fainter in the distance.
　　　　The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless,
surrounded by tables and chairs with their legs upwards, back-
ed by an oak settle, and ornamented in front by pots of gera-
niums, myrtles, and cactuses, together with a caged canary
-- all probably from the windows of the house just vacated.
There was also a cat in a willow basket, from the partly-opened
lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and affectionately　
surveyed the small birds around.
　　　　The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place,
and the only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the
canary up and down the perches of its prison. Then she looked
attentively downwards. It was not at the bird, nor at the cat;
it was at an oblong package tied in paper, and lying between
them. She turned her head to learn if the waggoner were coming.
He was not yet in sight; and her eyes crept back to the package,
her thoughts seeming to run upon what was inside it. At length
she drew the article into her lap, and untied the paper cover-
ing; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she
proceeded to survey herself attentively. She parted her lips
and smiled.
　　　　It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet
glow the crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre
upon her bright face and dark hair. The myrtles, geraniums,
and cactuses packed around her were fresh and green, and at
such a leafless season they invested the whole concern of
horses, waggon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar vernal
charm. What possessed her to indulge in such a performance
in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived
farmer who were alone its spectators, -- whether the smile
began as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art,
-- nobody knows; it ended certainly in a real smile. She
blushed at herself, and seeing her reflection blush, blushed
the more.
　　　　The change from the customary spot and necessary o-
ccasion of such an act--from the dressing hour in a bedroom
to a time of travelling out of doors--lent to the idle deed
a novelty it did not intrinsically possess. The picture was a
delicate one. Woman's prescriptive infirmity had stalked into
the sunlight, which had clothed it in the freshness of an o-
riginality. A cynical inference was irresistible by Gabriel Oak
as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would
have been. There was no necessity whatever for her looking
in the glass. She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or
press a dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any
such intention had been her motive in taking up the glass.
She simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the
feminine kind, her thoughts seeming to glide into far-off
though likely dramas in which men would play a part --
vistas of probable triumphs -- the smiles being of a phase
suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost and won. Still,
this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was
so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had
any part in them at all.
　　　　The waggoner's steps were heard returning. She put
the glass in the paper, and the whole again into its place.
　　　　When the waggon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from
his point of espial, and descending into the road, followed
the vehicle to the turnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom
of the hill, where the object of his contemplation now halted
for the payment of toll. About twenty steps still remained
between him and the gate, when he heard a dispute. It was a
difference concerning twopence between the persons with the
waggon and the man at the toll-bar.
　　　　"Mis'ess's niece is upon the top of the things, and
she says that's enough that I've offered ye, you great miser,
and she won't pay any more." These were the waggoner's words.
　　　　"Very well; then mis'ess's niece can't pass," said the
turnpike-keeper, closing the gate.
　　　　Oak looked from one to the other of the disputants,
and fell into a reverie. There was something in the tone of
twopence remarkably insignificant. Threepence had a definite
value as money -- it was an appreciable infringement on a day's
wages, and, as such, a higgling matter; but twopence -- "Here,"
he said, stepping forward and handing twopence to the gatekeep-
er; "let the young woman pass." He looked up at her then; she
heard his words, and looked down.
　　　　Gabriel's features adhered throughout their form so exactly to
the middle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugliness of
Judas Iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended,
that not a single lineament could be selected and called worthy
either of distinction or notoriety. The red-jacketed and dark-haired
maiden seemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him,
and told her man to drive on. She might have looked her thanks to
Gabriel on a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably
she felt none, for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her
point, and we know how women take a favour of that kind.
　　　　The gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle. "That's a
handsome maid," he said to Oak.
　　　　"But she has her faults," said Gabriel.
　　　　"True, farmer."
　　　　"And the greatest of them is--well, what it is always."
　　　　"Beating people down? ay, 'tis so."
　　　　"O no."
　　　　"What, then?"
　　　　Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller's in-
difference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance over
the hedge, and said,
　　　　"Vanity."


　




　　　　It was nearly midnight on the eve of St. Thomas's, the shortest
day in the year. A desolating wind wandered from the north over the
hill whereon Oak had watched the yellow waggon and its occupant in
the sunshine of a few days earlier.
　　　　Norcombe Hill -- not far from lonely Toller-Down -- was one
of the spots which suggest to a passer-by that he is in the presence
of a shape approaching the indestructible as nearly as any to be
found on earth. It was a featureless convexity of chalk and soil
-- an ordinary specimen of those smoothly-outlined protuberances
of the globe which may remain undisturbed on some great day of
confusion, when far grander heights and dizzy granite precipices
topple down.
　　　　The hill was covered on its northern side by an ancient and
decaying plantation of beeches, whose upper verge formed a line over
the crest, fringing its arched curve against the sky, like a mane.
To-night these trees sheltered the southern slope from the keenest
blasts, which smote the wood and floundered through it with a sound
as of grumbling, or gushed over its crowning boughs in a weakened
moan. The dry leaves in the ditch simmered and boiled in the same
breezes, a tongue of air occasionally ferreting out a few, and sending
them spinning across the grass. A group or two of the latest in date
amongst the dead multitude had remained till this very mid-winter
time on the twigs which bore them and in falling rattled against
the trunks with smart taps.
　　　　　Between this half-wooded half naked hill, and the vague
still horizon that its summit indistinctly commanded, was a
mysterious sheet of fathomless shade -- the sounds from which
suggested that what it concealed bore some reduced resemblance
to features here. The thin grasses, more or less coating the
hill, were touched by the wind in breezes of differing powers,
and almost of differing natures -- one rubbing the blades
heavily, another raking them piercingly, another brushing
them like a soft broom. The instinctive act of humankind was
to stand and listen, and learn how the trees on the right and
the trees on the left wailed or chaunted to each other in the
regular antiphonies of a cathedral choir; how hedges and other
shapes to leeward then caught the note, lowering it to the
tenderest sob; and how the hurrying gust then plunged into the
south, to be heard no more.
　　　　　To persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight
such as this, the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable
movement. The sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of
the stars past earthly objects, which is perceptible in a few
minutes of stillness, or by the better outlook upon space that
a hill affords, or by the wind, or by the solitude; but whatever
be its origin, the impression of riding along is vivid and abiding.
The poetry of motion is a phrase much in use, and to enjoy the epic
form of that gratification it is necessary to stand on a hill at a
small hour of the night, and, having first expanded with a sense of
difference from the mass of civilised mankind, who are dreamwrapt
and disregardful of all such proceedings at this time, long and quietly
watch your stately progress through the stars. After such a nocturnal
reconnoitre it is hard to get back to earth, and to believe that the
consciousness of such majestic speeding is derived from a tiny human
frame.
　　　　　Suddenly an unexpected series of sounds began to be heard
in this place up against the sky. They had a clearness which was to
be found nowhere in the wind, and a sequence which was to be found
nowhere in nature. They were the notes of Farmer Oak's flute.
　　　　　The tune was not floating unhindered into the open air: it
seemed muffled in some way, and was altogether too curtailed in power
to spread high or wide. It came from the direction of a small dark
object under the plantation hedge--a shepherd's hut--now presenting
an outline to which an uninitiated person might have been puzzled to
attach either meaning or use.
　　　　　The image as a whole was that of a small Noah's Ark on a
small Ararat, allowing the traditionary outlines and general form of
the Ark which are followed by toy-makers--and by these means are es-
tablished in men's imaginations among their firmest, because earliest
impressions--to pass as an approximate pattern. The hut stood on lit-
tle wheels, which raised its floor about a foot from the ground. Such
shepherds' huts are dragged into the fields when the lambing season
comes on, to shelter the shepherd in his enforced nightly attendance.
　　　　　It was only latterly that people had begun to call Gabriel
"Farmer" Oak. During the twelvemonth preceding this time he had been
enabled by sustained efforts of industry and chronic good spirits to lease
the small sheep-farm of which Norcombe Hill was a portion, and stock
it with two hundred sheep. Previously he had been a bailiff for a short
time, and earlier still a shepherd only, having from his childhood assist-
ed his father in tending the flocks of large proprietors, till old Gabriel
sank to rest.
　　　　　This venture, unaided and alone, into the paths of farming as
master and not as man, with an advance of sheep not yet paid for, was a
critical juncture with Gabriel Oak, and he recognised his position clear-
ly. The first movement in his new progress was the lambing of his ewes,
and sheep having been his speciality from his youth, he wisely refrained
from deputing the task of tending them at this season to a hireling or
a novice.
　　　　　The wind continued to beat about the corners of the hut, but
the flute-playing ceased. A rectangular space of light appeared in the
side of the hut, and in the opening the outline of Farmer Oak's figure.
He carried a lantern in his hand, and closing the door behind him, came
forward and busied himself about this nook of the field for nearly twen-
ty minutes, the lantern light appearing and disappearing here and there,
and brightening him or darkening him as he stood before or behind it.
　　　　　Oak's motions, though they had a quiet energy, were slow, and
their deliberateness accorded well with his occupation. Fitness being
the basis of beauty, nobody could have denied that his steady swings
and turns in and about the flock had elements of grace. Yet, although
if occasion demanded he could do or think a thing with as mercurial a
dash as can the men of towns who are more to the manner born, his
special power, morally, physically, and mentally, was static, owing lit-
tle or nothing to momentum as a rule.
　　　　　A close examination of the ground hereabout, even by the wan
starlight only, revealed how a portion of what would have been casually
called a wild slope had been appropriated by Farmer Oak for his great pur-
pose this winter. Detached hurdles thatched with straw were stuck into
the ground at various scattered points, amid and under which the whitish
forms of his meek ewes moved and rustled. The ring of the sheep-bell,
which had been silent during his absence, recommenced, in tones that had
more mellowness than clearness, owing to an increasing growth of sur-
rounding wool. This continued till Oak withdrew again from the flock. He
returned to the hut, bringing in his arms a new-born lamb, consisting
of four legs large enough for a full-grown sheep, united by a seemingly
inconsiderable membrane about half the substance of the legs collect-
ively, which constituted the animal's entire body just at present.
　　　　　The little speck of life he placed on a wisp of hay before the
small stove, where a can of milk was simmering. Oak extinguished the lan-
tern by blowing into it and then pinching the snuff, the cot being light-
ed by a candle suspended by a twisted wire. A rather hard couch, formed
of a few corn sacks thrown carelessly down, covered half the floor of
this little habitation, and here the young man stretched himself along,
loosened his woollen cravat, and closed his eyes. In about the time a
person unaccustomed to bodily labour would have decided upon which
side to lie, Farmer Oak was asleep.
　　　　　The inside of the hut, as it now presented itself, was cosy and
alluring, and the scarlet handful of fire in addition to the candle, re-
flecting its own genial colour upon whatever it could reach, flung
associations of enjoyment even over utensils and tools. In the corner
stood the sheep-crook, and along a shelf at one side were ranged bottles
and canisters of the simple preparations pertaining to ovine surgery
and physic; spirits of wine, turpentine, tar, magnesia, ginger, and
castor-oil being the chief. On a triangular shelf across the corner
stood bread, bacon, cheese, and a cup for ale or cider, which was sup-
plied from a flagon beneath. Beside the provisions lay the flute, whose
notes had lately been called forth by the lonely watcher to beguile a
tedious hour. The house was ventilated by two round holes, like the
lights of a ship's cabin, with wood slides.
　　　　　The lamb, revived by the warmth, began to bleat, and the sound
entered Gabriel's ears and brain with an instant meaning, as expected
sounds will. Passing from the profoundest sleep to the most alert wake-
fulness with the same ease that had accompanied the reverse operation,
he looked at his watch, found that the hour-hand had shifted again, put
on his hat, took the lamb in his arms, and carried it into the darkness.
After placing the little creature with its mother, he stood and careful-
ly examined the sky, to ascertain the time of night from the altitudes of
the stars.
　　　　　The Dog-star and Aldebaran, pointing to the restless Pleiades,
were half-way up the Southern sky, and between them hung Orion, which
gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it soared
forth above the rim of the landscape. Castor and Pollux with their quiet
shine were almost on the meridian: the barren and gloomy Square of Pega-
sus was creeping round to the north-west; far away through the plantation
Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid the leafless trees, and Cassi-
opeia's chair stood daintily poised on the uppermost boughs.
　　　　　"One o'clock," said Gabriel.
　　　　　Being a man not without a frequent consciousness that there
was some charm in this life he led, he stood still after looking at the
sky as a useful instrument, and regarded it in an appreciative spirit, as
a work of art superlatively beautiful. For a moment he seemed impress-
ed with the speaking loneliness of the scene, or rather with the complete
abstraction from all its compass of the sights and sounds of man. Human
shapes, interferences, troubles, and joys were all as if they were not,
and there seemed to be on the shaded hemisphere of the globe no sen-
tient being save himself; he could fancy them all gone round to the sunny
side.
　　　　　Occupied thus, with eyes stretched afar, Oak gradually per-
ceived that what he had previously taken to be a star low down behind
the outskirts of the plantation was in reality no such thing. It was
an artificial light, almost close at hand.
　　　　　To find themselves utterly alone at night where company is
desirable and expected makes some people fearful; but a case
more trying by far to the nerves is to discover some mysterious
companionship when intuition, sensation, memory, analogy,
testimony, probability, induction -- every kind of evidence
in the logician's list -- have united to persuade consciousness
that it is quite in isolation.
　　　　　Farmer Oak went towards the plantation and pushed through its
lower boughs to the windy side. A dim mass under the slope reminded
him that a shed occupied a place here, the site being a cutting into the
slope of the hill, so that at its back part the roof was almost level
with the ground. In front it was formed of board nailed to posts and
covered with tar as a preservative. Through crevices in the roof and
side spread streaks and dots of light, a combination of which made the
radiance that had attracted him. Oak stepped up behind, where, leaning
down upon the roof and putting his eye close to a hole, he could see
into the interior clearly.
　　　　　The place contained two women and two cows. By the side of
the latter a steaming bran-mash stood in a bucket. One of the women was
past middle age. Her companion was apparently young and graceful; he
could form no decided opinion upon her looks, her position being almost
beneath his eye, so that he saw her in a bird's-eye view, as Milton's
Satan first saw Paradise. She wore no bonnet or hat, but had enveloped
herself in a large cloak, which was carelessly flung over her head as a
covering.
　　　　　"There, now we'll go home," said the elder of the two, resting
her knuckles upon her hips, and looking at their goings-on as a whole.
"I do hope Daisy will fetch round again now. I have never been more
frightened in my life, but I don't mind breaking my rest if she recovers."
　　　　　The young woman, whose eyelids were apparently inclined to
fall together on the smallest provocation of silence, yawned without
parting her lips to any inconvenient extent, whereupon Gabriel caught
the infection and slightly yawned in sympathy.
　　　　　"I wish we were rich enough to pay a man to do these things,"
she said.
　　　　　"As we are not, we must do them ourselves," said the other;
"for you must help me if you stay."
　　　　　"Well, my hat is gone, however," continued the younger. "It
went over the hedge, I think. The idea of such a slight wind catching it."
　　　　　The cow standing erect was of the Devon breed, and was encased
in a tight warm hide of rich Indian red, as absolutely uniform from eyes
to tail as if the animal had been dipped in a dye of that colour, her
long back being mathematically level. The other was spotted, grey and
white. Beside her Oak now noticed a little calf about a day old, looking
idiotically at the two women, which showed that it had not long been ac-
customed to the phenomenon of eyesight, and often turning to the lantern,
which it apparently mistook for the moon, inherited instinct having as
yet had little time for correction by experience. Between the sheep and
the cows Lucina had been busy on Norcombe Hill lately.
　　　　　"I think we had better send for some oatmeal," said the elder
woman; "there's no more bran."
　　　　　"Yes, aunt; and I'll ride over for it as soon as it is light."
　　　　　"But there's no side-saddle."
　　　　　"I can ride on the other: trust me."
　　　　　Oak, upon hearing these remarks, became more curious to observe
her features, but this prospect being denied him by the hooding effect
of the cloak, and by his aerial position, he felt himself drawing upon
his fancy for their details. In making even horizontal and clear inspect-
ions we colour and mould according to the wants within us whatever
our eyes bring in. Had Gabriel been able from the first to get a distinct
view of her countenance, his estimate of it as very handsome or slightly
so would have been as his soul required a divinity at the moment or was
ready supplied with one. Having for some time known the want of a sat-
isfactory form to fill an increasing void within him, his position moreover
affording the widest scope for his fancy, he painted her a beauty.
　　　　　By one of those whimsical coincidences in which Nature, like a
busy mother, seems to spare a moment from her unremitting labours to
turn and make her children smile, the girl now dropped the cloak, and forth
tumbled ropes of black hair over a red jacket. Oak knew her instantly as
the heroine of the yellow waggon, myrtles, and looking-glass: prosily,
as the woman who owed him twopence.
　　　　　They placed the calf beside its mother again, took up the lan-
tern, and went out, the light sinking down the hill till it was no more
than a nebula. Gabriel Oak returned to his flock.



　





　　　　　The sluggish day began to break. Even its position terrestrial-
ly is one of the elements of a new interest, and for no particular reason
save that the incident of the night had occurred there Oak went again into
the plantation. Lingering and musing here, he heard the steps of a horse
at the foot of the hill, and soon there appeared in view an auburn pony
with a girl on its back, ascending by the path leading past the cattle-
shed. She was the young woman of the night before. Gabriel instantly
thought of the hat she had mentioned as having lost in the wind; possibly
she had come to look for it. He hastily scanned the ditch and after walk-
ing about ten yards along it found the hat among the leaves. Gabriel took
it in his hand and returned to his hut. Here he ensconced himself, and
peeped through the loophole in the direction of the rider's approach.
　　　　　She came up and looked around--then on the other side of the
hedge. Gabriel was about to advance and restore the missing article when
an unexpected performance induced him to suspend the action for the pre-
sent. The path, after passing the cowshed, bisected the plantation. It
was not a bridle-path--merely a pedestrian's track, and the boughs spread
horizontally at a height not greater than seven feet above the ground,
which made it impossible to ride erect beneath them. The girl, who wore
no riding-habit, looked around for a moment, as if to assure herself that
all humanity was out of view, then dexterously dropped backwards flat u-
pon the pony's back, her head over its tail, her feet against its shoul-
ders, and her eyes to the sky. The rapidity of her glide into this posi-
tion was that of a kingfisher--its noiselessness that of a hawk. Gabriel's
eyes had scarcely been able to follow her. The tall lank pony seemed used
to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under the
level boughs.
　　　　　The performer seemed quite at home anywhere between a horse's
head and its tail, and the necessity for this abnormal attitude having
ceased with the passage of the plantation, she began to adopt another,
even more obviously convenient than the first. She had no side-saddle,
and it was very apparent that a firm seat upon the smooth leather beneath
her was unattainable sideways. Springing to her accustomed perpendicular
like a bowed sapling, and satisfying herself that nobody was in sight,
she seated herself in the manner demanded by the saddle, though hardly
expected of the woman, and trotted off in the direction of Tewnell Mill.
　　　　　Oak was amused, perhaps a little astonished, and hanging up
the hat in his hut, went again among his ewes. An hour passed, the girl
returned, properly seated now, with a bag of bran in front of her. On
nearing the cattle-shed she was met by a boy bringing a milking-pail,
who held the reins of the pony whilst she slid off. The boy led away
the horse, leaving the pail with the young woman.
　　　　　Soon soft spirts alternating with loud spirts came in regular
succession from within the shed, the obvious sounds of a person milking
a cow. Gabriel took the lost hat in his hand, and waited beside the path
she would follow in leaving the hill.
　　　　　She came, the pail in one hand, hanging against her knee. The
left arm was extended as a balance, enough of it being shown bare to make
Oak wish that the event had happened in the summer, when the whole
would have been revealed. There was a bright air and manner about her
now, by which she seemed to imply that the desirability of her existence
could not be questioned; and this rather saucy assumption failed in
being offensive because a beholder felt it to be, upon the whole, true.
Like exceptional emphasis in the tone of a genius, that which would
have made mediocrity ridiculous was an addition to recognised power.
It was with some surprise that she saw Gabriel's face rising like the
moon behind the hedge.
　　　　　The adjustment of the farmer's hazy conceptions of her charms
to the portrait of herself she now presented him with was less a diminu-
tion than a difference. The starting-point selected by the judgment was
her height. She seemed tall, but the pail was a small one, and the hedge
diminutive; hence, making allowance for error by comparison with these,
she could have been not above the height to be chosen by women as best.
All features of consequence were severe and regular. It may have been
observed by persons who go about the shires with eyes for beauty, that
in Englishwoman a classically-formed face is seldom found to be united
with a figure of the same pattern, the highly-finished features being
generally too large for the remainder of the frame; that a graceful and
proportionate figure of eight heads usually goes off into random facial
curves. Without throwing a Nymphean tissue over a milkmaid, let it be
said that here criticism checked itself as out of place, and looked at
her proportions with a long consciousness of pleasure. From the contours
of her figure in its upper part, she must have had a beautiful neck and
shoulders; but since her infancy nobody had ever seen them. Had she been
put into a low dress she would have run and thrust her head into a bush.
Yet she was not a shy girl by any means; it was merely her instinct to
draw the line dividing the seen from the unseen higher than they do it
in towns.
　　　　　That the girl's thoughts hovered about her face and form as
soon as she caught Oak's eyes conning the same page was natural,
and almost certain. The self-consciousness shown would have been
vanity if a little more pronounced, dignity if a little less. Rays of male
vision seem to have a tickling effect upon virgin faces in rural districts;
she brushed hers with her hand, as if Gabriel had been irritating its pink
surface by actual touch, and the free air of her previous movements
was reduced at the same time to a chastened phase of itself. Yet it was
the man who blushed, the maid not at all.
　　　　　"I found a hat," said Oak.
　　　　　"It is mine," said she, and, from a sense of proportion, kept
down to a small smile an inclination to laugh distinctly: "it flew away
last night."
　　　　　"One o'clock this morning?"
　　　　　"Well--it was." She was surprised. "How did you know?" she said.
　　　　　"I was here."
　　　　　"You are Farmer Oak, are you not?"
　　　　　"That or thereabouts. I'm lately come to this place."
　　　　　"A large farm?" she inquired, casting her eyes round, and swinging
back her hair, which was black in the shaded hollows of its mass; but it be-
ing now an hour past sunrise the rays touched its prominent curves with a
colour of their own.
　　　　　"No; not large. About a hundred." (In speaking of farms the word
"acres" is omitted by the natives, by analogy to such old expressions as "a
stag of ten.")
　　　　　"I wanted my hat this morning," she went on. "I had to ride to
Tewnell Mill."
　　　　　"Yes you had."
　　　　　"How do you know?"
　　　　　"I saw you."
　　　　　"Where?" she inquired, a misgiving bringing every muscle of her
lineaments and frame to a standstill.
　　　　　"Here--going through the plantation, and all down the hill," said
Farmer Oak, with an aspect excessively knowing with regard to some matter
in his mind, as he gazed at a remote point in the direction named, and then
turned back to meet his colloquist's eyes.
　　　　　A perception caused him to withdraw his own eyes from hers as
suddenly as if he had been caught in a theft. Recollection of the strange
antics she had indulged in when passing through the trees was succeeded
in the girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face. It was a time
to see a woman redden who was not given to reddening as a rule; not a
point in the milkmaid but was of the deepest rose-colour.From the
Maiden's Blush, through all varieties of the Provence down to the Crim-
son Tuscany, the countenance of Oak's acquaintance quickly graduated;
whereupon he, in considerateness, turned away his head.
　　　　　The sympathetic man still looked the other way, and wondered when
she would recover coolness sufficient to justify him in facing her again.
He heard what seemed to be the flitting of a dead leaf upon the breeze,
and looked. She had gone away.
　　　　　With an air between that of Tragedy and Comedy Gabriel returned
to his work.
　　　　　Five mornings and evenings passed. The young woman came regularly
to milk the healthy cow or to attend to the sick one, but never allowed her
vision to stray in the direction of Oak's person. His want of tact had
deeply offended her -- not by seeing what he could not help, but by lett-
ing her know that he had seen it. For, as without law there is no sin, with-
out eyes there is no indecorum; and she appeared to feel that Gabriel's
espial had made her an indecorous woman without her own connivance. It
was food for great regret with him; it was also a contretemps which touch-
ed into life a latent heat he had experienced in that direction.
　　　　　The acquaintanceship might, however, have ended in a slow forget-
ting, but for an incident which occurred at the end of the same week. One
afternoon it began to freeze, and the frost increased with evening, which
drew on like a stealthy tightening of bonds. It was a time when in cottages
the breath of the sleepers freezes to the sheets; when round the drawing-
room fire of a thick-walled mansion the sitters' backs are cold, even
whilst their faces are all aglow. Many a small bird went to bed supperless
that night among the bare boughs.
　　　　　As the milking-hour drew near, Oak kept his usual watch upon
the cowshed. At last he felt cold, and shaking an extra quantity of bed-
ding round the yearling ewes he entered the hut and heaped more fuel upon
the stove. The wind came in at the bottom of the door, and to prevent it
Oak laid a sack there and wheeled the cot round a little more to the south.
Then the wind spouted in at a ventilating hole--of which there was one on
each side of the hut.
　　　　　Gabriel had always known that when the fire was lighted and the
door closed one of these must be kept open--that chosen being always on the
side away from the wind. Closing the slide to windward, he turned to open
the other; on second thoughts the farmer considered that he would first
sit down leaving both closed for a minute or two, till the temperature of
the hut was a little raised. He sat down.
　　　　　His head began to ache in an unwonted manner, and, fancying him-
self weary by reason of the broken rests of the preceding nights, Oak de-
cided to get up, open the slide, and then allow himself to fall asleep.
He fell asleep, however, without having performed the necessary preliminary.
　　　　　How long he remained unconscious Gabriel never knew. During the
first stages of his return to perception peculiar deeds seemed to be in
course of enactment. His dog was howling, his head was aching fearfully --
somebody was pulling him about, hands were loosening his neckerchief.
　　　　　On opening his eyes he found that evening had sunk to dusk in a
strange manner of unexpectedness. The young girl with the remarkably plea-
sant lips and white teeth was beside him. More than this -- astonishingly
more -- his head was upon her lap, his face and neck were disagreeably
wet, and her fingers were unbuttoning his collar.
　　　　　“Whatever is the matter?” said Oak, vacantly.
　　　　　She seemed to experience mirth, but of too insignificant a kind
to start enjoyment.
　　　　　“Nothing now,” she answered, “since you are not dead. It is a
wonder you were not suffocated in this hut of yours.”
　　　　　“Ah, the hut!” murmured Gabriel. “I gave ten pounds for that
hut. But I'll sell it, and sit under thatched hurdles as they did in old
times, and curl up to sleep in a lock of straw! It played me nearly the same
trick the other day!” Gabriel, by way of emphasis, brought down his fist
upon the floor.
　　　　　“It was not exactly the fault of the hut,” she observed in a
tone which showed her to be that novelty among women--one who finished
a thought before beginning the sentence which was to convey it. “You
should, I think, have considered, and not have been so foolish as to leave
the slides closed.”
　　　　　“Yes I suppose I should,” said Oak, absently. He was endea-
vouring to catch and appreciate the sensation of being thus with her, his
head upon her dress, before the event passed on into the heap of bygone
things. He wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have
thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the
intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. So he re-
mained silent.
　　　　　She made him sit up, and then Oak began wiping his face and
shaking himself like a Samson. “How can I thank 'ee?” he said at last,
gratefully, some of the natural rusty red having returned to his face.
　　　　　"Oh, never mind that," said the girl, smiling, and allowing her
smile to hold good for Gabriel's next remark, whatever that might prove
to be.
　　　　　“How did you find me?”
　　　　　“I heard your dog howling and scratching at the door of the
hut when I came to the milking (it was so lucky, Daisy's milking is
almost over for the season, and I shall not come here after this week
or the next). The dog saw me, and jumped over to me, and laid hold of
my skirt. I came across and looked round the hut the very first thing
to see if the slides were closed. My uncle has a hut like this one,
and I have heard him tell his shepherd not to go to sleep without
leaving a slide open. I opened the door, and there you were like dead.
I threw the milk over you, as there was no water, forgetting it was
warm, and no use.”
　　　　　"I wonder if I should have died?" Gabriel said, in a low voice,
which was rather meant to travel back to himself than to her.
　　　　　"Oh no!" the girl replied. She seemed to prefer a less tragic
probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should
harmonise with the dignity of such a deed -- and she shunned it.
　　　　　"I believe you saved my life, Miss ---- I don't know your name.
I know your aunt's, but not yours."
　　　　　"I would just as soon not tell it -- rather not. There is no rea-
son either why I should, as you probably will never have much to do
with me."
　　　　　"Still, I should like to know."
　　　　　"You can inquire at my aunt's -- she will tell you."
　　　　　"My name is Gabriel Oak."
　　　　　"And mine isn't. You seem fond of yours in speaking it so
decisively, Gabriel Oak."
　　　　　"You see, it is the only one I shall ever have, and I must make
the most of it."
　　　　　"I always think mine sounds odd and disagreeable."
　　　　　"I should think you might soon get a new one."
　　　　　"Mercy! -- how many opinions you keep about you concerning
other people, Gabriel Oak."
　　　　　"Well, Miss -- excuse the words -- I thought you would like
them. But I can't match you, I know, in mapping out my mind upon my
tongue. I never was very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come,
give me your hand."
　　　　　She hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at Oak's old-fashioned
earnest conclusion to a dialogue lightly carried on. “Very well,”
she said, and gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure im-
passivity. He held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too dem-
onstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with
the lightness of a small-hearted person.
　　　　　"I am sorry," he said the instant after.
　　　　　"What for?"
　　　　　"Letting your hand go so quick"
　　　　　"You may have it again if you like; there it is." She gave him
her hand again.
　　　　　Oak held it longer this time -- indeed, curiously long. "How soft
it is -- being winter time, too -- not chapped or rough or anything!" he
said.
　　　　　"There -- that's long enough," said she, though without pulling
it away. "But I suppose you are thinking you would like to kiss it? You
may if ou want to."
　　　　　"I wasn't thinking of any such thing," said Gabriel, simply; "but I
will ----"
　　　　　"That you won't!" She snatched back her hand.
　　　　　Gabriel felt himself guilty of another want of tact.
　　　　　"Now find out my name," she said, teasingly; and withdrew.

--------------------------------------------------------------







　　　The only superiority in women that is tolerable to the
rival sex is, as a rule, that of the unconscious kind; but
a superiority which recognizes itself may sometimes please
by suggesting possibilities of capture to the subordinated
man.
　　　This well-favoured and comely girl soon made appreciable
inroads upon the emotional constitution of young Farmer Oak.
　　　Love, being an extremely exacting usurer (a sense of exorbitant
profit, spiritually, by an exchange of hearts, being at the bottom
of pure passions, as that of exorbitant profit, bodily or materially,
is at the bottom of those of lower atmosphere), every morning Oak's
feelings were as sensitive as the money-market in calculations upon
his chances. His dog waited for his meals in a way so like that in
which Oak waited for the girl's presence, that the farmer was quite
struck with the resemblance, felt it lowering, and would not look at
the dog. However, he continued to watch through the hedge for her
regular coming, and thus his sentiments towards her were deepened
without any corresponding effect being produced upon herself.
　　　Oak had nothing finished and ready to say as yet, and not be-
ing able to frame love phrases which end where they begin; passion-
ate tales--

--Full of sound and fury,
--Signifying nothing--

he said no word at all.
　　　By making inquiries he found that the girl's name was Bath-
sheba Everdene, and that the cow would go dry in about seven days.
He dreaded the eighth day.
　　　At last the eighth day came. The cow had ceased to give milk
for that year, and Bathsheba Everdene came up the hill no more.
Gabriel had reached a pitch of existence he never could have anti-
cipated a short time before. He liked saying "Bathsheba" as a private
enjoyment instead of whistling; turned over his taste to black hair,
though he had sworn by brown ever since he was a boy, isolated himself
till the space he filled in the public eye was contemptibly small. Love
is a possible strength in an actual weakness. Marriage transforms a
distraction into a support, the power of which should be, and happily
often is, in direct proportion to the degree of imbecility it supplants.
Oak began now to see light in this direction, and said to himself, "I'll
make her my wife, or upon my soul I shall be good for nothing!"
　　　All this while he was perplexing himself about an errand
on which he might consistently visit the cottage of Bathsheba's
aunt.
　　　He found his opportunity in the death of a ewe, mother of a liv-
ing lamb. On a day which had a summer face and a winter constitution
--a fine January morning, when there was just enough blue sky visible
to make cheerfully-disposed people wish for more, and an occasional
gleam of silvery sunshine, Oak put the lamb into a respectable Sunday
basket, and stalked across the fields to the house of Mrs. Hurst, the
aunt'--George, the dog walking behind, with a countenance of great
concern at the serious turn pastoral affairs seemed to be taking.
　　　Gabriel had watched the blue wood-smoke curling from the chim-
ney with strange meditation. At evening he had fancifully traced it
down the chimney to the spot of its origin -- seen the hearth and
Bathsheba beside it -- beside it in her out-door dress; for the clothes
she had worn on the hill were by association equally with her person
included in the compass of his affection; they seemed at this early
time of his love a necessary ingredient of the sweet mixture called
Bathsheba Everdene.
　　　He had made a toilet of a nicely-adjusted kind--of a nature be-
tween the carefully neat and the carelessly ornate--of a degree be-
tween fine-market-day and wet-Sunday selection. He thoroughly
cleaned his silver watch-chain with whiting, put new lacing straps to
his boots, looked to the brass eyelet-holes, went to the inmost heart
of the plantation for a new walking-stick, and trimmed it vigorously
on his way back; took a new handkerchief from the bottom of his
clothes-box, put on the light waistcoat patterned all over with
sprigs of an elegant flower uniting the beauties of both rose and lily
without the defects of either, and used all the hair-oil he possessed
upon his usually dry, sandy, and inextricably curly hair, till he had
deepened it to a splendidly novel colour, between that of guano and
Roman cement, making it stick to his head like mace round a nutmeg,
or wet seaweed round a boulder after the ebb.
　　　Nothing disturbed the stillness of the cottage save the chatter
of a knot of sparrows on the eaves; one might fancy scandal and
rumour to be no less the staple topic of these little coteries on
roofs than of those under them. It seemed that the omen was an
unpropitious one, for, as the rather untoward commencement of
Oak's overtures, just as he arrived by the garden gate, he saw a cat
inside, going into various arched shapes and fiendish convulsions at
the sight of his dog George. The dog took no notice , for he had
arrived at an age at which all superfluous barking was cynically a-
voided as a waste of breath -- in fact, he never barked even at the
sheep except to order, when it was done with an absolutely neutral
countenance, as a sort of Commination-service, which, though of-
fensive, had to be gone through once now and then to frighten the
flock for their own good.
　　　A voice came from behind some laurel-bushes into which the
cat had run:
　　　“Poor dear! Did a nasty brute of a dog want to kill it;--did he,
poor dear!”
　　　“I beg your pardon,” said Oak to the voice, “but George was
walking on behind me with a temper as mild as milk.”
　　　Almost before he had ceased speaking, Oak was seized with a
misgiving as to whose ear was the recipient of his answer. Nobody
appeared, and he heard the person retreat among the bushes.
　　　Gabriel meditated, and so deeply that he brought small furrows
into his forehead by sheer force of reverie. Where the issue of an
interview is as likely to be a vast change for the worse as for the
better, any initial difference from expectation causes nipping sen-
sations of failure. Oak went up to the door a little abashed: his
mental rehearsal and the reality had had no common grounds of
opening.
　　　Bathsheba's aunt was indoors. “Will you tell Miss Everdene
that somebody would be glad to speak to her?” said Mr. Oak. (Calling
one's self merely Somebody, without giving a name, is not to be taken
as an example of the ill-breeding of the rural world: it springs from
a refined modesty, of which townspeople, with their cards and an-
nouncements, have no notion whatever.)
　　　Bathsheba was out. The voice had evidently been hers.
　　　“Will you come in, Mr. Oak?”
　　　“Oh, thank 'ee,” said Gabriel, following her to the fireplace.
“I've brought a lamb for Miss Everdene. I thought she might like one
to rear; girls do.”
　　　“She might,” said Mrs. Hurst, musingly; “though she's only a
visitor here. If you will wait a minute, Bathsheba will be in.”
　　　“Yes, I will wait,” said Gabriel, sitting down. “The lamb
isn't really the business I came about, Mrs. Hurst. In short, I was go-
ing to ask her if she'd like to be married.”
　　　“And were you indeed?”
　　　“Yes. Because if she would, I should be very glad to marry her.
D'ye know if she's got any other young man hanging about her at all?”
　　　“Let me think,” said Mrs. Hurst, poking the fire superfluously
...“Yes--bless you, ever so many young men. You see, Farmer Oak,
she's so good-looking, and an excellent scholar besides--she was going
to be a governess once, you know, only she was too wild. Not that her
young men ever come here--but, Lord, in the nature of women, she must
have a dozen!”
　　　“That's unfortunate,” said Farmer Oak, contemplating a crack in
the stone floor with sorrow. “I'm only an every-day sort of man, and
my only chance was in being the first comer.... Well, there's no use in
my waiting, for that was all I came about: so I'll take myself off home
-along, Mrs. Hurst.”
　　　When Gabriel had gone about two hundred yards along the down, he
heard a “hoi-hoi!” uttered behind him, in a piping note of more treble
quality than that in which the exclamation usually embodies itself when
shouted across a field. He looked round, and saw a girl racing after him,
waving a white handkerchief.
　　　Oak stood still--and the runner drew nearer. It was Bathsheba Ever-
dene. Gabriel's colour deepened: hers was already deep, not, as it appear-
ed, from emotion, but from running.
　　　“Farmer Oak--I--” she said, pausing for want of breath pulling up
in front of him with a slanted face and putting her hand to her side.
　　　“I have just called to see you,” said Gabriel, pending her further
speech.
　　　“Yes--I know that,” she said panting like a robin, her face red
and moist from her exertions, like a peony petal before the sun dries off
the dew. “I didn't know you had come to ask to have me, or I should have
come in from the garden instantly. I ran after you to say--that my aunt
made a mistake in sending you away from courting me--”
　　　Gabriel expanded. “I'm sorry to have made you run so fast, my dear,”
he said, with a grateful sense of favours to come. “Wait a bit till
you've found your breath.”
　　　“--It was quite a mistake--aunt's telling you I had a young man al-
ready,” Bathsheba went on. “I haven't a sweetheart at all--and I never
had one, and I thought that, as times go with women, it was such a pity
to send you away thinking that I had several.”
　　　“Really and truly I am glad to hear that!” said Farmer Oak, smil-
ing one of his long special smiles, and blushing with gladness. He held
out his hand to take hers, which, when she had eased her side by pressing
it there, was prettily extended upon her bosom to still her loud-beating
heart. Directly he seized it she put it behind her, so that it slipped
through his fingers like an eel.
　　　“I have a nice snug little farm,” said Gabriel, with half a de-
gree less assurance than when he had seized her hand.
　　　“Yes; you have.”
　　　“A man has advanced me money to begin with, but still, it will soon
be paid off, and though I am only an every-day sort of man, I have got on
a little since I was a boy.” Gabriel uttered “a little” in a tone to show
her that it was the complacent form of “a great deal.” He continued:
“When we be married, I am quite sure I can work twice as hard as I
do now.”
　　　He went forward and stretched out his arm again. Bathsheba had o-
vertaken him at a point beside which stood a low stunted holly bush, now
laden with red berries. Seeing his advance take the form of an attitude
threatening a possible enclosure, if not compression, of her person, she
edged off round the bush.
　　　“Why, Farmer Oak,” she said, over the top, looking at him with
rounded eyes, “I never said I was going to marry you.”
　　　“Well--that is a tale!” said Oak, with dismay. “To run after anybody
like this, and then say you don't want him!”
　　　“What I meant to tell you was only this,” she said eagerly, and
yet half conscious of the absurdity of the position she had made for her-
self--“that nobody has got me yet as a sweetheart, instead of my having
a dozen, as my aunt said; I hate to be thought men's property in that
way, though possibly I shall be had some day. Why, if I'd wanted you I
shouldn't have run after you like this; 'twould have been the forwardest
thing! But there was no harm in hurrying to correct a piece of false news
that had been told you.”
　　　“Oh, no--no harm at all.” But there is such a thing as being too
generous in expressing a judgment impulsively, and Oak added with a more
appreciative sense of all the circumstances--“Well, I am not quite cer-
tain it was no harm.”
　　　“Indeed, I hadn't time to think before starting whether I wanted to
marry or not, for you'd have been gone over the hill.”
　　　“Come,” said Gabriel, freshening again; “think a minute or two.
I'll wait a while, Miss Everdene. Will you marry me? Do, Bathsheba. I love
you far more than common!”
　　　“I'll try to think,” she observed, rather more timorously; “if I
can think out of doors; my mind spreads away so.”
　　　“But you can give a guess.”
　　　“Then give me time.” Bathsheba looked thoughtfully into the dis-
tance, away from the direction in which Gabriel stood.
　　　“I can make you happy,” said he to the back of her head, across
the bush. “You shall have a piano in a year or two--farmers' wives are
getting to have pianos now--and I'll practise up the flute right well to
play with you in the evenings.”
　　　“Yes; I should like that.”
　　　“And have one of those little ten-pound gigs for market--and nice
flowers, and birds--cocks and hens I mean, because they be useful,” con-
tinued Gabriel, feeling balanced between poetry and practicality.
　　　“I should like it very much.”
　　　“And a frame for cucumbers--like a gentleman and lady.”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“And when the wedding was over, we'd have it put in the newspaper
list of marriages.”
　　　“Dearly I should like that!”
　　　“And the babies in the births--every man jack of 'em! And at home
by the fire, whenever you look up, there I shall be--and whenever I look
up there will be you.”
　　　“Wait, wait, and don't be improper!”
　　　Her countenance fell, and she was silent awhile. He regarded the red
berries between them over and over again, to such an extent, that holly
seemed in his after life to be a cypher signifying a proposal of marriage.
Bathsheba decisively turned to him.
　　　"No;" 'tis no use," she said. "I don't want to marry you."
　　　"Try."
　　　"I have tried hard all the time I've been thinking; for a marriage
would be very nice in one sense. People would talk about me, and think
I had won my battle, and I should feel triumphant, and all that, But a
husband ----
　　　"Well!"
　　　"Why, he'd always be there, as you say; whenever I looked up,
there he'd be."
　　　"Of course he would -- I, that is."
　　　"Well, what I mean is that I shouldn't mind being a bride at a wed-
ding, if I could be one without having a husband. But since a woman can't
show off in that way by herself, I shan't marry -- at least yet."
　　　"That's a terrible wooden story."
　　　At this criticism of her statement Bathsheba made an addition to her
dignity by a slight sweep away from him.
　　　“Upon my heart and soul, I don't know what a maid can say stupider
than that,” said Oak. “But dearest,” he continued in a palliative voice,
“don't be like it!” Oak sighed a deep honest sigh--none the less so in
that, being like the sigh of a pine plantation, it was rather noticeable as
a disturbance of the atmosphere. “Why won't you have me?” he appealed,
creeping round the holly to reach her side.
　　　“I cannot,” she said, retreating.
　　　“But why?” he persisted, standing still at last in despair of ever
reaching her, and facing over the bush.
　　　“Because I don't love you.”
　　　“Yes, but--”
　　　She contracted a yawn to an inoffensive smallness, so that it was
hardly ill-mannered at all. "I don't love you," she said."
　　　"But I love you -- and, as for myself, I am content to be liked."
　　　"Oh Mr. Oak -- that's very fine! You'd get to despise me."
　　　"Never," said Mr Oak, so earnestly that he seemed to be coming, by
the force of his words, straight through the bush and into her arms. "I
shall do one thing in this life -- one thing certain -- that is, love you,
and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die." His voice had a genuine
pathos now, and his large brown hands perceptibly trembled.
　　　"It seems dreadfully wrong not to have you when you feel so much!" she
said with a little distress, and looking hopelessly around for some means
of escape from her moral dilemma. "How I wish I hadn't run after you!"
However she seemed to have a short cut for getting back to cheerfulness,
and set her face to signify archness. "It wouldn't do, Mr Oak. I want some-
body to tame me; I am too independent; and you would never be able to, I
know."
　　　Oak cast his eyes down the field in a way implying that it was use-
less to attempt argument.
　　　"Mr. Oak," she said, with luminous distinctness and common sense,
"you are better off than I. I have hardly a penny in the world -- I am
staying with my aunt for my bare sustenance. I am better educated than
you -- and I don't love you a bit: that's my side of the case. Now yours:
you are a farmer just beginning; and you ought in common prudence, if
you marry at all (which you should certainly not think of doing at present),
to marry a woman with money, who would stock a larger farm for you than
you have now."
　　　Gabriel looked at her with a little surprise and much admiration.
　　　"That's the very thing I had been thinking myself!" he naively said.
　　　Farmer Oak had one-and-a-half Christian characteristics too many
to succeed with Bathsheba: his humility, and a superfluous moiety of
honesty. Bathsheba was decidedly disconcerted.
　　　"Well, then, why did you come and disturb me?" she said, almost
angrily, if not quite, an enlarging red spot rising in each cheek.
　　　"I can't do what I think would be -- would be ----"
　　　"Right?"
　　　"No: wise."
　　　"You have made an admission now, Mr. Oak," she exclaimed, with
even more hauteur, and rocking her head disdainfully.
　　　"After that, do you think I could marry you? Not if I know
it."
　　　He broke in passionately. "But don't mistake me like that! Because
I am open enough to own what every man in my shoes would have
thought of, you make your colours come up your face, and get crabbed
with me.
　　　That about your not being good enough for me is nonsense. You
speak like a lady--all the parish notice it, and your uncle at Weath-
erbury is, I have heerd, a large farmer--much larger than ever I shall
be. May I call in the evening, or will you walk along with me o'
Sundays? I don't want you to make-up your mind at once, if you'd
rather not.”
　　　“No--no--I cannot. Don't press me any more--don't. I don't
love you--so 'twould be ridiculous,” she said, with a laugh.
　　　No man likes to see his emotions the sport of a merry-go-round
of skittishness. "Very well," said Oak, firmly, with the bearing of one
who was going to give his days and nights to Ecclesiastes for ever.
"Then I'll ask you no more."








　　　The news which one day reached Gabriel, that Bathsheba Everdene
had left the neighbourhood, had an influence upon him which might have
surprised any who never suspected that the more emphatic the renuncia-
tion the less absolute its character.
　　　It may have been observed that there is no regular path for get-
ting out of love as there is for getting in. Some people look upon mar-
riage as a short cut that way, but it has been known to fail. Separation,
which was the means that chance offered to Gabriel Oak by Bathsheba's
disappearance though effectual with people of certain humours is apt to
idealize the removed object with others -- notably those whose affection,
placid and regular as it may be, flows deep and long. Oak belonged to
the even-tempered order of humanity, and felt the secret fusion of him-
self in Bathsheba to be burning with a finer flame now that she was gone
-- that was all.
　　　His incipient friendship with her aunt had been nipped by the
failure of his suit, and all that Oak learnt of Bathsheba's movements
was done indirectly. It appeared that she had gone to a place called
Weatherbury, more than twenty miles off, but in what capacity--whether
as a visitor, or permanently, he could not discover.
　　　Gabriel had two dogs. George, the elder, exhibited an ebony-tipped
nose, surrounded by a narrow margin of pink flesh, and a coat marked
in random splotches approximating in colour to white and slaty grey;
but the grey, after years of sun and rain, had been scorched and washed
out of the more prominent locks, leaving them of a reddish-brown, as if
the blue component of the grey had faded, like the indigo from the same
kind of colour in Turner's pictures. In substance it had originally been
hair, but long contact with sheep seemed to be turning it by degrees
into wool of a poor quality and staple.
　　　This dog had originally belonged to a shepherd of inferior morals
and dreadful temper, and the result was that George knew the exact
degrees of condemnation signified by cursing and swearing of all des-
criptions better than the wickedest old man in the neighbourhood.
Long experience had so precisely taught the animal the difference
between such exclamations as "Come in!" and "D ---- ye, come in!"
that he knew to a hair's breadth the rate of trotting back from the
ewes' tails that each call involved, if a staggerer with the sheep crook
was to be escaped. Though old, he was clever and trustworthy still.
　　　The young dog, George's son, might possibly have been the image
of his mother, for there was not much resemblance between him and
George. He was learning the sheep-keeping business, so as to follow on
at the flock when the other should die, but had got no further than the
rudiments as yet--still finding an insuperable difficulty in distinguish-
ing between doing a thing well enough and doing it too well.
　　　So earnest and yet so wrong-headed was this young dog (he had
no, name in particular, and answered with perfect readiness to any
pleasant interjection), that if sent behind the flock to help them on,
he did it so thoroughly that he would have chased them across the
whole county with the greatest pleasure if not called off or reminded
when to stop by the example of old George.
　　　Thus much for the dogs. On the further side of Norcombe Hill was
a chalk-pit, from which chalk had been drawn for generations, and spread
over adjacent farms. Two hedges converged upon it in the form of a V,
but without quite meeting. The narrow opening left, which was immediate-
ly over the brow of the pit, was protected by a rough railing.
　　　One night, when Farmer Oak had returned to his house, believing
there would be no further necessity for his attendance on the down, he
called as usual to the dogs, previously to shutting them up in the out-
house till next morning. Only one responded--old George; the other could
not be found, either in the house, lane, or garden. Gabriel then remem-
bered that he had left the two dogs on the hill eating a dead lamb (a
kind of meat he usually kept from them, except when other food ran short),
and concluding that the young one had not finished his meal, he went in-
doors to the luxury of a bed, which latterly he had only enjoyed on Sund-
ays.
　　　It was a still, moist night. Just before dawn he was assisted in
waking by the abnormal reverberation of familiar music. To the shepherd,
the note of the sheep-bell, like the ticking of the clock to other peo-
ple, is a chronic sound that only makes itself noticed by ceasing or
altering in some unusual manner from the well-known idle twinkle which
signifies to the accustomed ear, however distant, that all is well in
the fold. In the solemn calm of the awakening morn that note was heard
by Gabriel, beating with unusual violence and rapidity. This exception-
al ringing may be caused in two ways--by the rapid feeding of the sheep
bearing the bell, as when the flock breaks into new pasture, which gives
it an intermittent rapidity, or by the sheep starting off in a run,
when the sound has a regular palpitation. The experienced ear of Oak
knew the sound he now heard to be caused by the running of the flock
with great velocity.
　　　He jumped out of bed, dressed, tore down the lane through a fog-
gy dawn, and ascended the hill. The forward ewes were kept apart from
those among which the fall of lambs would be later, there being two
hundred of the latter class in Gabriel's flock. These two hundred
seemed to have absolutely vanished from the hill. There were the fifty
with their lambs, enclosed at the other end as he had left them, but
the rest, forming the bulk of the flock, were nowhere. Gabriel called
at the top of his voice the shepherd's call:
　　　“Ovey, ovey, ovey!”
　　　Not a single bleat. He went to the hedge; a gap had been broken
through it, and in the gap were the footprints of the sheep. Rather sur-
prised to find them break fence at this season, yet putting it down in-
stantly to their great fondness for ivy in winter-time, of which a great
deal grew in the plantation, he followed through the hedge. They were
not in the plantation. He called again: the valleys and farthest hills
resounded as when the sailors invoked the lost Hylas on the Mysian shore;
but no sheep. He passed through the trees and along the ridge of the hill.
On the extreme summit, where the ends of the two converging hedges of
which we have spoken were stopped short by meeting the brow of the
chalkpit, he saw the younger dog standing against the sky--dark and mo-
tionless as Napoleon at St. Helena.
　　　A horrible conviction darted through Oak. With a sensation of bod-
ily faintness he advanced: at one point the rails were broken through,
and there he saw the footprints of his ewes. The dog came up, licked his
hand, and made signs implying that he expected some great reward for sig-
nal services rendered. Oak looked over the precipice. The ewes lay dead
and dying at its foot--a heap of two hundred mangled carcasses, repre-
senting in their condition just now at least two hundred more.
　　　Oak was an intensely humane man: indeed, his humanity often tore
in pieces any politic intentions of his which bordered on strategy, and
carried him on as by gravitation. A shadow in his life had always been
that his flock ended in mutton -- that a day came and found every shep-
herd an arrant traitor to his defenseless sheep. His first feeling now
was one of pity for the untimely fate of these gentle ewes and their
unborn lambs.
　　　It was a second to remember another phase of the matter. The sheep
were not insured. All the savings of a frugal life had been dispersed at
a blow; his hopes of being an independent farmer were laid low--possibly
for ever. Gabriel's energies, patience, and industry had been so sev-
erely taxed during the years of his life between eighteen and eight-and-
twenty, to reach his present stage of progress that no more seemed to
be left in him. He leant down upon a rail, and covered his face with his
hands.
　　　Stupors, however, do not last for ever, and Farmer Oak recovered
from his. It was as remarkable as it was characteristic that the one
sentence he uttered was in thankfulness:--
　　　“Thank God I am not married: what would she have done in the pov-
erty now coming upon me!”
　　　Oak raised his head, and wondering what he could do, listlessly
surveyed the scene. By the outer margin of the Pit was an oval
pond, and over it hung the attenuated skeleton of a chrome-yellow
moon which had only a few days to last -- the morning star dogging
her on the left hand. The pool glittered like a dead man's eye,
and as the world awoke a breeze blew, shaking and elongating the
reflection of the moon without breaking it, and turning the image
of the star to a phosphoric streak upon the water. All this Oak saw
and remembered.
　　　As far as could be learnt it appeared that the poor young dog,
still under the impression that since he was kept for running after
sheep, the more he ran after them the better, had at the end of his
meal off the dead lamb, which may have given him additional energy
and spirits, collected all the ewes into a corner, driven the timid crea-
tures through the hedge, across the upper field, and by main force of
worrying had given them momentum enough to break down a portion
of the rotten railing, and so hurled them over the edge.
　　　George's son had done his work so thoroughly that he was con-
sidered too good a workman to live, and was, in fact, taken and trag-
ically shot at twelve o'clock that same day -- another instance of the
untoward fate which so often attends dogs and other philosophers who
follow out a train of reasoning to its logical conclusion, and attempt
perfectly consistent conduct in a world made up so largely of compromise.
　　　Gabriel's farm had been stocked by a dealer--on the strength
of Oak's promising look and character--who was receiving a percent-
age from the farmer till such time as the advance should be cleared
off. Oak found that the value of stock, plant, and implements which
were really his own would be about sufficient to pay his debts, leav-
ing himself a free man with the clothes he stood up in, and nothing
more.








　　　Two months passed away. We are brought on to a day in February,
on which was held the yearly statute or hiring fair in the county-town
of Casterbridge.
　　　At one end of the street stood from two to three hundred blithe
and hearty labourers waiting upon Chance -- all men of the stamp to
whom labour suggests nothing worse than a wrestle with gravitation,
and pleasure nothing better than a renunciation of the same. Among
these, carters and waggoners were distinguished by having a piece of
whip-cord twisted round their hats; thatchers wore a fragment of wo-
ven straw; shepherds held their sheep-crooks in their hands;
and thus the situation required was known to the hirers at a glance.
　　　In the crowd was an athletic young fellow of somewhat superior
appearance to the rest--in fact, his superiority was marked enough
to lead several ruddy peasants standing by to speak to him inquir-
ingly, as to a farmer, and to use “Sir” as a finishing word. His an-
swer always was,--
　　　“I am looking for a place myself--a bailiff's. Do ye know of
anybody who wants one?”
　　　Gabriel was paler now. His eyes were more meditative, and his
expression was more sad. He had passed through an ordeal of wretch-
edness which had given him more than it had taken away. He had sunk
from his modest elevation as pastoral king into the very slime-pits of
Siddim; but there was left to him a dignified calm he had never before
known, and that indifference to fate which, though it often makes a
villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity when it does not. And
thus the abasement had been exaltation, and the loss gain.
　　　In the morning a regiment of cavalry had left the town, and a
sergeant and his party had been beating up for recruits through the
four streets. As the end of the day drew on, and he found himself
not hired, Gabriel almost wished that he had joined them, and gone
off to serve his country. Weary of standing in the market-place,
and not much minding the kind of work he turned his hand to, he de-
cided to offer himself in some other capacity than that of bailiff.
　　　All the farmers seemed to be wanting shepherds. Sheep-tending
was Gabriel's speciality. Turning down an obscure street and enter-
ing an obscurer lane, he went up to a smith's shop.
　　　“How long would it take you to make a shepherd's crook?”
　　　“Twenty minutes.”
　　　“How much?”
　　　“Two shillings.”
　　　He sat on a bench and the crook was made, a stem being given him
into the bargain.
　　　He then went to a ready-made clothes' shop, the owner of which
had a large rural connection. As the crook had absorbed most of Gabri-
el's money, he attempted, and carried out, an exchange of his overcoat
for a shepherd's regulation smock-frock.
　　　This transaction having been completed, he again hurried off to
the centre of the town, and stood on the kerb of the pavement, as a
shepherd, crook in hand.
　　　Now that Oak had turned himself into a shepherd, it seemed that
bailiffs were most in demand. However, two or three farmers noticed him
and drew near. Dialogues followed, more or less in the subjoined form:--
　　　“Where do you come from?”
　　　“Norcombe.”
　　　“That's a long way.
　　　“Fifteen miles.”
　　　“Who's farm were you upon last?”
　　　“My own.”
　　　This reply invariably operated like a rumour of cholera. The in-
quiring farmer would edge away and shake his head dubiously. Gabriel,
like his dog, was too good to be trustworthy, and he never made advance
beyond this point.
　　　It is safer to accept any chance that offers itself, and extempor-
ize a procedure to fit it, than to get a good plan matured, and wait for
a chance of using it. Gabriel wished he had not nailed up his colours as
a shepherd, but had laid himself out for anything in the whole cycle of
labour that was required in the fair. It grew dusk. Some merry men were
whistling and singing by the corn-exchange. Gabriel's hand, which had
lain for some time idle in his smock-frock pocket, touched his flute
which he carried there. Here was an opportunity for putting his dearly
bought wisdom into practice.
　　　He drew out his flute and began to play “Jockey to the Fair” in
the style of a man who had never known a moment's sorrow. Oak could
pipe with Arcadian sweetness, and the sound of the well-known notes
cheered his own heart as well as those of the loungers. He played on
with spirit, and in half an hour had earned in pence what was a small
fortune to a destitute man.
　　　By making inquiries he learnt that there was another fair at
Shottsford the next day.
　　　“How far is Shottsford?”
　　　“Ten miles t'other side of Weatherbury.”
　　　Weatherbury! It was where Bathsheba had gone two months before.
This information was like coming from night into noon.
　　　“How far is it to Weatherbury?”
　　　“Five or six miles.”
　　　Bathsheba had probably left Weatherbury long before this time,
but the place had enough interest attaching to it to lead Oak to choose
Shottsford fair as his next field of inquiry, because it lay in the
Weatherbury quarter. Moreover, the Weatherbury folk were by no means
uninteresting intrinsically. If report spoke truly they were as hardy,
merry, thriving, wicked a set as any in the whole county. Oak resolved
to sleep at Weatherbury that night on his way to Shottsford, and struck
out at once into the high road which had been recommended as the direct
route to the village in question.
　　　The road stretched through water-meadows traversed by little brooks,
whose quivering surfaces were braided along their centres, and folded
into creases at the sides; or, where the flow was more rapid, the stream
was pied with spots of white froth, which rode on in undisturbed seren-
ity. On the higher levels the dead and dry carcasses of leaves tapped the
ground as they bowled along helter-skelter upon the shoulders of the
wind, and little birds in the hedges were rustling their feathers and tuck-
ing themselves in comfortably for the night, retaining their places if Oak
kept moving, but flying away if he stopped to look at them. He passed by
Yalbury Wood where the game-birds were rising to their roosts, and heard
the crack-voiced cock-pheasants “cu-uck, cuck,” and the wheezy whistle
of the hens.
　　　By the time he had walked three or four miles every shape in the
landscape had assumed a uniform hue of blackness. He descended Yalbury
Hill and could just discern ahead of him a waggon, drawn up under a
great over-hanging tree by the roadside.
　　　On coming close, he found there were no horses attached to it,
the spot being apparently quite deserted. The waggon, from its position,
seemed to have been left there for the night, for beyond about half a
truss of hay which was heaped in the bottom, it was quite empty. Gab-
riel sat down on the shafts of the vehicle and considered his position.
He calculated that he had walked a very fair proportion of the journey;
and having been on foot since daybreak, he felt tempted to lie down
upon the hay in the waggon instead of pushing on to the village of
Weatherbury, and having to pay for a lodging.
　　　Eating his last slices of bread and ham, and drinking from the
bottle of cider he had taken the precaution to bring with him, he got
into the lonely waggon. Here he spread half of the hay as a bed, and,
as well as he could in the darkness, pulled the other half over him
by way of bed-clothes, covering himself entirely, and feeling, phys-
ically, as comfortable as ever he had been in his life. Inward melan-
choly it was impossible for a man like Oak, introspective far beyond
his neighbours, to banish quite, whilst conning the present untoward
page of his history. So, thinking of his misfortunes, amorous and
pastoral he fell asleep, shepherds enjoying, in common with sailors,
the privilege of being able to summon the god instead of having to
wait for him.
　　　On somewhat suddenly awaking, after a sleep of whose length he
had no idea, Oak found that the waggon was in motion. He was being
carried along the road at a rate rather considerable for a vehicle
without springs, and under circumstances of physical uneasiness, his
head being dandled up and down on the bed of the waggon like a ket-
tledrum-stick. He then distinguished voices in conversation, coming
from the forpart of the waggon. His concern at this dilemma (which
would have been alarm, had he been a thriving man; but misfortune
is a fine opiate to personal terror) led him to peer cautiously from
the hay, and the first sight he beheld was the stars above him.
Charles's Wain was getting towards a right angle with the Pole star,
and Gabriel concluded that it must be about nine o'clock--in other
words, that he had slept two hours. This small astronomical calcu-
lation was made without any positive effort, and whilst he was steal-
thily turning to discover, if possible, into whose hands he had fallen.
　　　Two figures were dimly visible in front, sitting with their
legs outside the waggon, one of whom was driving. Gabriel soon found
that this was the waggoner, and it appeared they had come from Cast-
erbridge fair, like himself.
　　　A conversation was in progress, which continued thus:--
　　　“Be as 'twill, she's a fine handsome body as far's looks
be concerned. But that's only the skin of the woman, and these dandy
cattle be as proud as a lucifer in their insides.”
　　　“Ay--so 'a do seem, Billy Smallbury--so 'a do seem.” This
utterance was very shaky by nature, and more so by circumstance, the
jolting of the waggon not being without its effect upon the speaker's
larynx. It came from the man who held the reins.
　　　“She's a very vain feymell--so 'tis said here and there.”
　　　“Ah, now. If so be 'tis like that, I can't look her in the face.
Lord, no: not I--heh-heh-heh! Such a shy man as I be!”
　　　“Yes--she's very vain. 'Tis said that every night at going to
bed she looks in the glass to put on her night-cap properly.”
　　　“And not a married woman. Oh, the world!”
　　　“And 'a can play the peanner, so 'tis said. Can play so clever
that 'a can make a psalm tune sound as well as the merriest loose song
a man can wish for.”
　　　“D'ye tell o't! A happy time for us, and I feel quite a new man!
And how do she pay?”
　　　“That I don't know, Master Poorgrass.”
　　　On hearing these and other similar remarks, a wild thought
flashed into Gabriel's mind that they might be speaking of Bathsheba.
There were, however, no grounds for retaining such a supposition, for
the waggon, though going in the direction of Weatherbury, might be go-
ing beyond it, and the woman alluded to seemed to be the mistress of
some estate. They were now apparently close upon Weatherbury and not
to alarm the speakers unnecessarily, Gabriel slipped out of the waggon
unseen.
　　　He turned to an opening in the hedge, which he found to be a gate,
and mounting thereon, he sat meditating whether to seek a cheap lodging
in the village, or to ensure a cheaper one by lying under some hay or
corn-stack. The crunching jangle of the waggon died upon his ear. He was
about to walk on, when he noticed on his left hand an unusual light--ap-
pearing about half a mile distant. Oak watched it, and the glow increas-
ed. Something was on fire.
　　　Gabriel again mounted the gate, and, leaping down on the other
side upon what he found to be ploughed soil, made across the field in
the exact direction of the fire. The blaze, enlarging in a double ratio
by his approach and its own increase, showed him as he drew nearer the
outlines of ricks beside it, lighted up to great distinctness. A rick-
yard was the source of the fire. His weary face now began to be painted
over with a rich orange glow, and the whole front of his smock-frock
and gaiters was covered with a dancing shadow pattern of thorn-twigs
-- the light reaching him through a leafless intervening hedge -- and
the metallic curve of his sheep-crook shone silver-bright in the same
abounding rays. He came up to the boundary fence, and stood to regain
breath. It seemed as if the spot was unoccupied by a living soul.
　　　The fire was issuing from a long straw-stack, which was so far gone
as to preclude a possibility of saving it. A rick burns differently from a
house. As the wind blows the fire inwards, the portion in flames com-
pletely disappears like melting sugar, and the outline is lost to the eye.
However, a hay or a wheat-rick, well put together, will resist combustion
for a length of time, if it begins on the outside.
　　　This before Gabriel's eyes was a rick of straw, loosely put together,
and the flames darted into it with lightning swiftness. It glowed on the
windward side, rising and falling in intensity, like the coal of a cigar.
Then a superincumbent bundle rolled down, with a whisking noise;
flames elongated, and bent themselves about with a quiet roar, but no
crackle. Banks of smoke went off horizontally at the back like passing
clouds, and behind these burned hidden pyres, illuminating the semi-
transparent sheet of smoke to a lustrous yellow uniformity. Individual
straws in the foreground were consumed in a creeping movement of
ruddy heat, as if they were knots of red worms, and above shone ima-
ginary fiery faces, tongues hanging from lips, glaring eyes, and other
impish forms, from which at intervals sparks flew in clusters like birds
from a nest.
　　　Oak suddenly ceased from being a mere spectator by discovering
the case to be more serious than he had at first imagined. A scroll
of smoke blew aside and revealed to him a wheat-rick in startling
juxtaposition with the decaying one, and behind this a series of
others, composing the main corn produce of the farm; so that instead
of the straw-stack standing, as he had imagined comparatively isola-
ted, there was a regular connection between it and the remaining
stacks of the group.
　　　Gabriel leapt over the hedge, and saw that he was not alone.
The first man he came to was running about in a great hurry, as if
his thoughts were several yards in advance of his body, which they
could never drag on fast enough.
　　　“O, man--fire, fire! A good master and a bad servant is fire,
fire!--I mane a bad servant and a good master. Oh, Mark Clark--come!
And you, Billy Smallbury--and you, Maryann Money--and you, Jan Coggan,
and Matthew there!” Other figures now appeared behind this shouting
man and among the smoke, and Gabriel found that, far from being alone
he was in a great company --whose shadows danced merrily up and down,
timed by the jigging of the flames, and not at all by their owners' move-
ments. The assemblage -- belonging to that class of society which casts
its thoughts into the form of feeling, and its feelings into the form of
commotion -- set to work with a remarkable confusion of purpose.
　　　Stop the draught under the wheat-rick!” cried Gabriel to those
nearest to him. The corn stood on stone staddles, and between these,
tongues of yellow hue from the burning straw licked and darted play-
fully. If the fire once got under this stack, all would be lost.
　　　Get a tarpaulin--quick!” said Gabriel.
　　　A rick-cloth was brought, and they hung it like a curtain a-
cross the channel. The flames immediately ceased to go under the bot-
tom of the corn-stack, and stood up vertical.
　　　“Stand here with a bucket of water and keep the cloth wet.”
said Gabriel again.
　　　The flames, now driven upwards, began to attack the angles of
the huge roof covering the wheat-stack.
　　　“A ladder,” cried Gabriel.
　　　“The ladder was against the straw-rick and is burnt to a cin-
der,” said a spectre-like form in the smoke.
　　　Oak seized the cut ends of the sheaves, as if he were going to
engage in the operation of “reed-drawing,” and digging in his feet,
and occasionally sticking in the stem of his sheep-crook, he clambered
up the beetling face. He at once sat astride the very apex, and began
with his crook to beat off the fiery fragments which had lodged thereon,
shouting to the others to get him a bough and a ladder, and some water.
　　　Billy Smallbury--one of the men who had been on the waggon--by
this time had found a ladder, which Mark Clark ascended, holding on be-
side Oak upon the thatch. The smoke at this corner was stifling, and
Clark, a nimble fellow, having been handed a bucket of water, bathed
Oak's face and sprinkled him generally, whilst Gabriel, now with a long
beech-bough in one hand, in addition to his crook in the other, kept
sweeping the stack and dislodging all fiery particles.
　　　On the ground the groups of villagers were still occupied in do-
ing all they could to keep down the conflagration, which was not much.
They were all tinged orange, and backed up by shadows of varying pat-
tern. Round the corner of the largest stack, out of the direct rays of
the fire, stood a pony, bearing a young woman on its back. By her side
was another woman, on foot. These two seemed to keep at a distance
from the fire, that the horse might not become restive.
　　　“He's a shepherd,” said the woman on foot. “Yes--he is. See
how his crook shines as he beats the rick with it. And his smock-frock
is burnt in two holes, I declare! A fine young shepherd he is too, ma'am.”
　　　“Whose shepherd is he?” said the equestrian in a clear voice.
　　　“Don't know, ma'am.”
　　　“Don't any of the others know?”
　　　“Nobody at all--I've asked 'em. Quite a stranger, they say.”
　　　The young woman on the pony rode out from the shade and looked
anxiously around.
　　　“Do you think the barn is safe?” she said.
　　　“D'ye think the barn is safe, Jan Coggan?” said the second woman,
passing on the question to the nearest man in that direction.
　　　“Safe now--leastwise I think so. If this rick had gone the barn
would have followed. 'Tis that bold shepherd up there that have done the
most good--he sitting on the top o' rick, whizzing his great long arms a-
bout like a windmill.”
　　　“He does work hard,” said the young woman on horseback, looking
up at Gabriel through her thick woollen veil. “I wish he was shepherd
here. Don't any of you know his name.”
　　　“Never heard the man's name in my life, or seed his form afore.”
　　　The fire began to get worsted, and Gabriel's elevated position be-
ing no longer required of him, he made as if to descend.
　　　“Maryann,” said the girl on horseback, “go to him as he comes
down, and say that the farmer wishes to thank him for the great service
he has done.”
　　　Maryann stalked off towards the rick and met Oak at the foot of the
ladder. She delivered her message.
　　　“Where is your master the farmer?” asked Gabriel, kindling with
the idea of getting employment that seemed to strike him now.
　　　“'Tisn't a master; 'tis a mistress, shepherd.”
　　　“A woman farmer?”
　　　“Ay, 'a b'lieve, and a rich one too!” said a bystander. “Lately
'a came here from a distance. Took on her uncle's farm, who died suddenly.
Used to measure his money in half-pint cups. They say now that she've bus-
iness in every bank in Casterbridge, and thinks no more of playing pitch-
and-toss sovereign than you and I do pitch-halfpenny--not a bit in the
world, shepherd.”
　　　“That's she, back there upon the pony,” said Maryann; “wi' her
face a-covered up in that black cloth with holes in it.”
　　　Oak, his features smudged, grimy, and undiscoverable from the smoke
and heat, his smock-frock burnt into holes and dripping with water, the
ash stem of his sheep-crook charred six inches shorter, advanced with the
humility stern adversity had thrust upon him up to the slight female form
in the saddle. He lifted his hat with respect, and not without gallantry:
stepping close to her hanging feet he said in a hesitating voice,--
　　　“Do you happen to want a shepherd, ma'am?”
　　　She lifted the wool veil tied round her face, and looked all aston-
ishment. Gabriel and his cold-hearted darling, Bathsheba Everdene, were
face to face.
　　　Bathsheba did not speak, and he mechanically repeated in an abashed
and sad voice,--
　　　“Do you want a shepherd, ma'am?”








　　　Bathsheba withdrew into the shade. She scarcely knew whether most to
be amused at the singularity of the meeting, or to be concerned at its awk-
wardness. There was room for a little pity, also for a very little exulta-
tion: the former at his position, the latter at her own. Embarrassed she
was not, and she remembered Gabriel's declaration of love to her at Nor-
combe only to think she had nearly forgotten it.
　　　“Yes,” she murmured, putting on an air of dignity, and turning a-
gain to him with a little warmth of cheek; “I do want a shepherd. But--”
　　　“He's the very man, ma'am,” said one of the villagers, quietly.
　　　Conviction breeds conviction. “Ay, that 'a is,” said a second, de-
cisively.
　　　“The man, truly!” said a third, with heartiness.
　　　“He's all there!” said number four, fervidly.
　　　“Then will you tell him to speak to the bailiff?” said Bathsheba.
　　　All was practical again now. A summer eve and loneliness would have
been necessary to give the meeting its proper fulness of romance.
　　　The bailiff was pointed out to Gabriel, who, checking the palpitation
within his breast at discovering that this Ashtoreth of strange report was
only a modification of Venus the well-known and admired, retired with him
to talk over the necessary preliminaries of hiring.
　　　The fire before them wasted away. “Men,” said Bathsheba, “you
shall take a little refreshment after this extra work. Will you come to
the house?”
　　　“We could knock in a bit and a drop a good deal freer, Miss, if so
be ye'd send it to Warren's Malthouse,” replied the spokesman.
　　　Bathsheba then rode off into the darkness, and the men straggled on
to the village in twos and threes--Oak and the bailiff being left by the
rick alone.
　　　“And now,” said the bailiff, finally, “all is settled, I think, about your
coming, and I am going home-along. Good-night to ye, shepherd.”
　　　“Can you get me a lodging?” inquired Gabriel.
　　　“That I can't, indeed,” he said, moving past Oak as a Christian
edges past an offertory-plate when he does not mean to contribute. “If
you follow on the road till you come to Warren's Malthouse, where they
are all gone to have their snap of victuals, I daresay some of 'em will
tell you of a place. Good-night to ye, shepherd.”
　　　The bailiff who showed this nervous dread of loving his neighbour
as himself, went up the hill, and Oak walked on to the village, still
astonished at the rencounter with Bathsheba, glad of his nearness to
her, and perplexed at the rapidity with which the unpractised girl of
Norcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here. But
some women only require an emergency to make them fit for one.
　　　Obliged, to some extent, to forgo dreaming in order to find the way,
he reached the churchyard, and passed round it under the wall where several
ancient trees grew. There was a wide margin of grass along here, and Gabri-
el's footsteps were deadened by its softness, even at this indurating per-
iod of the year. When abreast of a trunk which appeared to be the oldest of
the old, he became aware that a figure was standing behind it. Gabriel did
not pause in his walk, and in another moment he accidentally kicked a loose
stone. The noise was enough to disturb the motionless stranger, who started
and assumed a careless position.
　　　It was a slim girl, rather thinly clad.
　　　“Good-night to you,” said Gabriel, heartily.
　　　“Good-night,” said the girl to Gabriel.
　　　The voice was unexpectedly attractive; it was the low and dulcet note
suggestive of romance; common in descriptions, rare in experience.
　　　"I'll thank you to tell me if I'm in the way for Warren's
　　　Malthouse?" Gabriel resumed, primarily to gain the information, indir-
ectly to get more of the music.
　　　“Quite right. It's at the bottom of the hill. And do you know--”
The girl hesitated and then went on again. “Do you know how late they
keep open the Buck's Head Inn?” She seemed to be won by Gabriel's
heartiness, as Gabriel had been won by her modulations.
　　　“I don't know where the Buck's Head is, or anything about it.
Do you think of going there to-night?”
　　　“Yes--” The woman again paused. There was no necessity for any
continuance of speech, and the fact that she did add more seemed to pro-
ceed from an unconscious desire to show unconcern by making a remark,
which is noticeable in the ingenuous when they are acting by stealth.
“You are not a Weatherbury man?” she said, timorously.
　　　“I am not. I am the new shepherd--just arrived.”
　　　“Only a shepherd--and you seem almost a farmer by your ways.”
　　　“Only a shepherd,” Gabriel repeated, in a dull cadence of fin-
ality. His thoughts were directed to the past, his eyes to the feet of
the girl; and for the first time he saw lying there a bundle of some
sort. She may have perceived the direction of his face, for she said
coaxingly,--
　　　“You won't say anything in the parish about having seen me here,
will you--at least, not for a day or two?”
　　　“I won't if you wish me not to,” said Oak.
　　　“Thank you, indeed,” the other replied. “I am rather poor, and
I don't want people to know anything about me.” Then she was silent
and shivered.
　　　“You ought to have a cloak on such a cold night,” Gabriel ob-
served. “I would advise 'ee to get indoors.”
　　　“O no! Would you mind going on and leaving me? I thank you much
for what you have told me.”
　　　“I will go on,” he said; adding hesitatingly,--“Since you are
not very well off, perhaps you would accept this trifle from me. It is
only a shilling, but it is all I have to spare.”
　　　“Yes, I will take it,” said the stranger gratefully.
　　　She extended her hand; Gabriel his. In feeling for each other's
palm in the gloom before the money could be passed, a minute incident
occurred which told much. Gabriel's fingers alighted on the young wo-
man's wrist. It was beating with a throb of tragic intensity. He had
frequently felt the same quick, hard beat in the femoral artery of --
his lambs when overdriven. It suggested a consumption too great of a
vitality which, to judge from her figure and stature, was already too
little.
　　　“What is the matter?”
　　　“Nothing.”
　　　“But there is?”
　　　“No, no, no! Let your having seen me be a secret!”
　　　“Very well; I will. Good-night, again.”
　　　“Good-night.”
　　　The young girl remained motionless by the tree, and Gabriel descend-
ed into the village of Weatherbury, or Lower Longpuddle as it was some-
times called. He fancied that he had felt himself in the penumbra of a
very deep sadness when touching that slight and fragile creature. But
wisdom lies in moderating mere impressions, and Gabriel endeavoured to
think little of this.








　　　Warren's Malthouse was enclosed by an old wall inwrapped with ivy,
and though not much of the exterior was visible at this hour, the charact-
er and purposes of the building were clearly enough shown by its outline
upon the sky. From the walls an overhanging thatched roof sloped up to a
point in the centre, upon which rose a small wooden lantern, fitted with
louvre-boards on all the four sides, and from these openings a mist was
dimly perceived to be escaping into the night air. There was no window
in front; but a square hole in the door was glazed with a single pane,
through which red, comfortable rays now stretched out upon the ivied wall
in front. Voices were to be heard inside.
　　　Oak's hand skimmed the surface of the door with fingers extended
to an Elymas-the-Sorcerer pattern, till he found a leathern strap, which
he pulled. This lifted a wooden latch, and the door swung open.
　　　The room inside was lighted only by the, ruddy glow from the kiln
mouth, which shone over the floor with the streaming, horizontality of
the setting sun, and threw upwards the shadows of all facial irregularities
in those assembled around. The stone-flag floor was worn into a path from
the doorway to the kiln, and into undulations everywhere. A curved settle
of unplaned oak stretched along one side, and in a remote corner was a
small bed and bedstead, the owner and frequent occupier of which was the
maltster.
　　　This aged man was now sitting opposite the fire, his frosty white
hair and beard overgrowing his gnarled figure like the grey moss and lich-
en upon a leafless apple-tree. He wore breeches and the laced-up shoes
called ankle-jacks; he kept his eyes fixed upon the fire.
　　　Gabriel's nose was greeted by an atmosphere laden with the sweet
smell of new malt. The conversation (which seemed to have been con-
cerning the origin of the fire) immediately ceased, and every one ocularly
criticised him to the degree expressed by contracting the flesh of their
foreheads and looking at him with narrowed eyelids, as if he had been a
light too strong for their sight. Several exclaimed meditatively, after this
operation had been completed: --
　　　"Oh, 'tis the new shepherd, 'a b'lieve."
　　　"We thought we heard a hand pawing about the door for the bobbin,
but weren't sure 'twere not a dead leaf blowed across," said another.
"Come in, shepherd; sure ye be welcome, though we don't know yer
name."
　　　"Gabriel Oak, that's my name, neighbours."
　　　The ancient maltster sitting in the midst turned at this--his turn-
ing being as the turning of a rusty crane.
　　　“That's never Gable Oak's grandson over at Norcombe--never!” he
said, as a formula expressive of surprise, which nobody was supposed for
a moment to take literally.
　　　“My father and my grandfather were old men of the name of Gabriel,”
said the shepherd, placidly.
　　　“Thought I knowed the man's face as I seed him on the rick!--
thought I did! And where be ye trading o't to now, shepherd?”
　　　“I'm thinking of biding here,” said Mr. Oak.
　　　“Knowed yer grandfather for years and years!” continued the malt-
ster, the words coming forth of their own accord as if the momentum pre-
viously imparted had been sufficient.
　　　“Ah--and did you!”
　　　“Knowed yer grandmother.”
　　　“And her too!”
　　　“Likewise knowed yer father when he was a child. Why, my boy Jacob
there and your father were sworn brothers--that they were sure--weren't
ye, Jacob?”
　　　"Ay, sure," said his son, a young man about sixty-five, with a semi-bald
head and one tooth in the left centre of his upper jaw, which made much of
itself by standing prominent, like a milestone in a bank.
　　　“But 'twas Joe had most to do with him. However, my son William
must have knowed the very man afore us--didn't ye, Billy, afore ye left
Norcombe?”
　　　“No, 'twas Andrew,” said Jacob's son Billy, a child of forty, or there-
abouts, who manifested the peculiarity of possessing a cheerful soul
in a gloomy body, and whose whiskers were assuming a chinchilla shade
here and there.
　　　“I can mind Andrew,” said Oak, “as being a man in the place when I
was quite a child.”
　　　“Ay--the other day I and my youngest daughter, Liddy, were over at
my grandson's christening,” continued Billy. “We were talking about this
very family, and 'twas only last Purification Day in this very world, when
the use-money is gied away to the second-best poor folk, you know, shep-
herd, and I can mind the day because they all had to traypse up to the
vestry--yes, this very man's family.”
　　　“Come, shepherd, and drink. 'Tis gape and swaller with us--a drap
of sommit, but not of much account,” said the maltster, removing from the
fire his eyes, which were vermilion-red and bleared by gazing into it for
so many years. “Take up the God-forgive-me, Jacob. See if 'tis warm,
Jacob.”
　　　Jacob stooped to the God-forgive-me, which was a two-handled
tall mug standing in the ashes, cracked and charred with heat: it was ra-
ther furred with extraneous matter about the outside, especially in the
crevices of the handles, the innermost curves of which may not have
seen daylight for several years by reason of this encrustation thereon
-- formed of ashes accidentally wetted with cider and baked hard; but
to the mind of any sensible drinker the cup was no worse for that, being
incontestably clean on the inside and about the rim. It may be observed
that such a class of mug is called a God-forgive-me in Weatherbury and
its vicinity for uncertain reasons; probably because its size makes any
given toper feel ashamed of himself when he sees its bottom in drinking
it empty.
　　　Jacob, on receiving the order to see if the liquor was warm enough,
placidly dipped his forefinger into it by way of thermometer, and having
pronounced it nearly of the proper degree, raised the cup and very civilly
attempted to dust some of the ashes from the bottom with the skirt of his
smock-frock, because Shepherd Oak was a stranger.
　　　"A clane cup for the shepherd," said the maltster commandingly.
　　　"No -- not at all," said Gabriel, in a reproving tone of consider-
ateness. "I never fuss about dirt in its pure state, and when I know
what sort it is." Taking the mug he drank an inch or more from the
depth of its contents, and duly passed it to the next man. "I wouldn't
think of giving such trouble to neighbours in washing up when there's
so much work to be done in the world already." continued Oak in a
moister tone, after recovering from the stoppage of breath which is
occasioned by pulls at large mugs.
　　　"A right sensible man," said Jacob.
　　　“True, true; it can't be gainsaid!” observed a brisk young man--
Mark Clark by name, a genial and pleasant gentleman, whom to meet any-
where in your travels was to know, to know was to drink with, and to drink
with was, unfortunately, to pay for.
　　　“And here's a mouthful of bread and bacon that mis'ess have sent,
shepherd. The cider will go down better with a bit of victuals. Don't ye
chaw quite close, shepherd, for I let the bacon fall in the road outside as
I was bringing it along, and may be 'tis rather gritty. There, 'tis clane
dirt; and we all know what that is, as you say, and you bain't a particu-
lar man we see, shepherd.”
　　　“True, true--not at all,” said the friendly Oak.
　　　“Don't let your teeth quite meet, and you won't feel the sandiness
at all. Ah! 'tis wonderful what can be done by contrivance!”
　　　“My own mind exactly, neighbour.”
　　　“Ah, he's his grandfer's own grandson!--his grandfer were just such
a nice unparticular man!” said the maltster.
　　　“Drink, Henry Fray--drink,” magnanimously said Jan Coggan, a person
who held Saint-Simonian notions of share and share alike where liquor was
concerned, as the vessel showed signs of approaching him in its gradual
revolution among them.
　　　Having at this moment reached the end of a wistful gaze into mid-air,
Henry did not refuse. He was a man of more than middle age, with eyebrows
high up in his forehead, who laid it down that the law of the world was bad,
with a long-suffering look through his listeners at the world alluded to, as
it presented itself to his imagination. He always signed his name "Henery"
-- strenuously insisting upon that spelling, and if any passing schoolmaster
ventured to remark that the second "e" was superfluous and old-fashioned,
he received the reply that "H-e-n-e-r-y" was the name he was christened
and the name he would stick to -- in the tone of one to whom orthograph-
ical differences were matters which had a great deal to do with personal
character.
　　　Mr. Jan Coggan, who had passed the cup to Henery, was a crimson man
with a spacious countenance and private glimmer in his eye, whose name had
appeared on the marriage register of Weatherbury and neighbouring parishes
as best man and chief witness in countless unions of the previous twenty
years; he also very frequently filled the post of head godfather in baptisms
of the subtly-jovial kind.
　　　"Come, Mark Clark -- come. Ther's plenty more in the barrel," said
Jan.
　　　"Ay -- that I will, 'tis my only doctor," replied Mr. Clark, who, twenty
years younger than Jan Coggan, revolved in the same orbit. He secreted
mirth on all occasions for special discharge at popular parties.
　　　"Why, Joseph Poorgrass, ye han't had a drop!" said Mr. Coggan to a
self-conscious man in the background, thrusting the cup towards him.
　　　"Such a modest man as he is!" said Jacob Smallbury. "Why, ye've
hardly had strength of eye enough to look in our young mis'ess's face,
so I hear, Joseph?"
　　　All looked at Joseph Poorgrass with pitying reproach.
　　　"No -- I've hardly looked at her at all," simpered Joseph, reducing his
body smaller whilst talking, apparently from a meek sense of undue prom-
inence. "And when I seed her, 'twas nothing but blushes with me!"
　　　"Poor feller," said Mr. Clark.
　　　"'Tis a curious nature for a man," said Jan Coggan.
　　　"Yes," continued Joseph Poorgrass -- his shyness, which was so
painful as a defect, filling him with a mild complacency now that it was
regarded as an interesting study. "'Twere blush, blush, blush with me e-
very minute of the time, when she was speaking to me."
　　　"I believe ye, Joseph Poorgrass, for we all know ye to be a very bash-
ful man."
　　　"'Tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul," said the maltster. "And ye
have suffered from it a long time, we know."
　　　"Ay, ever since..."
　　　"Oh, ever since I was a boy. Yes -- mother was concerned to her
heart about it -- yes. But 'twas all nought."
　　　"Did ye ever go into the world to try and stop it, Joseph Poorgrass?"
　　　"Oh ay, tried all sorts o' company. They took me to Greenhill Fair, and
into a great gay jerry-go-nimble show, where there were women-folk riding
round -- standing upon horses, with hardly anything on but their smocks;
but it didn't cure me a morsel.
　　　And then I was put errand-man at the Women's Skittle Alley at the
back of the Tailor's Arms in Casterbridge. 'Twas a horrible sinful sit-
uation, and a very curious place for a good man. I had to stand and look
ba'dy people in the face from morning till night; but 'twas no use--I
was just as bad as ever after all. Blushes hev been in the family for gen-
erations. There, 'tis a happy providence that I be no worse.”
　　　“True,” said Jacob Smallbury, deepening his thoughts to a profound-
er view of the subject. “'Tis a thought to look at, that ye might have
been worse; but even as you be, 'tis a very bad affliction for 'ee, Jo-
seph. For ye see, shepherd, though 'tis very well for a woman, dang it
all, 'tis awkward for a man like him, poor feller?”
　　　“'Tis--'tis,” said Gabriel, recovering from a meditation. “ Yes, very
awkward for the man.”
　　　“Ay, and he's very timid, too,” observed Jan Coggan. “Once he
had been working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had had a drap of drink,
and lost his way as he was coming home-along through Yalbury Wood,
didn't ye, Master Poorgrass?”
　　　“No, no, no; not that story!” expostulated the modest man, forc-
ing a laugh to bury his concern.
　　　"---- And so 'a lost himself quite," continued Mr. Coggan, with an
impassive face, implying that a true narrative, like time and tide, must
run its course and would respect no man. "And as he was coming along
in the middle of the night, much afeared, and not able to find his way
out of the trees nohow, 'a cried out, 'Man-a-lost! man-a-lost!' A owl
in a tree happened to be crying "Whoo-whoo-whoo!" as owls do, you
know, shepherd" (Gabriel nodded), "and Joseph, all in a tremble, said,
'Joseph Poorgrass, of Weatherbury, sir!'"
　　　"No, no, now -- that's too much!" said the timid man, becoming a
man of brazen courage all of a sudden. "I didn't say sir. I'll tike my
oath I didn't say 'Joseph Poorgrass o' Weatherbury, sir.' No, no; what's
right is right, and I never said sir to the bird, knowing very well that
no man of a gentleman's rank would be hollering there at that time o'
night. ‘Joseph Poorgrass of Weatherbury,'--that's every word I said,
and I shouldn't ha' said that if 't hadn't been for Keeper Day's
metheglin.... There, 'twas a merciful thing it ended where it did.”
　　　The question of which was right being tacitly waived by the comp-
any, Jan went on meditatively:--
　　　“And he's the fearfullest man, bain't ye, Joseph? Ay, another
time ye were lost by Lambing-Down Gate, weren't ye, Joseph?”
　　　“I was,” replied Poorgrass, as if there were some conditions too
serious even for modesty to remember itself under, this being one.
　　　“Yes; that were the middle of the night, too. The gate would not
open, try how he would, and knowing there was the Devil's hand in it,
he kneeled down.”
　　　“Ay,” said Joseph, acquiring confidence from the warmth of the
fire, the cider, and a perception of the narrative capabilities of the
experience alluded to. “My heart died within me, that time; but I kneel-
ed down and said the Lord's Prayer, and then the Belief right through,
and then the Ten Commandments, in earnest prayer. But no, the gate
wouldn't open; and then I went on with Dearly Beloved Brethren, and,
thinks I, this makes four, and 'tis all I know out of book, and if this don't
do it nothing will, and I'm a lost man. Well, when I got to Saying Af-
ter Me, I rose from my knees and found the gate would open--yes, neigh-
bours, the gate opened the same as ever.”
　　　A meditation on the obvious inference was indulged in by all, and
during its continuance each directed his vision into the ashpit, which
glowed like a desert in the tropics under a vertical sun, shaping their
eyes long and liny, partly because of the light, partly from the depth of
the subject discussed.
　　　Gabriel broke the silence. “What sort of a place is this to live
at, and what sort of a mis'ess is she to work under?” Gabriel's bosom
thrilled gently as he thus slipped under the notice of the assembly the
inner-most subject of his heart.
　　　“We d' know little of her--nothing. She only showed herself a
few days ago. Her uncle was took bad, and the doctor was called with
his world-wide skill; but he couldn't save the man. As I take it, she's
going to keep on the farm.
　　　“That's about the shape o't, 'a b'lieve,” said Jan Coggan.
“Ay, 'tis a very good family. I'd as soon be under 'em as under
one here and there. Her uncle was a very fair sort of man. Did ye know
en, shepherd--a bachelor-man?”
　　　“Not at all.”
　　　“I used to go to his house a-courting my first wife, Charlotte, who
was his dairymaid.
　　　"Well, a very good-hearted man were Farmer Everdene, and I being
a respectable young fellow was allowed to call and see her and drink as
much ale as I liked, but not to carry away any -- outside my skin I
mane of course."
　　　"Ay, ay, Jan Coggan; we know yer maning."
　　　"And so you see 'twas beautiful ale, and I wished to value his kind-
ness as much as I could, and not to be so ill-mannered as to drink
only a thimbleful, which would have been insulting the man's generosity
----"
　　　"True, Master Coggan, 'twould so," corroborated Mark Clark.
　　　"---- And so I used to eat a lot of salt fish afore going, and then
by the time I got there I were as dry as a lime-basket -- so thorough
dry that that ale would slip down -- ah, 'twould slip down sweet! Hap-
py times! heavenly times! such lovely drunks as I used to have at that
house!"You can mind, Jacob? You used to go wi' me sometimes.”
　　　“I can--I can,” said Jacob. “That one, too, that we had at
Buck's Head on a White Monday was a pretty tipple.”
　　　“'Twas. But for a wet of the better class, that brought you no
nearer to the horned man than you were afore you begun, there was
none like those in Farmer Everdene's kitchen.
　　　"Not a single damn allowed; no, not a bare poor one, even at the
most cheerful moment when all were blindest, though the good old
word of sin thrown in here and there at such times is a great relief
to a merry soul."
　　　"True," said the maltster. "Nater requires her swearing at the
regular times, or she's not herself; and unholy exclamations is a nec-
essity of life."
　　　“But Charlotte,” continued Coggan--“not a word of the sort
would Charlotte allow, nor the smallest item of taking in vain.... Ay,
poor Charlotte, I wonder if she had the good fortune to get into Heaven
when 'a died! But 'a was never much in luck's way, and perhaps 'a
went downwards after all, poor soul.”
　　　“And did any of you know Miss Everdene's father and mother?”
inquired the shepherd, who found some difficulty in keeping the con-
versation in the desired channel.
　　　“I knew them a little,” said Jacob Smallbury; “but they were
townsfolk, and didn't live here. They've been dead for years. Father,
what sort of people were mis'ess' father and mother?”
　　　“Well,” said the maltster, “he wasn't much to look at; but she
was a lovely woman.
　　　"He was fond enough of her as his sweetheart."
　　　"Used to kiss her scores and long-hundreds o' times, so 'twas
said," observed Coggan.
　　　"He was very proud of her, too, when they were married, as I've
been told," said the maltster.
　　　"Ay," said Coggan. "He admired her so much that he used to
light the candle three time a night to look at her."
　　　"Boundless love; I shouldn't have supposed it in the universe!"
murmered Joseph Poorgrass, who habitually spoke on a large scale
in his moral reflections.
　　　“Well, to be sure,” said Gabriel.
　　　“Oh, 'tis true enough. I knowed the man and woman both well.
Levi Everdene--that was the man's name, sure. ‘Man,' saith I in my
hurry, but he were of a higher circle of life than that--'a was a gen-
tleman-tailor really, worth scores of pounds. And he became a very
celebrated bankrupt two or three times.”
　　　“Oh, I thought he was quite a common man!” said Joseph.
　　　“Oh no, no! That man failed for heaps of money; hundreds in gold
and silver.”
　　　The maltster being rather short of breath, Mr. Coggan, after ab-
sently scrutinising a coal which had fallen among the ashes, took up
the narrative, with a private twirl of his eye:--
　　　“Well, now, you'd hardly believe it, but that man--our Miss Ev-
erdene's father--was one of the ficklest husbands alive, after a while.
Understand? 'a didn't want to be fickle, but he couldn't help it.
The pore feller were faithful and true enough to her in his wish, but
his heart would rove, do what he would. He spoke to me in real trib-
ulation about it once. "Coggan," he said, "I could never wish for a
handsomer woman than I've got, but feeling she's ticketed as my
lawful wife, I can't help my wicked heart wandering, do what I will."
But at last I believe he cured it by making her take off her wedding-
ring and calling her by her maiden name as they sat together after
the shop was shut, and so 'a would get to fancy she was only his
sweetheart, and not married to him at all. And as soon as he could
thoroughly fancy he was doing wrong and committing the seventh,
'a got to like her as well as ever, and they lived on a perfect picture
of mutel love."
　　　"Well, 'twas a most ungodly remedy," murmured Joseph Poor-
grass; “but we ought to feel deep cheerfulness that a happy Provi-
dence kept it from being any worse. You see, he might have gone
the bad road and given his eyes to unlawfulness entirely--yes, gross
unlawfulness, so to say it.”
　　　“You see,” said Billy Smallbury, “The man's will was to do
right, sure enough, but his heart didn't chime in.”
　　　“He got so much better, that he was quite godly in his later
years, wasn't he, Jan?” said Joseph Poorgrass. “He got himself con-
firmed over again in a more serious way, and took to saying ‘Amen' al-
most as loud as the clerk, and he liked to copy comforting verses from
the tombstones. He used, too, to hold the money-plate at Let Your Light
so Shine, and stand godfather to poor little come-by-chance children;
and he kept a missionary box upon his table to nab folks unawares when
they called; yes, and he would box the charity-boys' ears, if they
laughed in church, till they could hardly stand upright, and do other
deeds of piety natural to the saintly inclined.”
　　　“Ay, at that time he thought of nothing but high things,” added
Billy Smallbury. “One day Parson Thirdly met him and said, ‘Good-Morn-
ing, Mister Everdene; 'tis a fine day!' ‘Amen' said Everdene, quite
absent-like, thinking only of religion when he seed a parson. Yes, he
was a very Christian man.”
　　　“Their daughter was not at all a pretty chiel at that time,”
said Henery Fray. “Never should have thought she'd have growed up
such a handsome body as she is.”
　　　“'Tis to be hoped her temper is as good as her face.”
　　　“Well, yes; but the baily will have most to do with the business
and ourselves. Ah!” Henery gazed into the ashpit, and smiled volumes
of ironical knowledge.
　　　“A queer Christian, like the Devil's head in a cowl, as the
saying is,” volunteered Mark Clark.
　　　“He is,” said Henery, implying that irony must cease at a cer-
tain point. “Between we two, man and man, I believe that man would as
soon tell a lie Sundays as working-days--that I do so.”
　　　“Good faith, you do talk!” said Gabriel.
　　　“True enough,” said the man of bitter moods, looking round upon
the company with the antithetic laughter that comes from a keener appre-
ciation of the miseries of life than ordinary men are capable of. “Ah,
there's people of one sort, and people of another, but that man--bless
your souls!”
　　　Gabriel thought fit to change the subject. “You must be a very
aged man, malter, to have sons growed mild and ancient,” he remarked.
　　　“Father's so old that 'a can't mind his age, can ye, father?”
interposed Jacob. “And he's growed terrible crooked too, lately,”
Jacob continued, surveying his father's figure, which was rather more
bowed than his own. “Really one may say that father there is three-dou-
ble.”
　　　“Crooked folk will last a long while,” said the maltster, grimly, and
not in the best humour.
　　　“Shepherd would like to hear the pedigree of yer life, father--
wouldn't ye, shepherd?”
　　　“Ay, that I should,” said Gabriel with the heartiness of a man
who had longed to hear it for several months. “What may your age be,
malter?”
　　　The maltster cleared his throat in an exaggerated form for emphasis,
and elongating his gaze to the remotest point of the ashpit, said, in the
slow speech justifiable when the importance of a subject is so generally
felt that any mannerism must be tolerated in getting at it, “Well, I don't
mind the year I were born in, but perhaps I can reckon up the places I've
lived at, and so get it that way. I bode at Upper Longpuddle across there”
(nodding to the north) “till I were eleven. I bode seven at Kingsbere”
(nodding to the east) “where I took to malting. I went therefrom to Nor-
combe, and malted there two-and-twenty years, and-two-and-twenty years I
was there turnip-hoeing and harvesting. Ah, I knowed that old place, Nor-
combe, years afore you were thought of, Master Oak” (Oak smiled sincere
belief in the fact). “Then I malted at Durnover four year, and four year
turnip-hoeing; and I was fourteen times eleven months at Millpond St.
Jude's” (nodding north-west-by-north). “Old Twills wouldn't hire me
for more than eleven months at a time, to keep me from being chargeable
to the parish if so be I was disabled. Then I was three year at Mellstock,
and I've been here one-and-thirty year come Candlemas. How much is
that?”
　　　"Hundred and seventeen," chuckled another old gentleman,
given to mental arithmetic and little conversation, who had hitherto
sat unobserved in a corner.
　　　"Well, then, that's my age," said the maltster, emphatically.
　　　"O no, father!" said Jacob. "Your turnip-hoeing were in the sum-
mer and your malting in the winter of the same years, and ye don't
ought to count-both halves father."
　　　"Chok' it all! I lived through the summers, didn't I? That's my
question. I suppose ye'll say next I be no age at all to speak of?"
　　　"Sure we shan't," said Gabriel, soothingly.
　　　"Ye be a very old aged person, malter," attested Jan Coggan,
also soothingly. "We all know that, and ye must have a wonderful
talented constitution to be able to live so long, mustn't he, neigh-
bours?"
　　　"True, true; ye must, malter, wonderful," said the meeting
unanimously.
　　　The maltster, being now pacified, was even generous enough
to voluntarily disparage in a slight degree the virtue of having lived
a great many years, by mentioning that the cup they were drinking
out of was three years older than he.
　　　While the cup was being examined, the end of Gabriel Oak's flute
became visible over his smock-frock pocket, and Henery Fray exclaimed,
“Surely, shepherd, I seed you blowing into a great flute by now at
Casterbridge?”
　　　“You did,” said Gabriel, blushing faintly. “I've been in great
trouble, neighbours, and was driven to it. I used not to be so poor
as I be now.”
　　　“Never mind, heart!” said Mark Clark. “You should take it
careless-like, shepherd, and your time will come. But we could thank
ye for a tune, if ye bain't too tired?”
　　　“Neither drum nor trumpet have I heard since Christmas,” said
Jan Coggan. “Come, raise a tune, Master Oak!”
　　　“Ay, that I will,” said Gabriel, pulling out his flute and put-
ting it together. “A poor tool, neighbours; but such as I can do ye
shall have and welcome.”
　　　Oak then struck up “Jockey to the Fair,” and played that spark-
ling melody three times through, accenting the notes in the third round
in a most artistic and lively manner by bending his body in small jerks
and tapping with his foot to beat time.
　　　"He can blow the flute very well -- that 'a can," said a young
married man, who having no individuality worth mentioning was known
as "Susan Tall's husband." He continued, "I'd as lief as not be able
to blow into a flute as well as that."
　　　"He's a clever man, and 'tis a true comfort for us to have such
a shepherd," murmured Joseph Poorgrass, in a soft cadence. "We
ought to feel full o' thanksgiving that he's not a player of ba'dy
songs 'instead of these merry tunes; for 'twould have been just as
easy for God to have made the shepherd a loose low man -- a man
of iniquity, so to speak it -- as what he is. Yes, for our wives' and
daughters' sakes we should feel real thanks giving."
　　　"True, true, -- real thanksgiving!" dashed in Mark Clark con-
clusively, not feeling it to be of any consequence to his opinion that
he had only heard about a word and three- quarters of what Joseph
had said.
　　　“Yes,” added Joseph, beginning to feel like a man in the Bible;
“for evil do thrive so in these times that ye may be as much deceived
in the cleanest shaved and whitest shirted man as in the raggedest
tramp upon the turnpike, if I may term it so.”
　　　“Ay, I can mind yer face now, shepherd,” said Henery Fray, crit-
icising Gabriel with misty eyes as he entered upon his second tune.
“Yes--now I see 'ee blowing into the flute I know 'ee to be the same
man I see play at Casterbridge, for yer mouth were scrimped up and yer
eyes a-staring out like a strangled man's--just as they be now.”
　　　“'Tis a pity that playing the flute should make a man look such
a scarecrow,” observed Mr. Mark Clark, with additional criticism of
Gabriel's countenance, the latter person jerking out, with the ghastly
grimace required by the instrument, the chorus of “Dame Durden:”--

　　　　　　'Twas Moll' and Bet', and Doll' and Kate',
　　　　　　And Dor'-othy Drag'-gle Tail'.

　　　“I hope you don't mind that young man's bad manners in naming
your features?” whispered Joseph to Gabriel.
　　　“Not at all,” said Mr. Oak.
　　　“For by nature ye be a very handsome man, shepherd,” continued
Joseph Poorgrass, with winning sauvity.
　　　“Ay, that ye be, shepard,” said the company.
　　　“Thank you very much,” said Oak, in the modest tone good manners
demanded, thinking, however, that he would never let Bathsheba see him
playing the flute; in this resolve showing a discretion equal to that re-
lated to its sagacious inventress, the divine Minerva herself.
　　　“Ah, when I and my wife were married at Norcombe Church,” said t
he old maltster, not pleased at finding himself left out of the subject,
“we were called the handsomest couple in the neighbourhood--everybody
said so.”
　　　"Danged if ye bain't altered now, malter," said a voice with the
vigour natural to the enunciation of a remarkably evident truism. It came
from the old man in the background, whose offensiveness and spiteful
ways were barely atoned for by the occasional chuckle he contributed
to general laughs.
　　　"O no, no," said Gabriel.
　　　"Don't ye play no more shepherd" said Susan Tall's husband, the
young married man who had spoken once before. "I must be moving and
when there's tunes going on I seem as if hung in wires. If I thought after
I'd left that music was still playing, and I not there, I should be quite
melancholy- like."
　　　“What's yer hurry then, Laban?” inquired Coggan. “You used to
bide as late as the latest.”
　　　“Well, ye see, neighbours, I was lately married to a woman, and
she's my vocation now, and so ye see--” The young man halted lamely.
　　　“New Lords new laws, as the saying is, I suppose,” remarked Cog-
gan.
　　　“Ay, 'a b'lieve--ha, ha!” said Susan Tall's husband, in a tone intend-
ed to imply his habitual reception of jokes without minding them at all.
The young man then wished them good-night and withdrew.
　　　Henery Fray was the first to follow. Then Gabriel arose and went
off with Jan Coggan, who had offered him a lodging. A few minutes later,
when the remaining ones were on their legs and about to depart, Fray
came back again in a hurry. Flourishing his finger ominously he threw
a gaze teeming with tidings just where his eye alighted by accident,
which happened to be in Joseph Poorgrass's face.
　　　“O--what's the matter, what's the matter, Henery?” said Jos-
eph, starting back.
　　　“What's a-brewing, Henery?” asked Jacob and Mark Clark.
　　　“Baily Pennyways--Baily Pennyways--I said so; yes, I said so!”
　　　“What, found out stealing anything?”
　　　“Stealing it is. The news is, that after Miss Everdene got home
she went out again to see all was safe, as she usually do, and coming
in found Baily Pennyways creeping down the granary steps with half a
bushel of barley. She fleed at him like a cat--never such a tomboy as
she is--of course I speak with closed doors?”
　　　“You do--you do, Henery.”
　　　“She fleed at him, and, to cut a long story short, he owned to
having carried off five sack altogether, upon her promising not to per-
secute him. Well, he's turned out neck and crop, and my question is,
who's going to be baily now?”
　　　The question was such a profound one that Henery was obliged to
drink there and then from the large cup till the bottom was distinctly
visible inside. Before he had replaced it on the table, in came the
young man, Susan Tall's husband, in a still greater hurry.
　　　“Have ye heard the news that's all over parish?”
　　　“About Baily Pennyways?”
　　　“But besides that?”
　　　“No--not a morsel of it!” they replied, looking into the very
midst of Laban Tall as if to meet his words half-way down his throat.
　　　“What a night of horrors!” murmured Joseph Poorgrass, waving
his hands spasmodically. “I've had the news-bell ringing in my left
ear quite bad enough for a murder, and I've seen a magpie all alone!”
　　　“Fanny Robin--Miss Everdene's youngest servant--can't be found.
They've been wanting to lock up the door these two hours, but she
isn't come in. And they don't know what to do about going to bed for
fear of locking her out. They wouldn't be so concerned if she hadn't
been noticed in such low spirits these last few days, and Maryann d'
think the beginning of a crowner's inquest has happened to the poor
girl.”
　　　“Oh--'tis burned--'tis burned!” came from Joseph Poorgrass's
dry lips.
　　　“No--'tis drowned!” said Tall.
　　　“Or 'tis her father's razor!” suggested Billy Smallbury, with
a vivid sense of detail.
　　　“Well--Miss Everdene wants to speak to one or two of us before
we go to bed. What with this trouble about the baily, and now about
the girl, mis'ess is almost wild.”
　　　They all hastened up the lane to the farmhouse, excepting the
old maltster, whom neither news, fire, rain, nor thunder could draw
from his hole. There, as the others' footsteps died away he sat down
again and continued gazing as usual into the furnace with his red,
bleared eyes.
　　　From the bedroom window above their heads Bathsheba's head and
shoulders, robed in mystic white, were dimly seen extended into the
air.
　　　“Are any of my men among you?” she said anxiously.
　　　“Yes, ma'am, several,” said Susan Tall's husband.
　　　“To-morrow morning I wish two or three of you to make inquiries
in the villages round if they have seen such a person as Fanny Robin.
Do it quietly; there is no reason for alarm as yet. She must have left
whilst we were all at the fire.”
　　　“I beg yer pardon, but had she any young man courting her in
the parish, ma'am?” asked Jacob Smallbury.
　　　“I don't know,” said Bathsheba.
　　　“I've never heard of any such thing, ma'am,” said two or three.
　　　“It is hardly likely, either,” continued Bathsheba. “For any lover
of hers might have come to the house if he had been a respectable
lad. The most mysterious matter connected with her absence--indeed,
the only thing which gives me serious alarm--is that she was seen to
go out of the house by Maryann with only her indoor working gown on--
not even a bonnet.”
　　　“And you mean, ma'am, excusing my words, that a young woman
would hardly go to see her young man without dressing up,” said Jacob,
turning his mental vision upon past experiences. “That's true--she
would not, ma'am.”
　　　“She had, I think, a bundle, though I couldn't see very well,”
said a female voice from another window, which seemed that of Mary-
ann. “But she had no young man about here. Hers lives in Casterbridge,
and I believe he's a soldier.”
　　　“Do you know his name?” Bathsheba said.
　　　“No, mistress; she was very close about it.”
　　　“Perhaps I might be able to find out if I went to Casterbridge
barracks,” said William Smallbury.
　　　“Very well; if she doesn't return to-morrow, mind you go there
and try to discover which man it is, and see him. I feel more respon-
sible than I should if she had had any friends or relations alive. I
do hope she has come to no harm through a man of that kind.... And
then there's this disgraceful affair of the bailiff--but I can't speak
of him now.”
　　　Bathsheba had so many reasons for uneasiness that it seemed she
did not think it worth while to dwell upon any particular one. “Do as
I told you, then,” she said in conclusion, closing the casement.
　　　“Ay, ay, mistress; we will,” they replied, and moved away.
　　　That night at Coggan's, Gabriel Oak, beneath the screen of closed
eyelids, was busy with fancies, and full of movement, like a river flowing
rapidly under its ice. Night had always been the time at which he saw
Bathsheba most vividly, and through the slow hours of shadow he ten-
derly regarded her image now. It is rarely that the pleasures of the
imagination will compensate for the pain of sleeplessness, but they
possibly did with Oak to-night, for the delight of merely seeing her
effaced for the time his perception of the great difference between
seeing and possessing.
　　　He also thought of plans for fetching his few utensils and books
from Norcombe. The Young Man's Best Companion, The Farrier's Sure
Guide, The Veterinary Surgeon, Paradise Lost, The Pilgrim's Progress,
Robinson Crusoe, Ash's Dictionary, and Walkingame's Arithmetic, con-
stituted his library; and though a limited series, it was one from
which he had acquired more sound information by diligent perusal than
many a man of opportunities has done from a furlong of laden shelves.








　　　By daylight, the bower of Oak's new-found mistress, Bathsheba
Everdene, presented itself as a hoary building, of the early stage of
Classic Renaissance as regards its architecture, and of a proportion
which told at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had
once been the memorial hall upon a small estate around it, now alto-
gether effaced as a distinct property, and merged in the vast tract
of a non-resident landlord, which comprised several such modest
demesnes.
　　　Fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its
front, and above the roof the chimneys were panelled or columnar,
some coped gables with finials and like features still retaining
traces of their Gothic extraction. Soft brown mosses, like faded
velveteen, formed cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the
houseleek or sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low sur-
rounding buildings. A gravel walk leading from the door to the
road in front was encrusted at the sides with more moss -- here
it was a silver-green variety, the nut-brown of the gravel being
visible to the width of only a foot or two in the centre. This cir-
cumstance, and the generally sleepy air of the whole prospect
here, together with the animated and contrasting state of the
reverse facade, suggested to the imagination that on the adapt-
ation of the building for farming purposes the vital principle of
the house had turned round inside its body to face the other way.
Reversals of this kind, strange deformities, tremendous paralyses,
are often seen to be inflicted by trade upon edifices -- either in-
dividual or in the aggregate as streets and towns -- which were
originally planned for pleasure alone.
　　　Lively voices were heard this morning in the upper rooms, the
main staircase to which was of hard oak, the balusters, heavy as bed-
posts, being turned and moulded in the quaint fashion of their cen-
tury, the handrail as stout as a parapet-top, and the stairs them-
selves continually twisting round like a person trying to look over
his shoulder. Going up, the floors above were found to have a very
irregular surface, rising to ridges, sinking into valleys; and being
just then uncarpeted, the face of the boards was seen to be eaten
into innumerable vermiculations. Every window replied by a clang to
the opening and shutting of every door, a tremble followed every
bustling movement, and a creak accompanied a walker about the
house, like a spirit, wherever he went.
　　　In the room from which the conversation proceeded Bathsheba
and her servant-companion, Liddy Smallbury, were to be discovered
sitting upon the floor, and sorting a complication of papers, books,
bottles, and rubbish spread out thereon--remnants from the household
stores of the late occupier. Liddy, the maltster's great-granddaughter,
was about Bathsheba's equal in age, and her face was a prominent
advertisement of the light-hearted English country girl. The beauty
her features might have lacked in form was amply made up for by
perfection of hue, which at this winter-time was the softened rud-
diness on a surface of high rotundity that we meet with in a Terburg
or a Gerard Douw; and, like the presentations of those great colour-
ists, it was a face which kept well back from the boundary between
comeliness and the ideal. Though elastic in nature she was less dar-
ing than Bathsheba, and occasionally showed some earnestness,
which consisted half of genuine feeling, and half of mannerliness
superadded by way of duty.
　　　Through a partly-opened door the noise of a scrubbing-brush
led up to the charwoman, Maryann Money, a person who for a face had
a circular disc, furrowed less by age than by long gazes of perplex-
ity at distant objects. To think of her was to get good-humoured;
to speak of her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy pippin.
　　　“Stop your scrubbing a moment,” said Bathsheba through the
door to her. “I hear something.”
　　　Maryann suspended the brush.
　　　The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of
the building. The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and,
what was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door.
The door was tapped with the end of a crop or stick.
　　　“What impertinence!” said Liddy, in a low voice. “To ride
up the footpath like that! Why didn't he stop at the gate? Lord!
'Tis a gentleman! I see the top of his hat.”
　　　“Be quiet!” said Bathsheba.
　　　The further expression of Liddy's concern was continued by
aspect instead of narrative.
　　　“Why doesn't Mrs. Coggan go to the door?” Bathsheba contin-
ued.
　　　Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from Bathsheba's oak.
　　　“Maryann, you go!” said she, fluttering under the onset of
a crowd of romantic possibilities.
　　　“Oh ma'am--see, here's a mess!”
　　　The argument was unanswerable after a glance at Maryann.
　　　“Liddy--you must,” said Bathsheba.
　　　Liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the
rubbish they were sorting, and looked imploringly at her mistress.
　　　“There--Mrs. Coggan is going!” said Bathsheba, exhaling her
relief in the form of a long breath which had lain in her bosom a
minute or more.
　　　The door opened, and a deep voice said--
　　　“Is Miss Everdene at home?”
　　　“I'll see, sir,” said Mrs. Coggan, and in a minute appeared
in the room.
　　　"Dear, what a thirtover* place this world is!" continued Mrs.
Coggan (a wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class
of remark according to the emotion involved; who could toss a
pancake or twirl a mop with the accuracy of pure mathematics,
and who at this moment showed hands shaggy with fragments
of dough and arms encrusted with flour). "I am never up to my
elbows, Miss, in making a pudding but one of two things do hap-
pen -- either my nose must needs begin tickling, and I can't live
without scratching it, or somebody knocks at the door."
　　　Here's Mr. Boldwood wanting to see you, Miss Everdene.”
　　　A woman's dress being a part of her countenance, and any disorder
in the one being of the same nature with a malformation or wound in
the other, Bathsheba said at once--
　　　“I can't see him in this state. Whatever shall I do?”
　　　Not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in Weatherbury farmhouses,
so Liddy suggested--“Say you're a fright with dust, and can't come
down.”
　　　“Yes--that sounds very well,” said Mrs. Coggan, critically.
　　　“Say I can't see him--that will do.”
　　　Mrs. Coggan went downstairs, and returned the answer as request-
ed, adding, however, on her own responsibility, “Miss is dusting bot-
tles, sir, and is quite a object--that's why 'tis.”
　　　“Oh, very well,” said the deep voice indifferently. “All I
wanted to ask was, if anything had been heard of Fanny Robin?”
　　　“Nothing, sir--but we may know to-night. William Smallbury is
gone to Casterbridge, where her young man lives, as is supposed, and
the other men be inquiring about everywhere.”
　　　The horse's tramp then recommenced and retreated, and the door
closed.
　　　“Who is Mr. Boldwood?” said Bathsheba.
　　　“A gentleman-farmer at Little Weatherbury.”
　　　“Married?”
　　　“No, miss.”
　　　“How old is he?”
　　　“Forty, I should say--very handsome--rather stern-looking--and
rich.”
　　　“What a bother this dusting is! I am always in some unfortunate
plight or other,” Bathsheba said, complainingly. “Why should he in-
quire about Fanny?”
　　　“Oh, because, as she had no friends in her childhood, he took
her and put her to school, and got her her place here under your uncle.
He's a very kind man that way, but Lord--there!”
　　　“What?”
　　　"Never was such a hopeless man for a woman! He's been court-
ed by sixes and sevens -- all the girls, gentle and simple, for miles
round, have tried him. Jane Perkins worked at him for two months like
a slave, and the two Miss Taylors spent a year upon him, and he cost
Farmer Ives's daughter nights of tears and twenty pounds' worth of new
clothes; but Lord -- the money might as well have been thrown out of
the window."
　　　A little boy came up at this moment and looked in upon them.
This child was one of the Coggans, who, with the Smallburys, were
as common among the families of this district as the Avons and Der-
wents among our rivers. He always had a loosened tooth or a cut fin-
ger to show to particular friends, which he did with an air of being ther-
eby elevated above the common herd of afflictionless humanity -- to
which exhibition people were expected to say "Poor child!" with a
dash of congratulation as well as pity.
　　　“I've got a pen-nee!” said Master Coggan in a scanning measure.
　　　“Well--who gave it you, Teddy?” said Liddy.
　　　“Mis-terr Bold-wood! He gave it to me for opening the gate.”
　　　“What did he say?”
　　　“He said, 'Where are you going, my little man?' and I said, 'To
Miss Everdene's please,' and he said, 'She is a staid woman, isn't she,
my little man?' and I said, 'Yes.'”
　　　“You naughty child! What did you say that for?”
　　　“'Cause he gave me the penny!”
　　　"What a pucker everything is in!" said Bathsheba, discontentedly
when the child had gone. "Get away, Maryann, or go on with your scru-
bbing, or do something! You ought to be married by this time, and not
here troubling me!"
　　　"Ay, mistress -- so I did. But what between the poor men I won't
have, and the rich men who won't have me, I stand as a pelican in the
wilderness!"
　　　"Did anybody ever want to marry you miss?" Liddy ventured to ask
when they were again alone. "Lots of 'em, I daresay?"
　　　Bathsheba paused, as if about to refuse a reply, but the temptation
to say yes, since it was really in her power was irresistible by aspiring
virginity, in spite of her spleen at having been published as old.
　　　"A man wanted to once," she said, in a highly experienced tone
and the image of Gabriel Oak, as the farmer, rose before her.
　　　"How nice it must seem!" said Liddy, with the fixed features of
mental realization. "And you wouldn't have him?"
　　　"He wasn't quite good enough for me."
　　　"How sweet to be able to disdain, when most of us are glad to say,
'Thank you!' I seem I hear it. 'No, sir -- I'm your better.' or 'Kiss my
foot, sir; my face is for mouths of consequence.' And did you love
him, miss?"
　　　"Oh, no. But I rather liked him."
　　　“Do you now?”
　　　“Of course not--what footsteps are those I hear?”
　　　Liddy looked from a back window into the courtyard behind, which was
now getting low-toned and dim with the earliest films of night. A crooked
file of men was approaching the back door. The whole string of trailing
individuals advanced in the completest balance of intention, like the re-
markable creatures known as Chain Salpae, which, distinctly organized in
other respects, have one will common to a whole family. Some were, as u-
sual, in snow-white smock-frocks of Russia duck, and some in whitey-brown
ones of drabbet--marked on the wrists, breasts, backs, and sleeves with
honeycomb-work. Two or three women in pattens brought up the rear.
　　　“The Philistines be upon us,” said Liddy, making her nose white
against the glass.
　　　“Oh, very well. Maryann, go down and keep them in the kitchen till
I am dressed, and then show them in to me in the hall.”







　　　Half-an-hour later Bathsheba, in finished dress, and followed by
Liddy, entered the upper end of the old hall to find that her men had all
deposited themselves on a long form and a settle at the lower extremity.
She sat down at a table and opened the time-book, pen in her hand, with
a canvas money-bag beside her. From this she poured a small heap of coin.
Liddy chose a position at her elbow and began to sew, sometimes pausing
and looking round, or with the air of a privileged person, taking up one of
the half-sovereigns lying before her and surveying it merely as a work of
art, while strictly preventing her countenance from expressing any wish to
possess it as money.
　　　“Now before I begin, men,” said Bathsheba, “I have two matters
to speak of. The first is that the bailiff is dismissed for thieving, and
that I have formed a resolution to have no bailiff at all, but to manage
everything with my own head and hands.”
　　　The men breathed an audible breath of amazement.
　　　“The next matter is, have you heard anything of Fanny?”
　　　“Nothing, ma'am.”
　　　“Have you done anything?”
　　　“I met Farmer Boldwood,” said Jacob Smallbury, “and I went with
him and two of his men, and dragged Newmill Pond, but we found nothing.”
　　　“And the new shepherd have been to Buck's Head, by Yalbury, think-
ing she had gone there, but nobody had seed her,” said Laban Tall.
　　　“Hasn't William Smallbury been to Casterbridge?”
　　　“Yes, ma'am, but he's not yet come home. He promised to be back
by six.”
　　　“It wants a quarter to six at present,” said Bathsheba, looking at
her watch. “I daresay he'll be in directly. Well, now then”--she looked
into the book--“Joseph Poorgrass, are you there?”
　　　“Yes, sir--ma'am I mane,” said the person addressed. “I be the
personal name of Poorgrass.”
　　　“And what are you?”
　　　“Nothing in my own eye. In the eye of other people--well, I don't
say it; though public thought will out.”
　　　“What do you do on the farm?”
　　　“I do do carting things all the year, and in seed time I shoots the
rooks and sparrows, and helps at pig-killing, sir.”
　　　“How much to you?”
　　　“Please nine and ninepence and a good halfpenny where 'twas a bad
one, sir--ma'am I mane.”
　　　“Quite correct. Now here are ten shillings in addition as a small
present, as I am a new comer.”
　　　Bathsheba blushed slightly at the sense of being generous in public,
and Henery Fray, who had drawn up towards her chair, lifted his eyebrows
and fingers to express amazement on a small scale.
　　　“How much do I owe you--that man in the corner--what's your name?”
continued Bathsheba.
　　　“Matthew Moon, ma'am,” said a singular framework of clothes with
nothing of any consequence inside them, which advanced with the toes in
no definite direction forwards, but turned in or out as they chanced to
swing.
　　　“Matthew Mark, did you say?--speak out--I shall not hurt you,”
inquired the young farmer, kindly.
　　　“Matthew Moon, mem,” said Henery Fray, correctingly, from behind
her chair, to which point he had edged himself.
　　　“Matthew Moon,” murmured Bathsheba, turning her bright eyes to
the book. “Ten and twopence halfpenny is the sum put down to you, I see?”
　　　“Yes, mis'ess,” said Matthew, as the rustle of wind among dead
leaves.
　　　“Here it is, and ten shillings. Now the next--Andrew Randle, you
are a new man, I hear. How come you to leave your last farm?”
　　　“P-p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-l-l-l-l-ease, ma'am, p-p-p-p-pl-pl- pl-pl-
please, ma'am-please'm-please'm--”
　　　“'A's a stammering man, mem,” said Henery Fray in an undertone,
“and they turned him away because the only time he ever did speak plain
he said his soul was his own, and other iniquities, to the squire. 'A
can cuss, mem, as well as you or I, but 'a can't speak a common speech
to save his life.”
　　　“Andrew Randle, here's yours--finish thanking me in a day or two.
Temperance Miller--oh, here's another, Soberness--both women I suppose?”
　　　“Yes'm. Here we be, 'a b'lieve,” was echoed in shrill unison.
　　　“What have you been doing?”
　　　“Tending thrashing-machine and wimbling haybonds, and saying
'Hoosh!' to the cocks and hens when they go upon your seeds, and plant-
ing Early Flourballs and Thompson's Wonderfuls with a dibble.”
　　　“Yes--I see. Are they satisfactory women?” she inquired softly
of Henery Fray.
　　　“Oh mem--don't ask me! Yielding women--as scarlet a pair as ever
was!” groaned Henery under his breath.
　　　“Sit down.”
　　　“Who, mem?”
　　　“Sit down.”
　　　Joseph Poorgrass, in the background twitched, and his lips became
dry with fear of some terrible consequences, as he saw Bathsheba summar-
ily speaking, and Henery slinking off to a corner.
　　　“Now the next. Laban Tall, you'll stay on working for me?”
　　　“For you or anybody that pays me well, ma'am,” replied the young
married man.
　　　“True--the man must live!” said a woman in the back quarter, who
had just entered with clicking pattens.
　　　“What woman is that?” Bathsheba asked.
　　　“I be his lawful wife!” continued the voice with greater promi-
nence of manner and tone. This lady called herself five-and-twenty, look-
ed thirty, passed as thirty-five, and was forty. She was a woman who
never, like some newly married, showed conjugal tenderness in public,
perhaps because she had none to show.
　　　"Oh, you are," said Bathsheba. "Well, Laban, will you stay on?"
　　　"Yes, he'll stay, ma'am!" said again the shrill tongue of Laban's
lawful wife.
　　　"Well, he can speak for himself, I suppose."
　　　"Oh Lord, not he, ma'am! A simple tool. Well enough, but a poor
gawkhammer mortal," the wife replied
　　　"Heh-heh-heh!" laughed the married man with a hideous effort of
appreciation, for he was as irrepressibly good-humoured under ghastly
snubs as a parliamentary candidate on the hustings.
　　　“Now I think I have done with you,” said Bathsheba, closing the
book and shaking back a stray twine of hair. “Has William Smallbury re-
turned?”
　　　“No, ma'am.”
　　　“The new shepherd will want a man under him,” suggested Henery
Fray, trying to make himself official again by a sideway approach towards
her chair.
　　　“Oh--he will. Who can he have?”
　　　“Young Cain Ball is a very good lad,” Henery said, “and Shepherd
Oak don't mind his youth?” he added, turning with an apologetic smile to
the shepherd, who had just appeared on the scene, and was now leaning a-
gainst the doorpost with his arms folded.
　　　“No, I don't mind that,” said Gabriel.
　　　“How did Cain come by such a name?” asked Bathsheba.
　　　“Oh you see, mem, his pore mother, not being a Scripture-read woman,
made a mistake at his christening, thinking 'twas Abel killed Cain, and call-
ed en Cain, meaning Abel all the time. The parson put it right, but 'twas
too late, for the name could never be got rid of in the parish. 'Tis very
unfortunate for the boy.”
　　　“It is rather unfortunate.”
　　　“Yes. However, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him
Cainy. Ah, pore widow-woman! she cried her heart out about it almost. She
was brought up by a very heathen father and mother, who never sent her to
church or school, and it shows how the sins of the parents are visited u-
pon the children, mem.”
　　　Mr. Fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy
required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not belong
to your own family.
　　　“Very well then, Cainey Ball to be under-shepherd. And you quite
understand your duties?--you I mean, Gabriel Oak?”
　　　“Quite well, I thank you, Miss Everdene,” said Shepherd Oak from
the doorpost. “If I don't, I'll inquire.” Gabriel was rather staggered by the
remarkable coolness of her manner. Certainly nobody without previous
information would have dreamt that Oak and the handsome woman before
whom he stood had ever been other than strangers. But perhaps her air
was the inevitable result of the social rise which had advanced her from
a cottage to a large house and fields. The case is not unexampled in high
places. When, in the writings of the later poets, Jove and his family are
found to have moved from their cramped quarters on the peak of Olympus
into the wide sky above it, their words show a proportionate increase of
arrogance and reserve.
　　　Footsteps were heard in the passage, combining in their character
the qualities both of weight and measure, rather at the expense of velo-
city.
　　　(All.) “Here's Billy Smallbury come from Casterbridge.”
　　　“And what's the news?” said Bathsheba, as William, after march-
ing to the middle of the hall, took a handkerchief from his hat and
wiped his forehead from its centre to its remoter boundaries.
　　　“I should have been sooner, miss,” he said, “if it hadn't
been for the weather.” He then stamped with each foot severely, and
on looking down his boots were perceived to be clogged with snow.
　　　“Come at last, is it?” said Henery.
　　　“Well, what about Fanny?” said Bathsheba.
　　　“Well, ma'am, in round numbers, she's run away with the sol-
diers,” said William.
　　　“No; not a steady girl like Fanny!”
　　　“I'll tell ye all particulars. When I got to Casterbridge Barracks,
they said, ‘The Eleventh Dragoon-Guards be gone away, and new
troops have come.' The Eleventh left last week for Melchester and on-
wards. The Route came from Government like a thief in the night, as
is his nature to, and afore the Eleventh knew it almost, they were on
the march. They passed near here.”
　　　Gabriel had listened with interest. “I saw them go,” he said.
　　　“Yes,” continued William, “they pranced down the street play-
ing ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me,' so 'tis said, in glorious notes
of triumph. Every looker-on's inside shook with the blows of the
great drum to his deepest vitals, and there was not a dry eye through-
out the town among the public-house people and the nameless women!”
　　　“But they're not gone to any war?”
　　　“No, ma'am; but they be gone to take the places of them who
may, which is very close connected. And so I said to myself, Fanny's
young man was one of the regiment, and she's gone after him. There,
ma'am, that's it in black and white.”
　　　“Did you find out his name?”
　　　“No; nobody knew it. I believe he was higher in rank than a
private.”
　　　Gabriel remained musing and said nothing, for he was in doubt.
　　　“Well, we are not likely to know more to-night, at any rate,”
said Bathsheba. “But one of you had better run across to Farmer
Boldwood's and tell him that much.”
　　　She then rose; but before retiring, addressed a few words to
them with a pretty dignity, to which her mourning dress added a so-
berness that was hardly to be found in the words themselves.
　　　“Now mind, you have a mistress instead of a master. I don't
yet know my powers or my talents in farming; but I shall do my best,
and if you serve me well, so shall I serve you. Don't any unfair
ones among you (if there are any such, but I hope not) suppose that
because I'm a woman I don't understand the difference between bad
goings-on and good.”
　　　(All.) “No'm!”
　　　(Liddy.) “Excellent well said.”
　　　“I shall be up before you are awake; I shall be afield be-
fore you are up; and I shall have breakfasted before you are a-
field. In short, I shall astonish you all.”
　　　(All.) “Yes'm!”
　　　“And so good-night.”
　　　(All.) “Good-night, ma'am.”
　　　Then this small thesmothete stepped from the table, and surg-
ed out of the hall, her black silk dress licking up a few straws
and dragging them along with a scratching noise upon the floor.
Liddy, elevating her feelings to the occasion from a sense of
grandeur, floated off behind Bathsheba with a milder dignity not
entirely free from travesty, and the door was closed.








　　For dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts
of a certain town and military station, many miles north of Weather-
bury, at a later hour on this same snowy evening -- if that may be
called a prospect of which the chief constituent was darkness.
　　It was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without
causing any great sense of incongruity: when, with impressible per-
sons, love becomes solicitousness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith
to hope: when the exercise of memory does not stir feelings of regret
at opportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipa-
tion does not prompt to enterprise.
　　　The scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river,
behind which rose a high wall. On the right was a tract of land, partly
meadow and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to a wide undu-
lating upland.
　　　The changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of this
kind than amid woodland scenery. Still, to a close observer, they are
just as perceptible; the difference is that their media of manifestation
are less trite and familiar than such well-known ones as the bursting
of the buds or the fall of the leaf. Many are not so stealthy and gradual
as we may be apt to imagine in considering the general torpidity of a
moor or waste. Winter, in coming to the country hereabout, advanced
in well-marked stages, wherein might have been successively observed
the retreat of the snakes, the transformation of the ferns, the filling
of the pools, a rising of fogs, the embrowning by frost, the collapse of
the fungi, and an obliteration by snow.
　　　This climax of the series had been reached to-night on the afore-
said moor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities were
forms without features; suggestive of anything, proclaiming nothing, and
without more character than that of being the limit of something else--
the lowest layer of a firmament of snow. From this chaotic skyful of
crowding flakes the mead and moor momentarily received additional
clothing, only to appear momentarily more naked thereby. The vast arch
of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it were the roof of a
large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor; for the instinctive
thought was that the snow lining the heavens and that encrusting the
earth would soon unite into one mass without any intervening stratum
of air at all.
　　　We turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics; which were
flatness in respect of the river, verticality in respect of the wall be-
hind it, and darkness as to both. These features made up the mass. If
anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall, and if any thing
could be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath. The indistinct
summit of the façade was notched and pronged by chimneys here and
there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblong shapes of win-
dows, though only in the upper part. Below, down to the water's edge,
the flat was unbroken by hole or projection.
　　　An indescribable succession of dull blows, perplexing in their regu-
larity, sent their sound with difficulty through the fluffy atmosphere. It
was a neighbouring clock striking ten. The bell was in the open air, and
being overlaid with several inches of muffling snow, had lost its voice
for the time.
　　　About this hour the snow abated: ten flakes fell where twenty had
fallen, then one had the room of ten. Not long after a form moved by the
brink of the river.
　　　By its outline upon the colourless background, a close observer
might have seen that it was small. This was all that was positively
discoverable, though it seemed human.
　　　The shape went slowly along, but without much exertion, for the
snow, though sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep. At this
time some words were spoken aloud:--
　　　“One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”
　　　Between each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozen
yards. It was evident now that the windows high in the wall were being
counted. The word “Five” represented the fifth window from the end of
the wall.
　　　Here the spot stopped, and dwindled smaller. The figure was stoop-
ing. Then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the fifth win-
dow. It smacked against the wall at a point several yards from its mark.
The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the execution of a wo-
man. No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or squirrel in his childhood,
could possibly have thrown with such utter imbecility as was shown
here.
　　　Another attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must have
become pimpled with the adhering lumps of snow. At last one fragment
struck the fifth window.
　　　The river would have been seen by day to be of that deep smooth
sort which races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, any
irregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a small whirlpool.
Nothing was heard in reply to the signal but the gurgle and cluck of
one of these invisible wheels -- together with a few small sounds
which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy man laughter
-- caused by the flapping of the waters against trifling objects in other
parts of the stream.
　　　The window was struck again in the same manner.
　　　Then a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of the
window. This was followed by a voice from the same quarter.
　　　“Who's there?”
　　　The tones were masculine, and not those of surprise. The high wall
being that of a barrack, and marriage being looked upon with disfavour
in the army, assignations and communications had probably been made a-
cross the river before to-night.
　　　"Is it Sergeant Troy?" said the blurred spot in the snow, tremulously.
　　　This person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and the
other speaker so much a part of the building, that one would have said
the wall was holding a conversation with the snow.
　　　"Yes," came suspiciously from the shadow. "What girl are you?"
　　　"Oh, Frank -- don't you know me?" said the spot. "Your wife,
Fanny Robin."
　　　"Fanny!" said the wall, in utter astonishment.
　　　“Yes,” said the girl, with a half-suppressed gasp of emotion.
　　　There was something in the woman's tone which is not that of the
wife, and there was a manner in the man which is rarely a husband's. The
dialogue went on:
　　　“How did you come here?”
　　　“I asked which was your window. Forgive me!”
　　　“I did not expect you to-night. Indeed, I did not think you would
come at all. It was a wonder you found me here. I am orderly to-morrow.”
　　　“You said I was to come.”
　　　“Well--I said that you might.”
　　　“Yes, I mean that I might. You are glad to see me, Frank?”
　　　“Oh yes--of course.”
　　　“Can you--come to me!”
　　　“My dear Fan, no! The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are
closed, and I have no leave. We are all of us as good as in the county
gaol till to-morrow morning.”
　　　“Then I shan't see you till then!” The words were in a falter-
ing tone of disappointment.
　　　“How did you get here from Weatherbury?”
　　　“I walked--some part of the way--the rest by the carriers.”
　　　"I am surprised."
　　　"Yes -- so am I. And Frank, when will it be?"
　　　"What?"
　　　"That you promised."
　　　"I don't quite recollect."
　　　"O you do! Don't speak like that. It weighs me to the earth. It
makes me say what ought to be said first by you."
　　　"Never mind -- say it."
　　　"O, must I? -- it is, when shall we be married, Frank?"
　　　"Oh, I see. Well -- you have to get proper clothes."
　　　“I have money. Will it be by banns or license?”
　　　“Banns, I should think.”
　　　“And we live in two parishes.”
　　　“Do we? What then?”
　　　“My lodgings are in St. Mary's, and this is not. So they will have
to be published in both.”
　　　“Is that the law?”
　　　“Yes. O Frank--you think me forward, I am afraid! Don't, dear Frank
--will you--for I love you so. And you said lots of times you would marry
me, and--and--I--I--I--”
　　　“Don't cry, now! It is foolish. If I said so, of course I will.”
　　　“And shall I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?”
　　　“Yes”
　　　“To-morrow?”
　　　“Not to-morrow. We'll settle in a few days.”
　　　“You have the permission of the officers?”
　　　“No, not yet.”
　　　“O--how is it? You said you almost had before you left Caster-
bridge.”
　　　“The fact is, I forgot to ask. Your coming like this is so sudden
and unexpected.”
　　　“Yes--yes--it is. It was wrong of me to worry you. I'll go away now.
Will you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twills's, in North Street? I
don't like to come to the Barracks. There are bad women about, and they
think me one.”
　　　“Quite, so. I'll come to you, my dear. Good-night.”
　　　“Good-night, Frank--good-night!”
　　　And the noise was again heard of a window closing. The little spot
moved away. When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was heard
inside the wall.
　　　“Ho--ho--Sergeant--ho--ho!” An expostulation followed, but it was
indistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was hard-
ly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools outside.








　　　The first public evidence of Bathsheba's decision to be a farmer
in her own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the follow-
ing market-day in the cornmarket at Casterbridge.
　　　The low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars, and
latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged with hot
men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the speaker of
the minute looking sideways into his auditor's face and concentrating
his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during delivery. The greater
number carried in their hands ground-ash saplings, using them partly as
walking-sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their
backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to require
such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. During conversa-
tions each subjected his sapling to great varieties of usage---bending
it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two hands, overweigh-
ting it on the ground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it
was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth
and a handful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was
flung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to half-a-
dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the build-
ing unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of their anticipations with a
high-stretched neck and oblique eye.
　　　Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single
one of her sex that the room contained. She was prettily and even
daintily dressed. She moved between them as a chaise between carts,
was heard after them as a romance after sermons, was felt among
them like a breeze among furnaces. It had required a little determina-
tion--far more than she had at first imagined--to take up a position here,
for at her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every
face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned
rigidly fixed there.
　　　Two or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba,
and to these she had made her way. But if she was to be the practical wo-
man she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, intro-
ductions or none, and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to speak
and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. Bathsheba too had
her sample-bags, and by degrees adopted the professional pour into the
hand--holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect
Casterbridge manner.
　　　Something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth,
and in the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted
lips, she somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with
a tall man, suggested that there was potentiality enough in that lithe
slip of humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring enough to carry
them out. But her eyes had a softness -- invariably a softness --
which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness; as they
were, it lowered an expression that might have been piercing to simple
clearness.
　　　Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigor, she always allowed
her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers.
In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a deal-
er, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But
there was an elasticity in her firmness which removed it from obstinacy,
as there was a naivete in her cheapening which saved it from meanness.
　　　Those of the farmers with whom she had no dealings (by far the great-
er part) were continually asking each other, “Who is she?” The reply
would be--
　　　“Farmer Everdene's niece; took on Weatherbury Upper Farm; turned
away the baily, and swears she'll do everything herself.”
　　　The other man would then shake his head.
　　　“Yes, 'tis a pity she's so headstrong,” the first would say. “But
we ought to be proud of her here--she lightens up the old place. 'Tis such
a shapely maid, however, that she'll soon get picked up.”
　　　It would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement
in such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism as had
the beauty of her face and movements. However, the interest was general,
and this Saturday's debut in the forum, whatever it may have been to Bath-
sheba as the buying and selling farmer, was unquestionably a triumph to her
as the maiden. Indeed, the sensation was so pronounced that her instinct
on two or three occasions was merely to walk as a queen among these gods
of the fallow, like a little sister of a little Jove, and to neglect closing prices
altogether.
　　　The numerous evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into
greater relief by a marked exception. Women seem to have eyes in their rib-
bons for such matters as these. Bathsheba, without looking within a right
angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the flock.
　　　It perplexed her first. If there had been a respectable minority on
either side, the case would have been most natural. If nobody had regarded
her, she would have taken the matter indifferently--such cases had occurr-
ed. If everybody, this man included, she would have taken it as a matter
of course--people had done so before. But the smallness of the exception
made the mystery.
　　　She soon knew thus much of the recusant's appearance. He was a gent-
lemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features, the promi-
nences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like richness of tone. He
was erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour. One characteristic pre-emi-
nently marked him--dignity.
　　　Apparently he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age
at which a man's aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of a dozen
years or so; and, artificially, a woman's does likewise. Thirty-five and
fifty were his limits of variation--he might have been either, or anywhere
between the two.
　　　It may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and gen-
erous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate beauty
they may discern by the way. Probably, as with persons playing whist for
love, the consciousness of a certain immunity under any circumstances from
that worst possible ultimate, the having to pay, makes them unduly specu-
lative. Bathsheba was convinced that this unmoved person was not a married
man.
　　　When marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting
for her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to town. The horse
was put in, and on they trotted--Bathsheba's sugar, tea, and drapery par-
cels being packed behind, and expressing in some indescribable manner, by
their colour, shape, and general lineaments, that they were that young
lady-farmer's property, and the grocer's and draper's no more.
　　　“I've been through it, Liddy, and it is over. I shan't mind it again, for
they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there; but this morning
it was as bad as being married--eyes everywhere!”
　　　“I knowed it would be,” Liddy said. “Men be such a terrible class of
society to look at a body.”
　　　“But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time
upon me.” The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for
a moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued. “A very good-looking
man,” she continued, “upright; about forty, I should think. Do you know
at all who he could be?”
　　　Liddy couldn't think.
　　　“Can't you guess at all?” said Bathsheba with some disappointment.
　　　“I haven't a notion; besides, 'tis no difference, since he took
less notice of you than any of the rest. Now, if he'd taken more, it
would have mattered a great deal.”
　　　Bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and
they bowled along in silence. A low carriage, bowling along still more
rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed them.
　　　“Why, there he is!” she said.
　　　Liddy looked. “That! That's Farmer Boldwood--of course 'tis--the
man you couldn't see the other day when he called.”
　　　“Oh, Farmer Boldwood,” murmured Bathsheba, and looked at him as
he outstripped them. The farmer had never turned his head once, but with
eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as uncon-
sciously and abstractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms were thin air.
　　　“He's an interesting man--don't you think so?” she remarked.
　　　“O yes, very. Everybody owns it,” replied Liddy.
　　　“I wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so
far away from all he sees around him.”
　　　“It is said--but not known for certain--that he met with some bit-
ter disappointment when he was a young man and merry. A woman jilted him,
they say.”
　　　“People always say that--and we know very well women scarcely ever
jilt men; 'tis the men who jilt us. I expect it is simply his nature to be so
reserved.”
　　　“Simply his nature--I expect so, miss--nothing else in the world.”
　　　“Still, 'tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly,
poor thing'! Perhaps, after all, he has!”
　　　“Depend upon it he has. Oh yes, miss, he has! I feel he must have.”
　　　“However, we are very apt to think extremes of people. I shouldn't
wonder after all if it wasn't a little of both--just between the two--
rather cruell used and rather reserved.”
　　　“Oh dear no, miss--I can't think it between the two!”
　　　“That's most likely.”
　　　“Well, yes, so it is. I am convinced it is most likely. You may take
my word, miss, that that's what's the matter with him.”








　　　It was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of Feb-
ruary. Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better companion, had
asked Liddy to come and sit with her. The mouldy pile was dreary in win-
ter-time before the candles were lighted and the shutters closed; the
atmosphere of the place seemed as old as the walls; every nook behind
the furniture had a temperature of its own, for the fire was not kind-
led in this part of the house early in the day; and Bathsheba's new pi-
ano, which was an old one in other annals, looked particularly sloping
and out of level on the warped floor before night threw a shade over
its less prominent angles and hid the unpleasantness. Liddy, like a
little brook, though shallow, was always rippling; her presence had
not so much weight as to task thought, and yet enough to exercise it.
　　　On the table lay an old quarto Bible, bound in leather. Liddy
looking at it said,--
　　　“Did you ever find out, miss, who you are going to marry by
means of the Bible and key?”
　　　“Don't be so foolish, Liddy. As if such things could be.”
　　　“Well, there's a good deal in it, all the same.”
　　　“Nonsense, child.”
　　　“And it makes your heart beat fearful. Some believe in it; some
don't; I do.”
　　　“Very well, let's try it,” said Bathsheba, bounding from her
seat with that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged
in towards a dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination
at once. “Go and get the front door key.”
　　　Liddy fetched it. “I wish it wasn't Sunday,” she said, on returning.
“Perhaps 'tis wrong.”
　　　“What's right week days is right Sundays,” replied her mistress
in a tone which was a proof in itself.
　　　The book was opened--the leaves, drab with age, being quite
worn away at much-read verses by the forefingers of unpractised read-
ers in former days, where they were moved along under the line as an
aid to the vision. The special verse in the Book of Ruth was sought
out by Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye. They slightly
thrilled and abashed her. It was Wisdom in the abstract facing Folly
in the concrete. Folly in the concrete blushed, persisted in her in-
tention, and placed the key on the book. A rusty patch immediately
upon the verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance
thereon, told that this was not the first time the old volume had
been used for the purpose.
　　　“Now keep steady, and be silent,” said Bathsheba.
　　　The verse was repeated; the book turned round; Bathsheba blush-
ed guiltily.
　　　“Who did you try?” said Liddy curiously.
　　　“I shall not tell you.”
　　　“Did you notice Mr. Boldwood's doings in church this morn-
ing, miss?”Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her
thoughts had taken.
　　　“No, indeed,” said Bathsheba, with serene indifference.
　　　“His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss.”
　　　“I know it.”
　　　“And you did not see his goings on!”
　　　“Certainly I did not, I tell you.”
　　　Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisive-
ly.
　　　This move was unexpected, and proportionately disconcerting.
“What did he do?” Bathsheba said perforce.
　　　“Didn't turn his head to look at you once all the service.”
　　　“Why should he?” again demanded her mistress, wearing a net-
tled look. “I didn't ask him to.”
　　　“Oh no. But everybody else was noticing you; and it was odd
he didn't. There, 'tis like him. Rich and gentlemanly, what does he
care?”
　　　Bathsheba dropped into a silence intended to express that she
had opinions on the matter too abstruse for Liddy's comprehension,
rather than that she had nothing to say.
　　　“Dear me--I had nearly forgotten the valentine I bought yes-
terday,” she exclaimed at length.
　　　“Valentine! who for, miss?” said Liddy. “Farmer Boldwood?”
　　　It was the single name among all possible wrong ones that just
at this moment seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right.
　　　“Well, no. It is only for little Teddy Coggan. I have promis-
ed him something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him. Liddy,
you may as well bring me my desk and I'll direct it at once.”
　　　Bathsheba took from her desk a gorgeously illuminated and em-
bossed design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous
market-day at the chief stationer's in Casterbridge. In the centre
was a small oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender
might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion
than any generalities by a printer could possibly be.
　　　“Here's a place for writing,” said Bathsheba. “What shall
I put?”
　　　“Something of this sort, I should think,” returned Liddy
promptly:--

“The rose is red,
The violet blue,
Carnation's sweet,
And so are you.”

　　　“Yes, that shall be it. It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child
like him,” said Bathsheba. She inserted the words in a small though
legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped
her pen for the direction.
　　　“What fun it would be to send it to the stupid old Boldwood, and
how he would wonder!” said the irrepressible Liddy, lifting her eye-
brows, and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she
thought of the moral and social magnitude of the man contemplated.
　　　Bathsheba paused to regard the idea at full length. Boldwood's
had begun to be a troublesome image -- a species of Daniel in her
kingdom who persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and common
sense said that he might just as well follow suit with the rest, and af-
ford her the official glance of admiration which cost nothing at all.
She was far from being seriously concerned about his nonconformity.
Still, it was faintly depressing that the most dignified and valuable
man in the parish should withhold his eyes, and that a girl like Liddy
should talk about it. So Liddy's idea was at first rather harassing than
piquant.
　　　“No, I won't do that. He wouldn't see any humour in it.”
　　　“He'd worry to death,” said the persistent Liddy.
　　　“Really, I don't care particularly to send it to Teddy,” remarked
her mistress. “He's rather a naughty child sometimes.”
　　　“Yes--that he is.”
　　　“Let's toss as men do,” said Bathsheba, idly. “Now then, head,
Boldwood; tail, Teddy. No, we won't toss money on a Sunday, that
would be tempting the devil indeed.”
　　　“Toss this hymn-book; there can't be no sinfulness in that,
miss.”
　　　“Very well. Open, Boldwood--shut, Teddy. No; it's more likely
to fall open. Open, Teddy--shut, Boldwood.”
　　　The book went fluttering in the air and came down shut.
　　　Bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took the pen, and with
off-hand serenity directed the missive to Boldwood.
　　　“Now light a candle, Liddy. Which seal shall we use? Here's a
unicorn's head--there's nothing in that. What's this?--two doves--
no. It ought to be something extraordinary, ought it not, Liddy?
Here's one with a motto--I remember it is some funny one, but I
can't read it. We'll try this, and if it doesn't do we'll have an-
other.”
　　　A large red seal was duly affixed. Bathsheba looked closely at
the hot wax to discover the words.
　　　“Capital!” she exclaimed, throwing down the letter frolic-
somely. “'Twould upset the solemnity of a parson and clerke too.”
　　　Liddy looked at the words of the seal, and read--


　　　　　　　　　“MARRY ME.”


　　　The same evening the letter was sent, and was duly sorted in
Casterbridge post-office that night, to be returned to Weatherbury
again in the morning.
　　　So very idly and unreflectingly was this deed done. Of love as
a spectacle Bathsheba had a fair knowledge; but of love subjectively
she knew nothing.








　　　At dusk, on the evening of St. Valentine's Day, Boldwood sat
down to supper as usual, by a beaming fire of aged logs. Upon the
mantel-shelf before him was a time-piece, surmounted by a spread ea-
gle, and upon the eagle's wings was the letter Bathsheba had sent.
Here the bachelor's gaze was continually fastening itself, till the large
red seal became as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye; and as
he ate and drank he still read in fancy the words thereon, although
they were too remote for his sight --


　　　　　　　　　“MARRY ME.”


　　　The pert injunction was like those crystal substances which,
colourless themselves, assume the tone of objects about them.
Here, in the quiet of Boldwood's parlour, where everything that was
not grave was extraneous, and where the atmosphere was that of a
Puritan Sunday lasting all the week, the letter and its dictum changed
their tenor from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep sol-
emnity, imbibed from their accessories now.
　　　Since the receipt of the missive in the morning, Boldwood had
felt the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in
the direction of an ideal passion. The disturbance was as the first
floating weed to Columbus -- the contemptibly little suggesting pos-
sibilities of the infinitely great.
　　　The letter must have had an origin and a motive. That the lat-
ter was of the smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at
all, Boldwood, of course, did not know. And such an explanation did
not strike him as a possibility even. It is foreign to a mystified
condition of mind to realize of the mystifier that the processes of
approving a course suggested by circumstance, and of striking out a
course from inner impulse, would look the same in the result. The vast
difference between starting a train of events, and directing into a
particular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent to the
person confounded by the issue.
　　　When Boldwood went to bed he placed the valentine in the corner
of the looking-glass. He was conscious of its presence, even when his
back was turned upon it. It was the first time in Boldwood's life that
such an event had occurred. The same fascination that caused him
to think it an act which had a deliberate motive prevented him from
regarding it as an impertinence. He looked again at the direction.
The mysterious influences of night invested the writing with the
presence of the unknown writer. Somebody's -- some woman's --
hand had travelled softly over the paper bearing his name; her un-
revealed eyes had watched every curve as she formed it; her brain
had seen him in imagination the while. Why should she have imagined
him? Her mouth -- were the lips red or pale, plump or creased? --
had curved itself to a certain expression as the pen went on -- the
corners had moved with all their natural tremulousness: what had
been the expression?
　　　The vision of the woman writing, as a supplement to the words
written, had no individuality. She was a misty shape, and well she
might be, considering that her original was at that moment sound
asleep and oblivious of all love and letter-writing under the sky.
Whenever Boldwood dozed she took a form, and comparatively
ceased to be a vision: when he awoke there was the letter justify-
ing the dream.
　　　The moon shone to-night, and its light was not of a customary
kind. His window admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale
sheen had that reversed direction which snow gives, coming upward
and lighting up his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in
strange places, and putting lights where shadows had used to be.
　　　The substance of the epistle had occupied him but little in
comparison with the fact of its arrival. He suddenly wondered if an-
ything more might be found in the envelope than what he had withdrawn.
He jumped out of bed in the weird light, took the letter, pulled out
the flimsy sheet, shook the envelope--searched it. Nothing more was
there. Boldwood looked, as he had a hundred times the preceding day,
at the insistent red seal: "Marry me," he said aloud.
　　　The solemn and reserved yeoman again closed the letter, and
stuck it in the frame of the glass. In doing so he caught sight of his
reflected features, wan in expression, and insubstantial in form. He
saw how closely compressed was his mouth, and that his eyes were
wide-spread and vacant. Feeling uneasy and dissatisfied with himself
for this nervous excitability, he returned to bed.
　　　Then the dawn drew on. The full power of the clear heaven was
not equal to that of a cloudy sky at noon, when Boldwood arose and
dressed himself. He descended the stairs and went out towards the gate
of a field to the east, leaning over which he paused and looked around.
　　　It was one of the usual slow sunrises of this time of the year,
and the sky, pure violet in the zenith, was leaden to the northward,
and murky to the east, where, over the snowy down or ewe-lease on Wea-
therbury Upper Farm, and apparently resting upon the ridge, the only
half of the sun yet visible burnt rayless, like a red and flameless
fire shining over a white hearthstone. The whole effect resembled a
sunset as childhood resembles age.
　　　In other directions, the fields and sky were so much of one co-
lour by the snow, that it was difficult in a hasty glance to tell
whereabouts the horizon occurred; and in general there was here, too,
that before-mentioned preternatural inversion of light and shade
which attends the prospect when the garish brightness commonly in
the sky is found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the
sky. Over the west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yel-
low, like tarnished brass.
　　　Boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened and
glazed the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light
with the polish of marble; how, in some portions of the slope, withered
grass-bents, encased in icicles, bristled through the smooth wan cov-
erlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old Venetian glass; and how
the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow whilst
it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a short per-
manency. A half-muffled noise of light wheels interrupted him. Bold-
wood turned back into the road. It was the mail-cart--a crazy, two-
wheeled vehicle, hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of wind. The
driver held out a letter. Boldwood seized it and opened it, expect-
ing another anonymous one--so greatly are people's ideas of proba-
bility a mere sense that precedent will repeat itself.
　　　“I don't think it is for you, sir,” said the man, when he saw Bold-
wood's action. “Though there is no name, I think it is for your shep-
herd.”
　　　Boldwood looked then at the address--

　　　 　　　To the New Shepherd,
　　　 　　　Weatherbury Farm,
　　　 　　　Near Casterbridge

　　　“Oh--what a mistake!--it is not mine. Nor is it for my shep-
herd. It is for Miss Everdene's. You had better take it on to him--
Gabriel Oak--and say I opened it in mistake.”
　　　At this moment, on the ridge, up against the blazing sky, a fig-
ure was visible, like the black snuff in the midst of a candle-flame.
Then it moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to
place, carrying square skeleton masses, which were riddled by the
same rays. A small figure on all fours followed behind. The tall form
was that of Gabriel Oak; the small one that of George; the articles
in course of transit were hurdles.
　　　“Wait,” said Boldwood. “That's the man on the hill. I'll
take the letter to him myself.”
　　　To Boldwood it was now no longer merely a letter to another man.
It was an opportunity. Exhibiting a face pregnant with intention, he
entered the snowy field.
　　　Gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right.
The glow stretched down in this direction now, and touched the dis-
tant roof of Warren's Malthouse--whither the shepherd was apparent-
ly bent: Boldwood followed at a distance.








　　　The scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse did not pen-
etrate to its interior, which was, as usual, lighted by a rival glow
of similar hue, radiating from the hearth.
　　　The maltster, after having lain down in his clothes for a few
hours, was now sitting beside a three-legged table, breakfasting off
bread and bacon. This was eaten on the plateless system, which is per-
formed by placing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flat upon
the bread, a mustard plaster upon the meat, and a pinch of salt upon
the whole, then cutting them vertically downwards with a large pock-
et-knife till wood is reached, when the severed lump is impaled on
the knife, elevated, and sent the proper way of food.
　　　The maltster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminish his
powers as a mill. He had been without them for so many years that
toothlessness was felt less to be a defect than hard gums an acqui-
sition. Indeed, he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperbolic
curve approaches a straight line -- less directly as he got nearer, till
it was doubtful if he would ever reach it at all.
　　　In the ashpit was a heap of potatoes roasting, and a boiling
pipkin of charred bread, called “coffee”, for the benefit of whom-
soever should call, for Warren's was a sort of clubhouse, used as an
alternative to the inn.
　　　“I say, says I, we get a fine day, and then down comes a snap-
per at night,” was a remark now suddenly heard spreading into the
malthouse from the door, which had been opened the previous moment.
The form of Henery Fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from
his boots when about half-way there. The speech and entry had not
seemed to be at all an abrupt beginning to the maltster, introductory
matter being often omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and
deed, and the maltster having the same latitude allowed him, did not
hurry to reply. He picked up a fragment of cheese, by pecking upon
it with his knife, as a butcher picks up skewers.
　　　Henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat, buttoned over
his smock-frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to the
distance of about a foot below the coat-tails, which, when you got
used to the style of dress, looked natural enough, and even ornament-
al--it certainly was comfortable.
　　　Matthew Moon, Joseph Poorgrass, and other carters and waggon-
ers followed at his heels, with great lanterns dangling from their
hands, which showed that they had just come from the cart-horse
stables, where they had been busily engaged since four o'clock that
morning.
　　　"And how is she getting on without a baily?" the maltster in-
quired. Henery shook his head, and smiled one of the bitter smiles,
dragging all the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the
centre.
　　　"She'll rue it -- surely, surely!" he said "Benjy Pennyways
were not a true man or an honest baily -- as big a betrayer as Joey
Iscariot himself. But to think she can carr' on alone!" He allowed
his head to swing laterally three or four times in silence. "Never in
all my creeping up -- never!"
　　　This was recognized by all as the conclusion of some gloomy
speech which had been expressed in thought alone during the
shake of the head; Henery meanwhile retained several marks of
despair upon his face, to imply that they would be required
for use again directly he should go on speaking.
　　　"All will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there's no meat in
gentlemen's houses!" said Mark Clark.
　　　"A headstrong maid, that's what she is -- and won't listen
to no advice at all. Pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler's
dog. Dear, dear, when I think o' it, I sorrows like a man in travel!"
　　　"True, Henery, you do, I've heard ye," said Joseph Poorgrass
in a voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn
smile of misery.
　　　"'Twould do a martel man no harm to have what's under her
bonnet," said Billy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one
tooth before him. "She can spaik real language, and must have some
sense somewhere. Do ye foller me?"
　　　"I do, I do; but no baily -- I deserved that place," wailed
Henery, signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions
of a high destiny apparently visible to him on Billy Smallbury's
smock-frock.
　　　“There, 'twas to be, I suppose. Your lot is your lot, and
Scripture is nothing; for if you do good you don't get rewarded ac-
cording to your works, but be cheated in some mean way out of your
recompense.”
　　　“No, no; I don't agree with'ee there,” said Mark Clark. “God's
a perfect gentleman in that respect.”
　　　“Good works good pay, so to speak it,” attested Joseph
Poorgrass.
　　　A short pause ensued, and as a sort of entr'acte Henery turn-
ed and blew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rend-
ered no longer necessary even in the malthouse, with its one pane
of glass.
　　　“I wonder what a farmer-woman can want with a harpsichord,
dulcimer, pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'call it?” said the malt-
ster. “Liddy saith she've a new one.”
　　　“Got a pianner?”
　　　“Ay. Seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for
her. She've bought all but everything new. There's heavy chairs for
the stout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, gett-
ing on to the size of clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece.”
　　　“Pictures, for the most part wonderful frames.”
　　　“And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair
pillows at each end,” said Mr. Clark. “Likewise looking-glasses
for the pretty, and lying books for the wicked.”
　　　A firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door
was opened about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaim-
ed--
　　　“Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?”
　　　“Ay, sure, shepherd,” said the conclave.
　　　The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled
from top to bottom with the blow. Mr. Oak appeared in the entry with
a steaming face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the
snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and
looking altogether an epitome of the world's health and vigour. Four
lambs hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and
the dog George, whom Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe,
stalked solemnly behind.
　　　“Well, Shepherd Oak, and how's lambing this year, if I mid say
it?” inquired Joseph Poorgrass.
　　　“Terrible trying,” said Oak. “I've been wet through twice a-
day, either in snow or rain, this last fortnight. Cainy and I haven't
tined our eyes to-night.”
　　　“A good few twins, too, I hear?”
　　　“Too many by half. Yes; 'tis a very queer lambing this year.
We shan't have done by Lady Day.”
　　　“And last year 'twer all over by Sexajessamine Sunday,” Jos-
eph remarked.
　　　“Bring on the rest Cain,” said Gabriel, “and then run back
to the ewes. I'll follow you soon.”
　　　Cainy Ball--a cheery-faced young lad, with a small circular or-
ifice by way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired
as he was bidden. Oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation,
wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the fire.
　　　“We've no lambing-hut here, as I used to have at Norcombe,”
said Gabriel, “and 'tis such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a
house. If 'twasn't for your place here, malter, I don't know what I
should do i' this keen weather. And how is it with you to-day, malter?”
　　　“Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd; but no younger.”
　　　“Ay--I understand.”
　　　“Sit down, Shepherd Oak,” continued the ancient man of malt.
“And how was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog? I
should like to see the old familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn't know
a soul there now.”
　　　“I suppose you wouldn't. 'Tis altered very much.”
　　　“Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down?”
　　　“Oh yes--years ago, and Dicky's cottage just above it.”
　　　“Well, to be sure!”
　　　“Yes; and Tompkins's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear
two hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees.”
　　　“Rooted?--you don't say it! Ah! stirring times we live in--stir-
ring times.”
　　　“And you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of
the place? That's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone
trough, and all complete.”
　　　“Dear, dear--how the face of nations alter, and what we live
to see nowadays! Yes--and 'tis the same here. They've been talking
but now of the mis'ess's strange doings.”
　　　“What have you been saying about her?” inquired Oak, sharply
turning to the rest, and getting very warm.
　　　“These middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for
pride and vanity,” said Mark Clark; “but I say, let her have rope e-
nough. Bless her pretty face--shouldn't I like to do so--upon her cher-
ry lips!” The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well known
sound with his own.
　　　“Mark,” said Gabriel, sternly, “now you mind this! none of
that dalliance-talk--that smack-and-coddle style of yours--about Miss
Everdene. I don't allow it. Do you hear?”
　　　“With all my heart, as I've got no chance,” replied Mr. Clark,
cordially.
　　　“I suppose you've been speaking against her?” said Oak, turn-
ing to Joseph Poorgrass with a very grim look.
　　　“No, no--not a word I--'tis a real joyful thing that she's no
worse, that's what I say,” said Joseph, trembling and blushing with
terror. “Matthew just said--”
　　　“Matthew Moon, what have you been saying?” asked Oak.
　　　“I? Why ye know I wouldn't harm a worm--no, not one underground
worm?” said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy.
　　　“Well, somebody has--and look here, neighbours,” Gabriel,
though one of the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the
occasion, with martial promptness and vigour. “That's my fist.” Here
he placed his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the
mathematical centre of the maltster's little table, and with it gave a
bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly
took in the idea of fistiness before he went further. “Now--the first
man in the parish that I hear prophesying bad of our mistress, why”
(here the fist was raised and let fall as Thor might have done with his
hammer in assaying it)--“he'll smell and taste that--or I'm a Dutchman.”
　　　All earnestly expressed by their features that their minds did
not wander to Holland for a moment on account of this statement, but
were deploring the difference which gave rise to the figure; and Mark
Clark cried “Hear, hear; just what I should ha' said.” The dog George
looked up at the same time after the shepherd's menace, and though he
understood English but imperfectly, began to growl.
　　　“Now, don't ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!” said Hene-
ry, with a deprecating peacefulness equal to anything of the kind in
Christianity.
　　　“We hear that ye be a extraordinary good and clever man, shep-
herd,” said Joseph Poorgrass with considerable anxiety from behind the
maltster's bedstead, whither he had retired for safety. “'Tis a great
thing to be clever, I'm sure,” he added, making movements associated
with states of mind rather than body; “we wish we were, don't we,
neighbours?”
　　　“Ay, that we do, sure,” said Matthew Moon, with a small anxious
laugh towards Oak, to show how very friendly disposed he was likewise.
　　　“Who's been telling you I'm clever?” said Oak.
　　　“'Tis blowed about from pillar to post quite common,” said Mat-
thew. “We hear that ye can tell the time as well by the stars as we
can by the sun and moon, shepherd.”
　　　“Yes, I can do a little that way,” said Gabriel, as a man of
medium sentiments on the subject.
　　　“And that ye can make sun-dials, and prent folks' names upon
their waggons almost like copper-plate, with beautiful flourishes, and
great long tails. A excellent fine thing for ye to be such a clever
man, shepherd. Joseph Poorgrass used to prent to Farmer James Ever-
dene's waggons before you came, and 'a could never mind which way to
turn the J's and E's--could ye, Joseph?” Joseph shook his head to ex-
press how absolute was the fact that he couldn't. “And so you used to
do 'em the wrong way, like this, didn't ye, Joseph?” Matthew marked
on the dusty floor with his whip-handle

[the word J A M E S appears here with the "J" and "E"
printed as mirror images]

　　　"And how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn't
he, Joseph, when 'a seed his name looking so inside-out-like?" con-
tinued Matthew Moon with feeling.
　　　"Ay -- 'a would," said Joseph, meekly. "But, you see, I wasn't
so much to blame, for them J's and E's be such trying sons o' witch-
es for the memory to mind whether they face backward or forward;
and I always had such a forgetful memory, too."
　　　"'Tis a very bad affliction for ye, being such a man of calamities
in other ways."
　　　“Well, 'tis; but a happy Providence ordered that it should be
no worse, and I feel my thanks. As to shepherd, there, I'm sure mis'
ess ought to have made ye her baily--such a fitting man for't as you
be.”
　　　“I don't mind owning that I expected it,” said Oak, frankly. “In-
deed, I hoped for the place. At the same time, Miss Everdene has
a right to be her own baily if she choose--and to keep me down to be
a common shepherd only.” Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly into
the bright ashpit, and seemed lost in thoughts not of the most hopeful
hue.
　　The genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulate the nearly
lifeless lambs to bleat and move their limbs briskly upon the hay,
and to recognize for the first time the fact that they were born.
Their noise increased to a chorus of baas, upon which Oak pulled the
milk-can from before the fire, and taking a small tea-pot from the
pocket of his smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those of
the helpless creatures which were not to be restored to their dams
how to drink from the spout--a trick they acquired with astonishing
aptitude.
　　　“And she don't even let ye have the skins of the dead lambs,
I hear?” resumed Joseph Poorgrass, his eyes lingering on the oper-
ations of Oak with the necessary melancholy.
　　　“I don't have them,” said Gabriel.
　　　“Ye be very badly used, shepherd,” hazarded Joseph again,
in the hope of getting Oak as an ally in lamentation after all. “I
think she's took against ye--that I do.”
　　　“Oh no--not at all,” replied Gabriel, hastily, and a sigh es-
caped him, which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have
caused.
　　　Before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the
door, and Boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod
of a quality between friendliness and condescension.
　　　“Ah! Oak, I thought you were here,” he said. “I met the
mail-cart ten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which
I opened without reading the address. I believe it is yours. You
must excuse the accident please.”
　　　“Oh yes--not a bit of difference, Mr. Boldwood--not a bit,”
said Gabriel, readily. He had not a correspondent on earth, nor
was there a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole
parish would not have been welcome to peruse.
　　　Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand:--

　　　　　　DEAR FRIEND,--I do not know your name, but I think
　　　　　　these few lines will reach you, which I wrote to thank
　　　　　　you for your kindness to me the night I left Weather-
　　　　　　bury in a reckless way. I also return the money I owe
　　　　　　you, which you will excuse my not keeping as a gift.
　　　　　　All has ended well, and I am happy to say I am going
　　　　　　to be married to the young man who has courted me for
　　　　　　some time--Sergeant Troy, of the 11th Dragoon Guards,
　　　　　　now quartered in this town. He would, I know, object
　　　　　　to my having received anything except as a loan, being
　　　　　　a man of great respectability and high honour--indeed,
　　　　　　a nobleman by blood.
　　　　　　　　 I should be much obliged to you if you would keep
　　　　　　the contents of this letter a secret for the present,
　　　　　　dear friend. We mean to surprise Weatherbury by coming
　　　　　　there soon as husband and wife, though I blush to state
　　　　　　it to one nearly a stranger. The sergeant grew up in
　　　　　　Weatherbury. Thanking you again for your kindness,

　　　　　　　　　　　　I am, your sincere well-wisher,
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　FANNY ROBIN.

　　　“Have you read it, Mr. Boldwood?” said Gabriel; “if not,
you had better do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin.”
　　　Boldwood read the letter and looked grieved.
　　　“Fanny--poor Fanny! the end she is so confident of has not
yet come, she should remember--and may never come. I see she
gives no address.”
　　　“What sort of a man is this Sergeant Troy?” said Gabriel.
　　　“H'm--I'm afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a
case as this,” the farmer murmured, “though he's a clever fellow,
and up to everything. A slight romance attaches to him, too. His
mother was a French governess, and it seems that a secret attachment
existed between her and the late Lord Severn. She was married to a
poor medical man, and soon after an infant was born; and while money
was forthcoming all went on well. Unfortunately for her boy, his
best friends died; and he got then a situation as second clerk at a
lawyer's in Casterbridge. He stayed there for some time, and might
have worked himself into a dignified position of some sort had he
not indulged in the wild freak of enlisting. I have much doubt if
ever little Fanny will surprise us in the way she mentions--very
much doubt. A silly girl!--silly girl!”
　　　The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running
Cainy Ball out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of
a penny trumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great
distension of face.
　　　“Now, Cain Ball,” said Oak, sternly, “why will you run so fast
and lose your breath so? I'm always telling you of it.”
　　　“Oh--I--a puff of mee breath--went--the--wrong way, please,
Mister Oak, and made me cough--hok--hok!”
　　　“Well--what have you come for?”
　　　“I've run to tell ye,” said the junior shepherd, supporting
his exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost, “that you must
come directly. Two more ewes have twinned--that's what's the matter,
Shepherd Oak.”
　　　“Oh, that's it,” said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the
present his thoughts on poor Fanny. “You are a good boy to run and
tell me, Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as
a treat. But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll mark
this lot and have done with 'em.”
　　　Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped
it into the pot, and imprinted on the buttocks of the infant sheep
the initials of her he delighted to muse on--“B. E.,” which sign-
ified to all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to
Farmer Bathsheba Everdene, and to no one else.
　　　“Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off. Good morning, Mr.
Boldwood.” The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small
bodies he had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direct-
ion of the lambing field hard by--their frames being now in a sleek
and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door
plight of half an hour before.
　　　Boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated,
and turned back. He followed him again with a last resolve, annihil-
ating return. On approaching the nook in which the fold was construct-
ed, the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, and allowed
it to lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed--Bathsheba's.
　　　“I was going to ask you, Oak,” he said, with unreal careless-
ness, “if you know whose writing this is?”
　　　Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flush-
ed face, “Miss Everdene's.”
　　　Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her
name. He now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought.
The letter could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry
would not have been necessary.
　　　Boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive persons are always
ready with their “Is it I?” in preference to objective reasoning.
　　　“The question was perfectly fair,” he returned--and there was
something incongruous in the serious earnestness with which he ap-
plied himself to an argument on a valentine. “You know it is always
expected that privy inquiries will be made: that's where the--fun
lies.” If the word “fun” had been “torture,” it could not have
been uttered with a more constrained and restless countenance than
was Boldwood's then.
　　　Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reserved man return-
ed to his house to breakfast--feeling twinges of shame and regret at
having so far exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a strang-
er. He again placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to
think of the circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel's in-
formation.








　　　On a week-day morning a small congregation, consisting mainly of
women and girls, rose from its knees in the mouldy nave of a church
called All Saints', in the distant barrack-town before-mentioned, at
the end of a service without a sermon. They were about to disperse, when
a smart footstep, entering the porch and coming up the central passage,
arrested their attention. The step echoed with a ring unusual in a
church; it was the clink of spurs. Everybody looked. A young cavalry
soldier in a red uniform, with the three chevrons of a sergeant upon
his sleeve, strode up the aisle, with an embarrassment which was only
the more marked by the intense vigour of his step, and by the determi-
nation upon his face to show none. A slight flush had mounted his cheek
by the time he had run the gauntlet between these women; but, passing
on through the chancel arch, he never paused till he came close to the
altar railing. Here for a moment he stood alone.
　　　The officiating curate, who had not yet doffed his surplice, per-
ceived the new-comer, and followed him to the communion-space. He
whispered to the soldier, and then beckoned to the clerk, who in his turn
whispered to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they also went
up the chancel steps.
　　　“'Tis a wedding!” murmured some of the women, brightening.
“Let's wait!”
　　　The majority again sat down.
　　　There was a creaking of machinery behind, and some of the young
ones turned their heads. From the interior face of the west wall of the
tower projected a little canopy with a quarter-jack and small bell be-
neath it, the automaton being driven by the same clock machinery that
struck the large bell in the tower. Between the tower and the church
was a close screen, the door of which was kept shut during services,
hiding this grotesque clockwork from sight. At present, however, the
door was open, and the egress of the jack, the blows on the bell, and
the mannikin's retreat into the nook again, were visible to many, and
audible throughout the church.
　　　The jack had struck half-past eleven.
　　　“Where's the woman?” whispered some of the spectators.
　　　The young sergeant stood still with the abnormal rigidity of the
old pillars around. He faced the south-east, and was as silent as he
was still.
　　　The silence grew to be a noticeable thing as the minutes went
on, and nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved. The rattle of the
quarter-jack again from its niche, its blows for three-quarters, its
fussy retreat, were almost painfully abrupt, and caused many of the
congregation to start palpably.
　　　“I wonder where the woman is!” a voice whispered again.
　　　There began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial
coughing among several, which betrays a nervous suspense. At length
there was a titter. But the soldier never moved. There he stood, his
face to the south-east, upright as a column, his cap in his hand.
　　　The clock ticked on. The women threw off their nervousness, and
titters and giggling became more frequent. Then came a dead silence.
Every one was waiting for the end. Some persons may have noticed
how extraordinarily the striking of quarters. seems to quicken the flight
of time. It was hardly credible that the jack had not got wrong with the
minutes when the rattle began again, the puppet emerged, and the four
quarters were struck fitfully as before: One could almost be positive
that there was a malicious leer upon the hideous creature's face, and
a mischievous delight in its twitchings. Then, followed the dull and re-
mote resonance of the twelve heavy strokes in the tower above.The
women were impressed, and there was no giggle this time.
　　　The clergyman glided into the vestry, and the clerk vanished. The
sergeant had not yet turned; every woman in the church was wait-
ing to see his face, and he appeared to know it. At last he did turn,
and stalked resolutely down the nave, braving them all, with a com-
pressed lip. Two bowed and toothless old almsmen then looked at each
other and chuckled, innocently enough; but the sound had a strange
weird effect in that place.
　　　Opposite to the church was a paved square, around which sev-
eral overhanging wood buildings of old time cast a picturesque shade.
The young man on leaving the door went to cross the square, when,
in the middle, he met a little woman. The expression of her face,
which had been one of intense anxiety, sank at the sight of his
nearly to terror.
　　　“Well?” he said, in a suppressed passion, fixedly looking at her.
　　　“Oh, Frank--I made a mistake!--I thought that church with the
spire was All Saints', and I was at the door at half-past eleven
to a minute as you said. I waited till a quarter to twelve, and
found then that I was in All Souls'. But I wasn't much frighten-
ed, for I thought it could be to-morrow as well.”
　　　“You fool, for so fooling me! But say no more.”
　　　“Shall it be to-morrow, Frank?” she asked blankly.
　　　“To-morrow!” and he gave vent to a hoarse laugh. “I don't
go through that experience again for some time, I warrant you!”
　　　“But after all,” she expostulated in a trembling voice, “the
mistake was not such a terrible thing! Now, dear Frank,
when shall it be?”
　　　“Ah, when? God knows!” he said, with a light irony, and
turning from her walked rapidly away.








　　　On Saturday Boldwood was in Casterbridge market house as usual,
when the disturber of his dreams entered and became visible to him.
Adam had awakened from his deep sleep, and behold! there was Eve.
The farmer took courage, and for the first time really looked at her.
Material causes and emotional effects are not to be arranged in reg-
ular equation. The result from capital employed in the production of
any movement of a mental nature is sometimes as tremendous as
the cause itself is absurdly minute. When women are in a freakish
mood, their usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent
defect, seemingly fails to teach them this, and hence it was that
Bathsheba was fated to be astonished today.
　　　Boldwood looked at her--not slily, critically, or understand-
ingly, but blankly at gaze, in the way a reaper looks up at a passing
train--as something foreign to his element, and but dimly understood.
To Boldwood women had been remote phenomena rather than necessary
complements--comets of such uncertain aspect, movement, and perma-
nence, that whether their orbits were as geometrical, unchangeable,
and as subject to laws as his own, or as absolutely erratic as they
superficially appeared, he had not deemed it his duty to consider.
　　　He saw her black hair, her correct facial curves and profile,
and the roundness of her chin and throat. He saw then the side of
her eyelids, eyes, and lashes, and the shape of her ear. Next he
noticed her figure, her skirt, and the very soles of her shoes.
　　　Boldwood thought her beautiful, but wondered whether he was
right in his thought, for it seemed impossible that this romance in
the flesh, if so sweet as he imagined, could have been going on long
without creating a commotion of delight among men, and provoking
more inquiry than Bathsheba had done, even though that was not a
little. To the best of his judgement neither nature nor art could im-
prove this perfect one of an imperfect many. His heart began to
move within him. Boldwood, it must be remembered, though forty
years of age,had never before inspected a woman with the very
centre and force of his glance; they had struck upon all his senses
at wide angles.
　　　Was she really beautiful? He could not assure himself that his
opinion was true even now. He furtively said to a neighbour, “Is Miss
Everdene considered handsome?”
　　　“Oh yes; she was a good deal noticed the first time she came,
if you remember. A very handsome girl indeed.”
　　　A man is never more credulous than in receiving favourable opin-
ions on the beauty of a woman he is half, or quite, in love with; a
mere child's word on the point has the weight of an R.A.'s. Boldwood
was satisfied now.
　　　And this charming woman had in effect said to him, “Marry me.”
Why should she have done that strange thing? Boldwood's blindness to
the difference between approving of what circumstances suggest, and
originating what they do not suggest, was well matched by Bathsheba's
insensibility to the possibly great issues of little beginnings.
　　　She was at this moment coolly dealing with a dashing young farm-
er, adding up accounts with him as indifferently as if his face had
been the pages of a ledger. It was evident that such a nature as his
had no attraction for a woman of Bathsheba's taste. But Boldwood
grew hot down to his hands with an incipient jealousy; he trod for
the first time the threshold of "the injured lover's hell." His first
impulse was to go and thrust himself between them. This could be
done, but only in one way -- by asking to see a sample of her corn.
Boldwood renounced the idea. He could not make the request; it
was debasing loveliness to ask it to buy and sell, and jarred with
his conceptions of her.
　　　All this time Bathsheba was conscious of having broken into that
dignified stronghold at last. His eyes, she knew, were following her
everywhere. This was a triumph; and had it come naturally, such a tri-
umph would have been the sweeter to her for this piquing delay. But it
had been brought about by misdirected ingenuity, and she valued it on-
ly as she valued an artificial flower or a wax fruit.
　　　Being a woman with some good sense in reasoning on subjects
wherein her heart was not involved, Bathsheba genuinely repented that
a freak which had owed its existence as much to Liddy as to herself,
should ever have been undertaken, to disturb the placidity of a man
she respected too highly to deliberately tease.
　　　She that day nearly formed the intention of begging his pardon
on the very next occasion of their meeting. The worst features of
this arrangement were that, if he thought she ridiculed him, an apo-
logy would increase the offence by being disbelieved; and if he
thought she wanted him to woo her, it would read like additional
evidence of her forwardness.








　　　Boldwood was tenant of what was called Little Weatherbury Farm,
and his person was the nearest approach to aristocracy that this remo-
ter quarter of the parish could boast of. Genteel strangers, whose god
was their town, who might happen to be compelled to linger about this
nook for a day, heard the sound of light wheels, and prayed to see
good society, to the degree of a solitary lord, or squire at the very
least, but it was only Mr. Boldwood going out for the day. They heard
the sound of wheels yet once more, and were re-animated to ex-
pectancy: it was only Mr. Boldwood coming home again.
　　　His house stood recessed from the road, and the stables, which
are to a farm what a fireplace is to a room, were behind, their lower
portions being lost amid bushes of laurel. Inside the blue door, open
half-way down, were to be seen at this time the backs and tails of
half-a-dozen warm and contented horses standing in their stalls; and
as thus viewed, they presented alternations of roan and bay, in shapes
like a Moorish arch, the tail being a streak down the midst of each.
Over these, and lost to the eye gazing in from the outer light, the
mouths of the same animals could be heard busily sustaining the a-
bove-named warmth and plumpness by quantities of oats and hay.
The restless and shadowy figure of a colt wandered about a loose-
box at the end, whilst the steady grind of all the eaters was occa-
sionally diversified by the rattle of a rope or the stamp of a foot.
　　　Pacing up and down at the heels of the animals was Farmer Bold-
wood himself. This place was his almonry and cloister in one: here,
after looking to the feeding of his four-footed dependants, the celi-
bate would walk and meditate of an evening till the moon's rays
streamed in through the cobwebbed windows, or total darkness en-
veloped the scene.
　　　His square-framed perpendicularity showed more fully now than
in the crowd and bustle of the market-house. In this meditative walk
his foot met the floor with heel and toe simultaneously, and his fine
reddish-fleshed face was bent downwards just enough to render ob-
scure the still mouth and the well-rounded though rather prominent
and broad chin. A few clear and thread-like horizontal lines were
the only interruption to the otherwise smooth surface of his large
forehead.
　　　The phases of Boldwood's life were ordinary enough, but his
was not an ordinary nature. That stillness, which struck casual
observers more than anything else in his character and habit,
and seemed so precisely like the rest of inanition, may have
been the perfect balance of enormous antagonistic forces --
positives and negatives in fine adjustment. His equilibrium dis-
turbed, he was in extremity at once. If an emotion possessed
him at all, it ruled him; a feeling not mastering him was entirely
latent. Stagnant or rapid, it was never slow. He was always hit
mortally, or he was missed.
　　　He had no light and careless touches in his constitution, ei-
ther for good or for evil. Stern in the outlines of action, mild in
the details, he was serious throughout all. He saw no absurd sides
to the follies of life, and thus, though not quite companionable
in the eyes of merry men and scoffers, and those to whom all
things show life as a jest, he was not intolerable to the earnest
and those acquainted with grief. Being a man-who read all the dramas
of life seriously, if he failed to please when they were comedies,
there was no frivolous treatment to reproach him for when they
chanced to end tragically.
　　　Bathsheba was far from dreaming that the dark and silent shape
upon which she had so carelessly thrown a seed was a hotbed of
tropic intensity. Had she known Boldwood's moods, her blame would
have been fearful, and the stain upon her heart ineradicable. Moreover,
had she known her present power for good or evil over this man, she
would have trembled at her responsibility. Luckily for her present,
unluckily for her future tranquillity, her understanding had not yet
told her what Boldwood was. Nobody knew entirely; for though it
was possible to form guesses concerning his wild capabilities from
old floodmarks faintly visible, he had never been seen at the high
tides which caused them.
　　　Farmer Boldwood came to the stable-door and looked forth a-
cross the level fields. Beyond the first enclosure was a hedge, and
on the other side of this a meadow belonging to Bathsheba's farm.
　　　It was now early spring--the time of going to grass with the
sheep, when they have the first feed of the meadows, before these
are laid up for mowing. The wind, which had been blowing east for
several weeks, had veered to the southward, and the middle of spring
had come abruptly--almost without a beginning. It was that period
in the vernal quarter when we may suppose the Dryads to be waking
for the season. The vegetable world begins to move and swell and
the saps to rise, till in the completest silence of lone gardens and
trackless plantations, where everything seems helpless and still
after the bond and slavery of frost, there are bustlings, strainings,
united thrusts, and pulls-all-together, in comparison with which
the powerful tugs of cranes and pulleys in a noisy city are but
pigmy efforts.
　　　Boldwood, looking into the distant meadows, saw there three
figures. They were those of Miss Everdene, Shepherd Oak, and
Cainy Ball.
　　　When Bathsheba's figure shone upon the farmer's eyes it light-
ed him up as the moon lights up a great tower. A man's body is as
the shell, or the tablet, of his soul, as he is reserved or ingenuous,
overflowing or self-contained. There was a change in Boldwood's
exterior from its former impassibleness; and his face showed that
he was now living outside his defences for the first time, and with
a fearful sense of exposure. It is the usual experience of strong
natures when they love.　　　At last he arrived at a conclusion. It
was to go across and inquire boldly of her.
　　　The insulation of his heart by reserve during these many years,
without a channel of any kind for disposable emotion, had worked
its effect. It has been observed more than once that the causes of
love are chiefly subjective, and Boldwood was a living testimony to
the truth of the proposition. No mother existed to absorb his devo-
tion, no sister for his tenderness, no idle ties for sense. He became
surcharged with the compound, which was genuine lover's love.
　　　He approached the gate of the meadow. Beyond it the ground
was melodious with ripples, and the sky with larks; the low bleating of
the flock mingling with both. Mistress and man were engaged in the
operation of making a lamb “take,” which is performed whenever an
ewe has lost her own offspring, one of the twins of another ewe being
given her as a substitute. Gabriel had skinned the dead lamb, and was
tying the skin over the body of the live lamb, in the customary man-
ner, whilst Bathsheba was holding open a little pen of four hurdles,
into which the mother and foisted lamb were driven, where they would
remain till the old sheep conceived an affection for the young one.
　　　Bathsheba looked up at the completion of the manœuvre and saw
the farmer by the gate, where he was overhung by a willow tree in full
bloom. Gabriel, to whom her face was as the uncertain glory of an A-
pril day, was ever regardful of its faintest changes, and instantly
discerned thereon the mark of some influence from without, in the
form of a keenly self-conscious reddening. He also turned and be-
held Boldwood.
　　　At once connecting these signs with the letter Boldwood had
shown him, Gabriel suspected her of some coquettish procedure
begun by that means, and carried on since, he knew not how.
　　　Farmer Boldwood had read the pantomime denoting that they
were aware of his presence, and the perception was as too much
light turned upon his new sensibility. He was still in the road, and
by moving on he hoped that neither would recognize that he had
originally intended to enter the field. He passed by with an utter
and overwhelming sensation of ignorance, shyness, and doubt.
Perhaps in her manner there were signs that she wished to see him
-- perhaps not -- he could not read a woman. The cabala of this
erotic philosophy seemed to consist of the subtlest meanings ex-
pressed in misleading ways. Every turn, look, word, and accent con-
tained a mystery quite distinct from its obvious import, and not one
had ever been pondered by him until now.
　　　As for Bathsheba, she was not deceived into the belief that
Farmer Boldwood had walked by on business or in idleness. She
collected the probabilities of the case, and concluded that she
was herself responsible for Boldwood's appearance there. It trou-
bled her much to see what a great flame a little wildfire was like-
ly to kindle. Bathsheba was no schemer for marriage, nor was
she deliberately a trifler with the affections of men, and a cen-
sor's experience on seeing an actual flirt after observing her
would have been a feeling of surprise that Bathsheba could be so
different from such a one, and yet so like what a flirt is supposed
to be.
　　　She resolved never again, by look or by sign, to interrupt the
steady flow of this man's life. But a resolution to avoid an evil
is seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoid-
ance impossible.








　　　Boldwood did eventually call upon her. She was not at home.
“Of course not,” he murmured. In contemplating Bathsheba as a wo-
man, he had forgotten the accidents of her position as an agricul-
turist--that being as much of a farmer, and as extensive a farmer,
as himself, her probable whereabouts was out-of-doors at this time
of the year. This, and the other oversights Boldwood was guilty
of, were natural to the mood, and still more natural to the cir-
cumstances.
　　　The great aids to idealization in love were present here:
occasional observation of her from a distance, and the absence
of social intercourse with her -- visual familiarity, oral strange-
ness. The smaller human elements were kept out of sight; the
pettinesses that enter so largely into all earthly living and doing
were disguised by the accident of lover and loved-one not being
on visiting terms; and there was hardly awakened a thought in
Boldwood that sorry household realities appertained to her, or
that she, like all others, had moments of commonplace, when to
be least plainly seen was to be most prettily remembered. Thus
a mild sort of apotheosis took place in his fancy, whilst she still
lived and breathed within his own horizon, a troubled creature
like himself.
　　　It was the end of May when the farmer determined to be no
longer repulsed by trivialities or distracted by suspense. He had by
this time grown used to being in love; the passion now startled
him less even when it tortured him more, and he felt himself ad-
equate to the situation. On inquiring for her at her house they
had told him she was at the sheep-washing, and he went off to
seek her there.
　　　The sheep-washing pool was a perfectly circular basin of
brickwork in the meadows, full of the clearest water. To birds
on the wing its glassy surface, reflecting the light sky, must
have been visible for miles around as a glistening Cyclops' eye
in a green face. The grass about the margin at this season was
a sight to remember long -- in a minor sort of way. Its activity
in sucking the moisture from the rich damp sod was almost a
process observable by the eye. The outskirts of this level water-
meadow were diversified by rounded and hollow pastures, where
just now every flower that was not a buttercup was a daisy. The
river slid along noiselessly as a shade, the swelling reeds and
sedge forming a flexible palisade upon its moist brink. To the
north of the mead were trees, the leaves of which were new, soft,
and moist, not yet having stiffened and darkened under summer sun
and drought, their colour being yellow beside a green--green beside
a yellow. From the recesses of this knot of foliage the loud notes
of three cuckoos were resounding through the still air.
　　　Boldwood went meditating down the slopes with his eyes on
his boots, which the yellow pollen from the buttercups had bronzed
in artistic gradations. A tributary of the main stream flowed
through the basin of the pool by an inlet and outlet at opposite
points of its diameter. Shepherd Oak, Jan Coggan, Moon, Poorgrass,
Cain Ball, and several others were assembled here, all dripping
wet to the very roots of their hair, and Bathsheba was standing
by in a new riding-habit--the most elegant she had ever worn--the
reins of her horse being looped over her arm. Flagons of cider
were rolling about upon the green. The meek sheep were pushed in-
to the pool by Coggan and Matthew Moon, who stood by the lower
hatch, immersed to their waists; then Gabriel, who stood on the
brink, thrust them under as they swam along, with an instrument
like a crutch, formed for the purpose, and also for assisting
the exhausted animals when the wool became saturated and they
began to sink. They were let out against the stream, and through
the upper opening, all impurities flowing away below. Cainy Ball
and Joseph, who performed this latter operation, were if possible
wetter than the rest; they resembled dolphins under a fountain,
every protuberance and angle of their clothes dribbling forth a
small rill.
　　　Boldwood came close and bade her good morning, with such con-
straint that she could not but think he had stepped across to the
washing for its own sake, hoping not to find her there; more, she
fancied his brow severe and his eye slighting. Bathsheba immediate-
ly contrived to withdraw, and glided along by the river till she
was a stone's throw off. She heard footsteps brushing the grass,
and had a consciousness that love was encircling her like a per-
fume. Instead of turning or waiting, Bathsheba went further among
the high sedges, but Boldwood seemed determined, and pressed on
till they were completely past the bend of the river. Here, with-
out being seen, they could hear the splashing and shouts of the
washers above.
　　　“Miss Everdene!” said the farmer.
　　　She trembled, turned, and said "Good morning." His tone was
so utterly removed from all she had expected as a beginning. It was
lowness and quiet accentuated: an emphasis of deep meanings,
their form, at the same time, being scarcely expressed. Silence
has sometimes a remarkable power of showing itself as the disem-
bodied soul of feeling wandering without its carcase, and it is then
more impressive than speech. In the same way, to say a little is
often to tell more than to say a great deal. Boldwood told every-
thing in that word.
　　　As the consciousness expands on learning that what was fanc-
ied to be the rumble of wheels is the reverberation of thunder,
so did Bathsheba's at her intuitive conviction.
　　　“I feel--almost too much--to think,” he said, with a solemn
simplicity. “I have come to speak to you without preface. My life
is not my own since I have beheld you clearly, Miss Everdene--I
come to make you an offer of marriage.”
　　　Bathsheba tried to preserve an absolutely neutral countenance,
and all the motion she made was that of closing lips which had pre-
viously been a little parted.
　　　“I am now forty-one years old,” he went on. “I may have
been called a confirmed bachelor, and I was a confirmed bachelor. I
had never any views of myself as a husband in my earlier days, nor
have I made any calculation on the subject since I have been older.
But we all change, and my change, in this matter, came with see-
ing you. I have felt lately, more and more, that my present way of
living is bad in every respect. Beyond all things, I want you as my
wife."
　　　"I feel, Mr. Boldwood, that though I respect you much, I do
not feel -- what would justify me to -- in accepting your offer,"
she stammered.
　　　This giving back of dignity for dignity seemed to open the
sluices of feeling that Boldwood had as yet kept closed.
　　　"My life is a burden without you," he exclaimed, in a low
voice. "I want you -- I want you to let me say I love you again
and again!"
　　　Bathsheba answered nothing, and the horse upon her arm
seemed so impressed that instead of cropping the herbage she
looked up.
　　　“I think and hope you care enough for me to listen to what
I have to tell!”
　　　Bathsheba's momentary impulse at hearing this was to ask why
he thought that, till she remembered that, far from being a con-
ceited assumption on Boldwood's part, it was but the natural con-
clusion of serious reflection based on deceptive premises of her
own offering.

"I wish I could say courteous flatteries to you," the farmer
continued in an easier tone, "and put my rugged feeling into
a graceful shape: but I have neither power nor patience to
learn such things. I want you for my wife -- so wildly that
no other feeling can abide in me;" but I should not have spo-
ken out had I not been led to hope.”
　　　“The valentine again! O that valentine!” she said to herself,
but not a word to him.
　　　“If you can love me say so, Miss Everdene. If not--don't say
no!”
　　　“Mr. Boldwood, it is painful to have to say I am surprised, so
that I don't know how to answer you with propriety and respect
--but am only just able to speak out my feeling--I mean my meaning;
that I am afraid I can't marry you, much as I respect you. You are
too dignified for me to suit you, sir.”
　　　“But, Miss Everdene!”
　　　"I -- I didn't -- I know I ought never to have dreamt of send-
ing that valentine -- forgive me, sir -- it was a wanton thing which
no woman with any self-respect should have done. If you will only
pardon my thoughtlessness, I promise never to ----"
　　　"No, no, no. Don't say thoughtlessness! Make me think it
was something more -- that it was a sort of prophetic instinct
-- the beginning of a feeling that you would like me. You torture
me to say it was done in thoughtlessness -- I never thought of
it in that light, and I can't endure it. Ah! I wish I knew how to win
you! but that I can't do--I can only ask if I have already got you.
If I have not, and it is not true that you have come unwittingly to
me as I have to you, I can say no more.”
　　　"I have not fallen in love with you, Mr. Boldwood -- certainly
I must say that." She allowed a very small smile to creep for the
first time over her serious face in saying this, and the white row
of upper teeth, and keenly-cut lips already noticed, suggested an
idea of heartlessness, which was immediately contradicted by the
pleasant eyes.
　　　“But you will just think--in kindness and condescension think
--if you cannot bear with me as a husband! I fear I am too old for
you, but believe me I will take more care of you than would many a
man of your own age. I will protect and cherish you with all my
strength--I will indeed! You shall have no cares--be worried by no
household affairs, and live quite at ease, Miss Everdene. The dai-
ry superintendence shall be done by a man--I can afford it well--
you shall never have so much as to look out of doors at haymaking
time, or to think of weather in the harvest. "I rather cling; to the
chaise, because it is he same my poor father and mother drove,
but if you don't like it I will sell it, and you shall have a pony-car-
riage of your own. I cannot say how far above every other idea
and object on earth you seem to me -- nobody knows -- God
only knows -- how much you are to me!"
　　　Bathsheba's heart was young, and it swelled with sympathy
for the deep-natured man who spoke so simply.
　　　"Don't say it! don't! I cannot bear you to feel so much, and
me to feel nothing. And I am afraid they will notice us, Mr. Bold-
wood. Will you let the matter rest now? I cannot think collectedly.
I did not know you were going to say this to me. Oh, I am wicked
to have made you suffer so!" She was frightened as well as agi-
tated at his vehemence.
　　　“Say then, that you don't absolutely refuse. Do not quite
refuse?”
　　　“I can do nothing. I cannot answer.”
　　　“I may speak to you again on the subject?”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　I may think of you?"
　　　"Yes, I suppose you may think of me."
　　　"And hope to obtain you?"
　　　"No -- do not hope! Let us go on."
　　　"I will call upon you again to-morrow."
　　　"No -- please not. Give me time."
　　　"Yes -- I will give you any time," he said earnestly and
gratefully. "I am happier now."
　　　"No -- I beg you! Don't be happier if happiness only comes
from my agreeing. Be neutral, Mr. Boldwood! I must think."
　　　"I will wait," he said.
　　　And then she turned away. Boldwood dropped his gaze to the
ground, and stood long like a man who did not know where he
was. Realities then returned upon him like the pain of a wound
received in an excitement which eclipses it, and he, too, then
went on.








　　　“He is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can
desire,” Bathsheba mused.
　　　Yet Farmer Boldwood, whether by nature kind or the reverse
to kind, did not exercise kindness here. The rarest offerings of
the purest loves are but a self-indulgence, and no generosity
at all.
　　　Bathsheba, not being the least in love with him, was eventu-
ally able to look calmly at his offer. It was one which many wo-
men of her own station in the neighbourhood, and not a few of
higher rank, would have been wild to accept and proud to publish.
In every point of view, ranging from politic to passionate, it was
desirable that she, a lonely girl, should marry, and marry this ear-
nest, well-to-do, and respected man. He was close to her doors:
his standing was sufficient: his qualities were even supererogatory.
Had she felt, which she did not, any wish whatever for the married
state in the abstract, she could not reasonably have rejected him,
being a woman who frequently appealed to her understanding for
deliverance from her whims. Boldwood as a means to marriage was
unexceptionable: she esteemed and liked him, yet she did not want
him. It appears that ordinary men take wives because possession
is not possible without marriage, and that ordinary women accept
husbands because marriage is not possible without possession;
with totally differing aims the method is the same on both sides.
But the understood incentive on the woman's part was wanting
here. Besides, Bathsheba's position as absolute mistress of a
farm and house was a novel one, and the novelty had not yet be-
gun to wear off.
　　　But a disquiet filled her which was somewhat to her cred-
it, for it would have affected few. Beyond the mentioned reasons
with which she combated her objections, she had a strong feeling
that, having been the one who began the game, she ought in hon-
esty to accept the consequences. Still the reluctance remained.
She said in the same breath that it would be ungenerous not to
marry Boldwood, and that she couldn't do it to save her life.
Bathsheba's was an impulsive nature under a deliberative aspect.
An Elizabeth in brain and a Mary Stuart in spirit, she often performed
actions of the greatest temerity with a manner of extreme discretion.
Many of her thoughts were perfect syllogisms; unluckily they always
remained thoughts. Only a few were irrational assumptions; but,
unfortunately, they were the ones which most frequently grew into
deeds.
　　　The next day to that of the declaration she found Gabriel
Oak at the bottom of her garden, grinding his shears for the
sheep-shearing. All the surrounding cottages were more or less
scenes of the same operation; the scurr of whetting spread into
the sky from all parts of the village as from an armoury previous
to a campaign. Peace and war kiss each other at their hours of
preparation -- sickles, scythes, shears, and pruning-hooks, ranking
with swords, bayonets, and lances, in their common necessity for
point and edge.
　　　Cainy Ball turned the handle of Gabriel's grindstone, his head
performing a melancholy see-saw up and down with each turn of
the wheel. Oak stood somewhat as Eros is represented when in the
act of sharpening his arrows: his figure slightly bent, the weight
of his body thrown over on the shears, and his head balanced side-
ways, with a critical compression of the lips and contraction of
the eyelids to crown the attitude.
　　　His mistress came up and looked upon them in silence for a
minute or two; then she said--
　　　“Cain, go to the lower mead and catch the bay mare. I'll
turn the winch of the grindstone. I want to speak to you, Gabriel.”
　　　Cain departed, and Bathsheba took the handle. Gabriel had
glanced up in intense surprise, quelled its expression, and looked
down again. Bathsheba turned the winch, and Gabriel applied the s
hears.
　　　The peculiar motion involved in turning a wheel has a wonder-
ful tendency to benumb the mind. It is a sort of attenuated variety
of Ixion's punishment, and contributes a dismal chapter to the his-
tory of gaols. The brain gets muddled, the head grows heavy, and
the body's centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a leaden
lump somewhere between the eyebrows and the crown. Bathsheba
felt the unpleasant symptoms after two or three dozen turns.
　　　“Will you turn, Gabriel, and let me hold the shears?” she
said. “My head is in a whirl, and I can't talk.”
　　　Gabriel turned. Bathsheba then began, with some awkwardness,
allowing her thoughts to stray occasionally from her story to at-
tend to the shears, which required a little nicety in sharpening.
　　　“I wanted to ask you if the men made any observations on my
going behind the sedge with Mr. Boldwood yesterday?”
　　　“Yes, they did,” said Gabriel. “You don't hold the shears
right, miss--I knew you wouldn't know the way--hold like this.”
　　　He relinquished the winch, and inclosing her two hands com-
pletely in his own (taking each as we sometimes slap a child's hand
in teaching him to write), grasped the shears with her. “Incline
the edge so,” he said.
　　　Hands and shears were inclined to suit the words, and held
thus for a peculiarly long time by the instructor as he spoke.
　　　“That will do,” exclaimed Bathsheba. “Loose my hands. I
won't have them held! Turn the winch.”
　　　Gabriel freed her hands quietly, retired to his handle, and
the grinding went on.
　　　“Did the men think it odd?” she said again.
　　　“Odd was not the idea, miss.”
　　　“What did they say?”
　　　“That Farmer Boldwood's name and your own were likely to
be flung over pulpit together before the year was out.”
　　　“I thought so by the look of them! Why, there's nothing in
it. A more foolish remark was never made, and I want you to con-
tradict it: that's what I came for.”
　　　Gabriel looked incredulous and sad, but between his moments
of incredulity, relieved.
　　　"They must have heard our conversation," she continued.
　　　"Well, then, Bathsheba!" said Oak, stopping the handle,
and gazing into her face with astonishment.
　　　"Miss Everdene, you mean," she said, with dignity.
　　　"I mean this, that if Mr. Boldwood really spoke of marriage,
I bain't going to tell a story and say he didn't to please you.
I have already tried to please you too much for my own good!"
　　　Bathsheba regarded him with round-eyed perplexity. She did not
know whether to pity him for disappointed love of her, or to be
angry with him for having got over it -- his tone being ambiguous.
　　　"I said I wanted you just to mention that it was not true I was
going to be married to him," she murmured, with a slight decline
in her assurance.
　　　"I can say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdene. And I could
likewise give an opinion to 'ee on what you have done."
　　　"I daresay. But I don't want your opinion."
　　　I suppose not," said Gabriel bitterly, and going on with his
turning, his words rising and falling in a regular swell and cadence
as he stooped or rose with the winch, which directed them, ac-
cording to his position, perpendicularly into the earth, or hori-
zontally along the garden, his eyes being fixed on a leaf upon the
ground.
　　　With Bathsheba a hastened act was a rash act; but, as does
not always happen, time gained was prudence insured. It must be
added, however, that time was very seldom gained. At this period
the single opinion in the parish on herself and her doings that
she valued as sounder than her own was Gabriel Oak's. And the
outspoken honesty of his character was such that on any subject,
even that of her love for, or marriage with, another man, the
same disinterestedness of opinion might be calculated on, and be
had for the asking. Thoroughly convinced of the impossibility of
his own suit, a high resolve constrained him not to injure that of
another. This is a lover's most stoical virtue, as the lack of it is
a lover's most venial sin. Knowing he would reply truly she asked
the question, painful as she must have known the subject would be.
Such is the selfishness of some charming women. Perhaps it was
some excuse for her thus torturing honesty to her own advantage,
that she had absolutely no other sound judgment within easy reach.
　　　"Well, what is your opinion of my conduct," she said, quietly.
　　　"That it is unworthy of any thoughtful, and meek, and comely
woman."
　　　In an instant Bathsheba's face coloured with the angry crimson
of a Danby sunset. But she forbore to utter this feeling, and the
reticence of her tongue only made the loquacity of her face the
more noticeable.
　　　The next thing Gabriel did was to make a mistake.
　　　“Perhaps you don't like the rudeness of my reprimanding you,
for I know it is rudeness; but I thought it would do good.”
　　　She instantly replied sarcastically--
　　　"On the contrary, my opinion of you is so low, that I see in
your abuse the praise of discerning people!"
　　　"I am glad you don't mind it, for I said it honestly and with
every serious meaning."
　　　"I see. But, unfortunately, when you try not to speak in jest
you are amusing -- just as when you wish to avoid seriousness
you sometimes say a sensible word."
　　　It was a hard hit, but Bathsheba had unmistakably lost her
temper, and on that account Gabriel had never in his life kept his
own better. He said nothing. She then broke out--
　　　“I may ask, I suppose, where in particular my unworthiness
lies? In my not marrying you, perhaps!”
　　　“Not by any means,” said Gabriel quietly. “I have long given
up thinking of that matter.”
　　　“Or wishing it, I suppose,” she said; and it was apparent that
she expected an unhesitating denial of this supposition.
　　　Whatever Gabriel felt, he coolly echoed her words--
　　　“Or wishing it either.”
　　　A woman may be treated with a bitterness which is sweet
to her, and with a rudeness which is not offensive. Bathsheba
would have submitted to an indignant chastisement for her levity
had Gabriel protested that he was loving her at the same time; the
impetuosity of passion unrequited is bearable, even if it stings and
anathematizes there is a triumph in the humiliation, and a tender-
ness in the strife. This was what she had been expecting, and what
she had not got. To be lectured because the lecturer saw her in the
cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion was exasperating.
He had not finished, either. He continued in a more agitated voice:--
　　　“My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to
blame for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as a
pastime. Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy
action. And even, Miss Everdene, if you seriously inclined towards
him, you might have let him find it out in some way of true loving-
kindness, and not by sending him a valentine's letter.”
　　　Bathsheba laid down the shears.
　　　“I cannot allow any man to--to criticise my private conduct!”
she exclaimed. “Nor will I for a minute. So you'll please leave
the farm at the end of the week!”
　　　It may have been a peculiarity--at any rate it was a fact--
that when Bathsheba was swayed by an emotion of an earthly sort
her lower lip trembled: when by a refined emotion, her upper or
heavenward one. Her nether lip quivered now.
　　　“Very well, so I will,” said Gabriel calmly. He had been
held to her by a beautiful thread which it pained him to spoil by
breaking, rather than by a chain he could not break. “I should
be even better pleased to go at once,” he added.
　　　“Go at once then, in Heaven's name!” said she, her eyes
flashing at his, though never meeting them. “Don't let me see
your face any more.”
　　　“Very well, Miss Everdene--so it shall be.”
　　　And he took his shears and went away from her in placid
dignity, as Moses left the presence of Pharaoh.








　　　Gabriel Oak had ceased to feed the Weatherbury flock for a-
bout four-and-twenty hours, when on Sunday afternoon the elderly
gentlemen Joseph Poorgrass, Matthew Moon, Fray, and half-a-dozen
others, came running up to the house of the mistress of the Upper
Farm.
　　　“Whatever is the matter, men?” she said, meeting them at
the door just as she was coming out on her way to church, and
ceasing in a moment from the close compression of her two red
lips, with which she had accompanied the exertion of pulling on
a tight glove.
　　　“Sixty!” said Joseph Poorgrass.
　　　“Seventy!” said Moon.
　　　“Fifty-nine!” said Susan Tall's husband.
　　　“--Sheep have broke fence,” said Fray.
　　　“--And got into a field of young clover,” said Tall.
　　　“--Young clover!” said Moon.
　　　“--Clover!” said Joseph Poorgrass.
　　　“And they be getting blasted,” said Henery Fray.
　　　“That they be,” said Joseph.
　　　“And will all die as dead as nits, if they bain't got out
and cured!” said Tall.
　　　Joseph's countenance was drawn into lines and puckers by
his concern. Fray's forehead was wrinkled both perpendicularly
and crosswise, after the pattern of a portcullis, expressive of
a double despair. Laban Tall's lips were thin, and his face was
rigid. Matthew's jaws sank, and his eyes turned whichever way
the strongest muscle happened to pull them.
　　　“Yes,” said Joseph, “and I was sitting at home, looking
for Ephesians, and says I to myself, ‘'Tis nothing but Corin-
thians and Thessalonians in this danged Testament,' when who
should come in but Henery there: ‘Joseph,' he said, ‘the sheep
have blasted theirselves--'”
　　　With Bathsheba it was a moment when thought was speech and
speech exclamation. Moreover, she had hardly recovered her equa-
nimity since the disturbance which she had suffered from Oak's
remarks.
　　　“That's enough--that's enough!--oh, you fools!” she cried,
throwing the parasol and Prayer-book into the passage, and run-
ning out of doors in the direction signified. “To come to me, and
not go and get them out directly! Oh, the stupid numskulls!”
　　　Her eyes were at their darkest and brightest now. Bathsheba's
beauty belonging rather to the demonian than to the angelic school,
she never looked so well as when she was angry--and particularly
when the effect was heightened by a rather dashing velvet dress,
carefully put on before a glass.
　　　All the ancient men ran in a jumbled throng after her to
the clover-field, Joseph sinking down in the midst when about
half-way, like an individual withering in a world which was more
and more insupportable. Having once received the stimulus that
her presence always gave them they went round among the sheep
with a will. The majority of the afflicted animals were lying
down, and could not be stirred. These were bodily lifted out,
and the others driven into the adjoining field. Here, after the
lapse of a few minutes, several more fell down, and lay helpless
and livid as the rest.
　　　Bathsheba, with a sad, bursting heart, looked at these
primest specimens of her prime flock as they rolled there--
　　　Swoln with wind and the rank mist they drew.
　　　Many of them foamed at the mouth, their breathing being
quick and short, whilst the bodies of all were fearfully distend-
ed.
　　　“Oh, what can I do, what can I do!” said Bathsheba, help-
lessly. “Sheep are such unfortunate animals!--there's always
something happening to them! I never knew a flock pass a year
without getting into some scrape or other.”
　　　“There's only one way of saving them,” said Tall.
　　　“What way? Tell me quick!”
　　　“They must be pierced in the side with a thing made on
purpose.”
　　　“Can you do it? Can I?”
　　　“No, ma'am. We can't, nor you neither. It must be done in
a particular spot. If ye go to the right or left but an inch you
stab the ewe and kill her. Not even a shepherd can do it, as a
rule.”
　　　“Then they must die,” she said, in a resigned tone.
　　　“Only one man in the neighbourhood knows the way,” said
Joseph, now just come up. “He could cure 'em all if he were here.”
　　　“Who is he? Let's get him!”
　　　“Shepherd Oak,” said Matthew. “Ah, he's a clever man in
talents!”
　　　“Ah, that he is so!” said Joseph Poorgrass.
　　　“True--he's the man,” said Laban Tall.
　　　“How dare you name that man in my presence!” she said ex-
citedly. “I told you never to allude to him, nor shall you if
you stay with me. Ah!” she added, brightening, “Farmer Boldwood
knows!”
　　　“O no, ma'am” said Matthew. “Two of his store ewes got
into some vetches t'other day, and were just like these. He sent
a man on horseback here post-haste for Gable, and Gable went and
saved 'em. Farmer Boldwood hev got the thing they do it with. 'Tis
a holler pipe, with a sharp pricker inside. Isn't it, Joseph?”
　　　“Ay--a holler pipe,” echoed Joseph. “That's what 'tis.”
　　　“Ay, sure--that's the machine,” chimed in Henery Fray, re-
flectively, with an Oriental indifference to the flight of time.
　　　“Well,” burst out Bathsheba, “don't stand there with your
‘ayes' and your ‘sures' talking at me! Get somebody to cure the
sheep instantly!”
　　　All then stalked off in consternation, to get somebody as
directed, without any idea of who it was to be. In a minute they
had vanished through the gate, and she stood alone with the dying
flock.
　　　“Never will I send for him--never!” she said firmly.
　　　One of the ewes here contracted its muscles horribly, ex-
tended itself, and jumped high into the air. The leap was an asto-
nishing one. The ewe fell heavily, and lay still.
　　　Bathsheba went up to it. The sheep was dead.
　　　“Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do!” she again ex-
claimed, wringing her hands. “I won't send for him. No, I won't!”
The most vigorous expression of a resolution does not always
coincide with the greatest vigour of the resolution itself. It is
often flung out as a sort of prop to support a decaying convict-
ion which, whilst strong, required no enunciation to prove it so.
The "No, I won't" of Bathsheba meant virtually, "I think I must."
　　　She followed her assistants through the gate, and lifted her
hand to one of them. Laban answered to her signal.
　　　“Where is Oak staying?”
　　　“Across the valley at Nest Cottage!”
　　　“Jump on the bay mare, and ride across, and say he must
return instantly--that I say so.”
　　　Tall scrambled off to the field, and in two minutes was on
Poll, the bay, bare-backed, and with only a halter by way of rein.
He diminished down the hill.
　　　Bathsheba watched. So did all the rest. Tall cantered along
the bridle-path through Sixteen Acres, Sheeplands, Middle Field,
The Flats, Cappel's Piece, shrank almost to a point, crossed the
bridge, and ascended from the valley through Springmead and
Whitepits on the other side. The cottage to which Gabriel had
retired before taking his final departure from the locality was
visible as a white spot on the opposite hill, backed by blue firs.
Bathsheba walked up and down. The men entered the field and
endeavoured to ease the anguish of the dumb creatures by rub-
bing them. Nothing availed.
　　　Bathsheba continued walking. The horse was seen descend-
ing the hill, and the wearisome series had to be repeated in re-
verse order: Whitepits, Springmead, Cappel's Piece, The Flats,
Middle Field, Sheeplands, Sixteen Acres. She hoped Tall had had
presence of mind enough to give the mare up to Gabriel, and re-
turn himself on foot. The rider neared them. It was Tall.
　　　“Oh, what folly!” said Bathsheba.
　　　Gabriel was not visible anywhere.
　　　“Perhaps he is already gone!” she said.
　　　Tall came into the inclosure, and leapt off, his face tragic
as Morton's after the battle of Shrewsbury.
　　　“Well?” said Bathsheba, unwilling to believe that her verbal
lettre-de-cachet could possibly have miscarried.
　　　“He says beggars mustn't be choosers,” replied Laban.
　　　“What!” said the young farmer, opening her eyes and draw-
ing in her breath for an outburst. Joseph Poorgrass retired a
few steps behind a hurdle.
　　　“He says he shall not come onless you request en to come
civilly and in a proper manner, as becomes any 'ooman begging a
favour.”
　　　“Oh, oh, that's his answer! Where does he get his airs? Who
am I, then, to be treated like that? Shall I beg to a man who has
begged to me?”
　　　Another of the flock sprang into the air, and fell dead.
　　　The men looked grave, as if they suppressed opinion.
　　　Bathsheba turned aside, her eyes full of tears. The strait
she was in through pride and shrewishness could not be disguised
longer: she burst out crying bitterly; they all saw it; and she at-
tempted no further concealment.
　　　"I wouldn't cry about it, miss," said William Smallbury,
compassionately. "Why not ask him softer like? I'm sure he'd
come then. Gable is a true man in that way."
　　　Bathsheba checked her grief and wiped her eyes. "Oh, it is
a wicked cruelty to me -- it is -- it is!" she murmured. "And
he drives me to do what I wouldn't; yes, he does! --Tall, come
indoors."
　　　After this collapse, not very dignified for the head of an
establishment, she went into the house, Tall at her heels.
Here she sat down and hastily scribbled a note between the
small convulsive sobs of convalescence which follow a fit
of crying as a ground-swell follows a storm. The note was
none the less polite for being written in a hurry. She held
it at a distance, was about to fold it, then added these
words at the bottom: --


　　　　　　"DO NOT DESERT ME, GABRIEL!"


　　　She looked a little redder in refolding it, and closed her lips,
as if thereby to suspend till too late the action of conscience
in examining whether such strategy were justifiable. The note
was despatched as the message had been, and Bathsheba waited
indoors for the result.
　　　It was an anxious quarter of an hour that intervened be-
tween the messenger's departure and the sound of the horse's
tramp again outside. She could not watch this time, but, leaning
over the old bureau at which she had written the letter, closed
her eyes, as if to keep out both hope and fear.
　　　The case, however, was a promising one. Gabriel was not
angry: he was simply neutral, although her first command had
been so haughty. Such imperiousness would have damned a
little less beauty; and on the other hand, such beauty would
have redeemed a little less imperiousness.
　　　She went out when the horse was heard, and looked up. A
mounted figure passed between her and the sky, and drew on to-
wards the field of sheep, the rider turning his face in receding.
　　　Gabriel looked at her. It was a moment when a woman's eyes
and tongue tell distinctly opposite tales. Bathsheba looked full
of gratitude, and she said: --
　　　"Oh, Gabriel, how could you serve me so unkindly!"
　　　Such a tenderly-shaped reproach for his previous delay
was the one speech in the language that he could pardon for
not being commendation of his readiness now.
　　　Gabriel murmured a confused reply, and hastened on. She
knew from the look which sentence in her note had brought him.
Bathsheba followed to the field.
　　　Gabriel was already among the turgid, prostrate forms. He
had flung off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and taken
from his pocket the instrument of salvation. It was a small tube
or trochar, with a lance passing down the inside; and Gabriel be-
gan to use it with a dexterity that would have graced a hospital
surgeon. Passing his hand over the sheep's left flank, and sel-
ecting the proper point, he punctured the skin and rumen with the
lance as it stood in the tube; then he suddenly withdrew the
lance, retaining the tube in its place. A current of air rushed
up the tube, forcible enough to have extinguished a candle held
at the orifice.
　　　It has been said that mere ease after torment is delight
for a time; and the countenances of these poor creatures express-
ed it now. Forty-nine operations were successfully performed.
Owing to the great hurry necessitated by the far-gone state of
some of the flock, Gabriel missed his aim in one case, and in
one only--striking wide of the mark, and inflicting a mortal
blow at once upon the suffering ewe. Four had died; three reco-
vered without an operation. The total number of sheep which had
thus strayed and injured themselves so dangerously was fifty-
seven.
　　　When the love-led man had ceased from his labours, Bath-
sheba came and looked him in the face.
　　　“Gabriel, will you stay on with me?” she said, smiling
winningly, and not troubling to bring her lips quite together
again at the end, because there was going to be another smile
soon.
　　　“I will,” said Gabriel.
　　　And she smiled on him again.








　　　Men thin away to insignificance and oblivion quite as
often by not making the most of good spirits when they have
them as by lacking good spirits when they are indispensable.
Gabriel lately, for the first time since his prostration by mis-
fortune, had been independent in thought and vigorous in
action to a marked extent -- conditions which, powerless
without an opportunity as an opportunity without them is bar-
ren, would have given him a sure lift upwards when the fav-
ourable conjunction should have occurred. But this incurable
loitering beside Bathsheba Everdene stole his time ruinously.
The spring tides were going by without floating him off, and the
neap might soon come which could not.
　　　It was the first day of June, and the sheep-shearing sea-
son culminated, the landscape, even to the leanest pasture,
being all health and colour. Every green was young, every
pore was open, and every stalk was swollen with racing cur-
rents of juice. God was palpably present in the country, and
the devil had gone with the world to town. Flossy catkins of
the later kinds, fern-sprouts like bishops' croziers, the square-
headed moschatel,the odd cuckoo-pint, -- like an apoplectic
saint in a niche of malachite, -- snow-white ladies'-smocks,
the toothwort, approximating to human flesh, the enchanter's
night-shade, and the black-petaled doleful-bells, were among
the quainter objects of the vegetable world in and about Wea-
therbury at this teeming time; and of the animal, the metamor-
phosed figures of Mr. Jan Coggan, the master-shearer; the sec-
ond and third shearers, who travelled in the exercise of their
calling, and do not require definition by name; Henery Fray the
fourth shearer, Susan Tall's husband the fifth, Joseph Poor-
grass the sixth, young Cain Ball as assistant-shearer, and Gab-
riel Oak as general supervisor.None of these were clothed to
any extent worth mentioning, each appearing to have hit in
the matter of raiment the decent mean between a high and
low caste Hindoo. An angularity of lineament, and a fixity of
facial machinery in general, proclaimed that serious work was
the order of the day.
　　　They sheared in the great barn, called for the nonce
the Shearing-barn, which on ground-plan resembled a church
with transepts. It not only emulated the form of the neigh-
bouring church of the parish, but vied with it in antiquity.
Whether the barn had ever formed one of a group of convent-.
ual buildings nobody seemed to be aware; no trace of such
surroundings remained. The vast porches at the sides,
lofty enough to admit a waggon laden to its highest with
corn in the sheaf, were spanned by heavy-pointed arch-
es of stone, broadly and boldly cut, whose very simpli-
city was the origin of a grandeur not apparent in erect-
ions where more ornament has been attempted. The dusky,
filmed, chestnut roof, braced and tied in by huge col-
lars, curves, and diagonals, was far nobler in design, be-
cause more wealthy in material, than nine-tenths of
those in our modern churches. Along each side wall was
a range of striding buttresses, throwing deep shadows
on the spaces between them, which were perforated by
lancet openings, combining in their proportions the pre-
cise requirements both of beauty and ventilation.
　　　 One could say about this barn, what could hardly be
said of either the church or the castle, akin to it
in age and style, that the purpose which had dictated
its original erection was the same with that to which
it was still applied. Unlike and superior to either of
those two typical remnants of mediaevalism, the old barn
embodied practices which had suffered no mutilation at
the hands of time. Here at least the spirit of the ancient
builders was at one with the spirit of the modern beholder.
Standing before this abraded pile, the eye regarded its
present usage, the mind dwelt upon its past history, with
a satisfied sense of functional continuity throughout --
a feeling almost of gratitude, and quite of pride, at the
permanence of the idea which had heaped it up. The fact
that four centuries had neither proved it to be founded
on a mistake, inspired any hatred of its purpose, nor given
rise to any reaction that had battered it down, invested
this simple grey effort of old minds with a repose, if not
a grandeur, which a too curious reflection was apt to
disturb in its ecclesiastical and military compeers. For
once medievalism and modernism had a common stand-point.
The lanceolate windows, the time-eaten arch-stones and
chamfers, the orientation of the axis, the misty chestnut
work of the rafters, referred to no exploded fortifying
art or worn-out religious creed. The defence and salvation
of the body by daily bread is still a study, a religion, and
a desire.
　　　To-day the large side doors were thrown open towards
the sun to admit a bountiful light to the immediate spot of the
shearers' operations, which was the wood threshing-floor in
the centre, formed of thick oak, black with age and polished
by the beating of flails for many generations, till it had
grown as slippery and as rich in hue as the state-room
floors of an Elizabethan mansion. Here the shearers knelt,
the sun slanting in upon their bleached shirts, tanned
arms, and the polished shears they flourished, causing
these to bristle with a thousand rays strong enough to
blind a weak-eyed man. Beneath them a captive sheep
lay panting, quickening its pants as misgiving merged in
terror, till it quivered like the hot landscape outside.
　　　This picture of to-day in its frame of four hundred
years ago did not produce that marked contrast between
ancient and modern which is implied by the contrast of date.
In comparison with cities, Weatherbury was immutable. The
citizen's THEN is the rustic's NOW. In London, twenty or
thirty-years ago are old times; in Paris ten years, or five;
in Weatherbury three or four score years were included in
the mere present, and nothing less than a century set a
mark on its face or tone. Five decades hardly modified the
cut of a gaiter, the embroidery of a smock-frock, by the
breadth of a hair. Ten generations failed to alter the turn
of a single phrase. In these Wessex nooks the busy out-
sider's ancient times are only old; his old times are still
new; his present is futurity.
　　　So the barn was natural to the shearers, and the shear-
ers were in harmony with the barn.
　　　The spacious ends of the building, answering ecclesi-
astically to nave and chancel extremities, were fenced off
with hurdles, the sheep being all collected in a crowd with-
in these two enclosures; and in one angle a catching-pen was
formed, in which three or four sheep were continuously kept
ready for the shearers to seize without loss of time. In the
background, mellowed by tawny shade, were the three women,
Maryann Money, and Temperance and Soberness Miller, gather-
ing up the fleeces and twisting ropes of wool with a wimble
for tying them round. They were indifferently well assisted
by the old maltster, who, when the malting season from Octo-
ber to April had passed, made himself useful upon any of
the bordering farmsteads.
　　　Behind all was Bathsheba, carefully watching the men
to see that there was no cutting or wounding through care-
lessness, and that the animals were shorn close. Gabriel, who
flitted and hovered under her bright eyes like a moth, did
not shear continuously, half his time being spent in attend-
ing to the others and selecting the sheep for them. At the
present moment he was engaged in handing round a mug of
mild liquor, supplied from a barrel in the corner, and cut piec-
es of bread and cheese.
　　　Bathsheba, after throwing a glance here, a caution
there, and lecturing one of the younger operators who had
allowed his last finished sheep to go off among the flock
without re-stamping it with her initials, came again to Gab-
riel, as he put down the luncheon to drag a frightened ewe
to his shear-station, flinging it over upon its back with a
dexterous twist of the arm. He lopped off the tresses about
its head, and opened up the neck and collar, his mistress
quietly looking on.
　　　"She blushes at the insult," murmured Bathsheba,
watching the pink flush which arose and overspread the
neck and shoulders of the ewe where they were left bare
by the clicking shears -- a flush which was enviable, for its
delicacy, by many queens of coteries, and would have been
creditable, for its promptness, to any woman in the world.
　　　Poor Gabriel's soul was fed with a luxury of content
by having her over him, her eyes critically regarding his
skilful shears, which apparently were going to gather up
a piece of the flesh at every close, and yet never did
so. Like Guildenstern, Oak was happy in that he was not
over happy. He had no wish to converse with her: that
his bright lady and himself formed one group, exclusively
their own, and containing no others in the world, was enough.
　　　So the chatter was all on her side. There is a loquacity
that tells nothing, which was Bathsheba's; and there is a
silence which says much: that was Gabriel's. Full of this dim
and temperate bliss, he went on to fling the ewe over upon
her other side, covering her head with his knee, gradually
running the shears line after line round her dewlap; thence
about her flank and back, and finishing over the tail.
　　　“Well done, and done quickly!” said Bathsheba, look-
ing at her watch as the last snip resounded.
　　　“How long, miss?” said Gabriel, wiping his brow.
　　　“Three-and-twenty minutes and a half since you took
the first lock from its forehead. It is the first time that
I have ever seen one done in less than half an hour.”
　　　The clean, sleek creature arose from its fleece --
how perfectly like Aphrodite rising from the foam should
have been seen to be realized -- looking startled and shy at
the loss of its garment, which lay on the floor in one soft
cloud, united throughout, the portion visible being the inner
surface only, which, never before exposed, was white as snow,
and without flaw or blemish of the minutest kind.
　　　“Cain Ball!”　　　
　　　“Yes, Mister Oak; here I be!”
　　　Cainy now runs forward with the tar-pot. “B. E.” is
newly stamped upon the shorn skin, and away the simple dam
leaps, panting, over the board into the shirtless flock outside.
Then up comes Maryann; throws the loose locks into the middle
of the fleece, rolls it up, and carries it into the background
as three-and-a-half pounds of unadulterated warmth for the winter
enjoyment of persons unknown and far away, who will, however,
never experience the superlative comfort derivable from the wool
as it here exists, new and pure -- before the unctuousness of
its nature whilst in a living state has dried, stiffened, and been
washed out -- rendering it just now as superior to anything
woolen as cream is superior to milk-and-water.
　　　But heartless circumstance could not leave entire Gab-
riel's happiness of this morning. The rams, old ewes, and
two-shear ewes had duly undergone their stripping, and the
men were proceeding with the shearlings and hogs, when
Oak's belief that she was going to stand pleasantly by
and time him through another performance was painfully
interrupted by Farmer Boldwood's appearance in the extremest
corner of the barn. Nobody seemed to have perceived his entry,
but there he certainly was. Boldwood always carried with him
a social atmosphere of his own, which everybody felt who came
near him; and the talk, which Bathsheba's presence had somewhat
suppressed, was now totally suspended.
　　　He crossed over towards Bathsheba, who turned to greet him
with a carriage of perfect ease. He spoke to her in low tones,
and she instinctively modulated her own to the same pitch, and
her voice ultimately even caught the inflection of his. She was
far from having a wish to appear mysteriously connected with him;
but woman at the impressionable age gravitates to the larger
body not only in her choice of words, which is apparent every
day, but even in her shades of tone and humour, when the
influence is great.
　　　What they conversed about was not audible to Gabriel,
who was too independent to get near, though too concerned to
disregard. The issue of their dialogue was the taking of her
hand by the courteous farmer to help her over the spreading-
board into the bright June sunlight outside. Standing beside
the sheep already shorn, they went on talking again. Concern-
ing the flock? Apparently not. Gabriel theorized, not without
truth, that in quiet discussion of any matter within reach of
the speakers' eyes, these are usually fixed upon it. Bath-
sheba demurely regarded a contemptible straw lying upon the
ground, in a way which suggested less ovine criticism than
womanly embarrassment. She became more or less red in the
cheek, the blood wavering in uncertain flux and reflux over
the sensitive space between ebb and flood. Gabriel sheared
on, constrained and sad.
　　　She left Boldwood's side, and he walked up and down
alone for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then she reappeared
in her new riding-habit of myrtle green, which fitted her to
the waist as a rind fits its fruit; and young Bob Coggan led
on her mare, Boldwood fetching his own horse from the tree
under which it had been tied.
　　　Oak's eyes could not forsake them; and in endeavour-
ing to continue his shearing at the same time that he watch-
ed Boldwood's manner, he snipped the sheep in the groin. The
animal plunged; Bathsheba instantly gazed towards it, and saw
the blood.
　　　“Oh, Gabriel!” she exclaimed, with severe remonstrance,
“you who are so strict with the other men--see what you are
doing yourself!”
　　　To an outsider there was not much to complain of in
this remark; but to Oak, who knew Bathsheba to be well
aware that she herself was the cause of the poor ewe's
wound, because she had wounded the ewe's shearer in a --
still more vital part, it had a sting which the abiding sense
of his inferiority to both herself and Boldwood was not calcu-
lated to heal. But a manly resolve to recognize boldly that he
had no longer a lover's interest in her, helped him occasion-
ally to conceal a feeling.
　　　“Bottle!” he shouted, in an unmoved voice of routine.
Cainy Ball ran up, the wound was anointed, and the shearing con-
tinued.
　　　Boldwood gently tossed Bathsheba into the saddle, and be-
fore they turned away she again spoke out to Oak with the same
dominative and tantalizing graciousness.
　　　“I am going now to see Mr. Boldwood's Leicesters. Take
my place in the barn, Gabriel, and keep the men carefully to
their work.”
　　　The horses' heads were put about, and they trotted away.
　　　Boldwood's deep attachment was a matter of great interest
among all around him; but, after having been pointed out for so
many years as the perfect exemplar of thriving bachelorship, his
lapse was an anticlimax somewhat resembling that of St. John
Long's death by consumption in the midst of his proofs that it
was not a fatal disease.
　　　“That means matrimony,” said Temperance Miller, follow-
ing them out of sight with her eyes.
　　　“I reckon that's the size o't,” said Coggan, working a-
long without looking up.
　　　“Well, better wed over the mixen than over the moor,”
said Laban Tall, turning his sheep.
　　　Henery Fray spoke, exhibiting miserable eyes at the same
time: “I don't see why a maid should take a husband when she's
bold enough to fight her own battles, and don't want a home; for
'tis keeping another woman out. But let it be, for 'tis a pity
he and she should trouble two houses.”
　　　As usual with decided characters, Bathsheba invariably pro-
voked the criticism of individuals like Henery Fray. Her emblaz-
oned fault was to be too pronounced in her objections, and not
sufficiently overt in her likings. We learn that it is not the
rays which bodies absorb, but those which they reject, that give
them the colours they are known by; and in the same way people
are specialized by their dislikes and antagonisms, whilst their
goodwill is looked upon as no attribute at all.
　　　Henery continued in a more complaisant mood: “I once hint-
ed my mind to her on a few things, as nearly as a battered frame
dared to do so to such a froward piece. You all know, neighbours,
what a man I be, and how I come down with my powerful words when
my pride is boiling wi' scarn?”
　　　“We do, we do, Henery.”
　　　“So I said, ‘Mistress Everdene, there's places empty, and
there's gifted men willing; but the spite'--no, not the spite--I
didn't say spite--‘but the villainy of the contrarikind,' I said
(meaning womankind), ‘keeps 'em out.' That wasn't too strong
for her, say?”
　　　“Passably well put.”
　　　“Yes; and I would have said it, had death and salvation
overtook me for it. Such is my spirit when I have a mind.”
　　　“A true man, and proud as a lucifer.”
　　　“You see the artfulness? Why, 'twas about being baily
really; but I didn't put it so plain that she could understand
my meaning, so I could lay it on all the stronger. That was my
depth!... However, let her marry an she will. Perhaps 'tis high
time. I believe Farmer Boldwood kissed her behind the spear-bed
at the sheep-washing t'other day--that I do.”
　　　“What a lie!” said Gabriel.
　　　“Ah, neighbour Oak--how'st know?” said, Henery, mildly.
　　　“Because she told me all that passed,” said Oak, with a
pharisaical sense that he was not as other shearers in this mat-
ter.
　　　“Ye have a right to believe it,” said Henery, with dud-
geon; “a very true right. But I mid see a little distance into
things! To be long-headed enough for a baily's place is a poor
mere trifle--yet a trifle more than nothing. However, I look
round upon life quite cool. Do you heed me, neighbours? My words,
though made as simple as I can, mid be rather deep for some heads.”
　　　“O yes, Henery, we quite heed ye.”
　　　“A strange old piece, goodmen--whirled about from here
to yonder, as if I were nothing! A little warped, too. But I
have my depths; ha, and even my great depths! I might gird at a
certain shepherd, brain to brain. But no--O no!”
　　　“A strange old piece, ye say!” interposed the maltster,
in a querulous voice. “At the same time ye be no old man worth
naming--no old man at all. Yer teeth bain't half gone yet; and
what's a old man's standing if so be his teeth bain't gone?
Weren't I stale in wedlock afore ye were out of arms? 'Tis a
poor thing to be sixty, when there's people far past four-score
--a boast weak as water.”
　　　It was the unvarying custom in Weatherbury to sink minor
differences when the maltster had to be pacified.
　　　“Weak as water! yes,” said Jan Coggan. “Malter, we feel
ye to be a wonderful veteran man, and nobody can gainsay it.”
　　　“Nobody,” said Joseph Poorgrass. “Ye be a very rare old
spectacle, malter, and we all admire ye for that gift.”
　　　“Ay, and as a young man, when my senses were in prosper-
ity, I was likewise liked by a good-few who knowed me,” said
the maltster.
　　　“'Ithout doubt you was--'ithout doubt.”
　　　The bent and hoary man was satisfied, and so apparently
was Henery Fray. That matters should continue pleasant Maryann
spoke, who, what with her brown complexion, and the working wrap-
per of rusty linsey, had at present the mellow hue of an old
sketch in oils--notably some of Nicholas Poussin's:--
　　　“Do anybody know of a crooked man, or a lame, or any sec-
ond-hand fellow at all that would do for poor me?” said Maryann.
“A perfect one I don't expect to get at my time of life. If I
could hear of such a thing 'twould do me more good than toast
and ale.”
　　　Coggan furnished a suitable reply. Oak went on with his
shearing, and said not another word. Pestilent moods had come,
and teased away his quiet. Bathsheba had shown indications of
anointing him above his fellows by installing him as the bailiff that
the farm imperatively required. He did not covet the post relatively
to the farm: in relation to herself, as beloved by him and unmarried
to another, he had coveted it. His readings of her seemed now to be
vapoury and indistinct.








　　　For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the
grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust
over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into
the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the
table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men.
　　　This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks
and lips contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shad-
owy hair.
　　　She seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bot-
tom of the table was at her request left vacant until after
they had begun the meal. She then asked Gabriel to take the
place and the duties appertaining to that end, which he did
with great readiness.
　　　At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and
crossed the green to Bathsheba at the window. He apologized for
his lateness: his arrival was evidently by arrangement.
　　　“Gabriel,” said she, “will you move again, please, and let
Mr. Boldwood come there?”
　　　Oak moved in silence back to his original seat.
　　　The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a
new coat and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual
sober suits of grey. Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and conse-
quently chatty to an exceptional degree. So also was Bathsheba
now that he had come, though the uninvited presence of Penny-
ways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for theft, disturbed
her equanimity for a while.
　　　Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private ac-
count, without reference to listeners:--

　　　　　　I've lost my love, and I care not,
　　　　　　I've lost my love, and I care not;
　　　　　　I shall soon have another
　　　　　　That's better than t'other;
　　　　　　I've lost my love, and I care not.

　　　This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently
appreciative gaze at the table, implying that the performance,
like a work by those established authors who are independent
of notices in the papers, was a well-known delight which re-
quired no applause.
　　　“Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!” said Coggan.
　　　“I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me,” said
Joseph, diminishing himself.
　　　“Nonsense; wou'st never be so ungrateful, Joseph--never!”
said Coggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice.
“And mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say, ‘Sing
at once, Joseph Poorgrass.'”
　　　"Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it! ... Just eye my fea-
tures, and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neigh-
bours?"
　　　"No, yer blushes be quite reasonable," said Coggan.
　　　"I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beau-
ty's eyes get fixed on me," said Joseph, differently; "but if so be
'tis willed they do, they must."
　　　"Now, Joseph, your song, please," said Bathsheba, from the
window.
　　　"Well, really, ma'am," he replied, in a yielding tone, "I don't
know what to say. It would be a poor plain ballet of my own com-
posure."
　　　"Hear, hear!" said the supper-party.
　　　Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet com-
mendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of
the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly
dwelt upon. This was so successful that he rashly plunged into
a second in the same breath, after a few false starts:--

　　　　　　Oh the wi′-il-lo′-ow tree′ will′ twist′,
　　　　　　And the wil′-low′ tre′-ee wi′-ill twine′.

　　　But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggan
was sent home for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored
by Jacob Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and
interminable as that with which the worthy toper old Silenus
amused on a similar occasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus,
and other jolly dogs of his day.
　　　It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was
stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the west-
ern lines of light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any
extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept
round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to
sink, the shearers' lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning
twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day,
touched with a yellow of self-sustained brilliancy that seemed
inherent rather than acquired.
　　　The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and
talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven.
Bathsheba still remained enthroned inside the window, and oc-
cupied herself in knitting, from which she sometimes looked
up to view the fading scene outside. The slow twilight expand-
ed and enveloped them completely before the signs of moving
were shown.

　　　　　　For his bride a soldier sought her,
　　　　　　And a winning tongue had he:
　　　　　　On the banks of Allan Water
　　　　　　None was gay as she!

　　　In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel's flute, Boldwood
supplied a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his
notes so softly, however, as to abstain entirely from making
anything like an ordinary duet of the song; they rather formed
a rich unexplored shadow, which threw her tones into relief.
The shearers reclined against each other as at suppers in the
early ages of the world, and so silent and absorbed were they
that her breathing could almost be heard between the bars; and
at the end of the ballad, when the last tone loitered on to an
inexpressible close, there arose that buzz of pleasure which is
the attar of applause.
　　　It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not a-
void noting the farmer's bearing to-night towards their enter-
tainer. Yet there was nothing exceptional in his actions beyond
what appertained to his time of performing them. It was when the
rest were all looking away that Boldwood observed her; when they
regarded her he turned aside; when they thanked or praised he was
silent; when they were inattentive he murmured his thanks. The
meaning lay in the difference between actions, none of which had
any meaning of itself; and the necessity of being jealous, which
lovers are troubled with, did not lead Oak to underestimate these
signs.
　　　Bathsheba then wished them good-night, withdrew from the
window, and retired to the back part of the room, Boldwood there-
upon closing the sash and the shutters, and remaining inside with
her. Oak wandered away under the quiet and scented trees. Recov-
ering from the softer impressions produced by Bathsheba's voice,
the shearers rose to leave, Coggan turning to Pennyways as he
pushed back the bench to pass out:--
　　　“I like to give praise where praise is due, and the man
deserves it--that 'a do so,” he remarked, looking at the worthy
thief, as if he were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist.
　　　“I'm sure I should never have believed it if we hadn't
proved it, so to allude,” hiccupped Joseph Poorgrass, “that e-
very cup, every one of the best knives and forks, and every empty
bottle be in their place as perfect now as at the beginning, and
not one stole at all.”
　　　“I'm sure I don't deserve half the praise you give me,”
said the virtuous thief, grimly.
　　　“Well, I'll say this for Pennyways,” added Coggan, “that
whenever he do really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the
shape of a good action, as I could see by his face he did to-night
afore sitting down, he's generally able to carry it out. Yes, I'm
proud to say, neighbours, that he's stole nothing at all.”
　　　“Well, 'tis an honest deed, and we thank ye for it, Penny-
ways,” said Joseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company
subscribed unanimously.
　　　At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of
the inside of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light be-
tween the shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment
there.
　　　Miss Everdene and Boldwood were alone. Her cheeks had lost
a great deal of their healthful fire from the very seriousness of
her position; but her eye was bright with the excitement of a tri-
umph--though it was a triumph which had rather been contemplated
than desired.
　　　She was standing behind a low arm-chair, from which she had
just risen, and he was kneeling in it--inclining himself over its
back towards her, and holding her hand in both his own. His body
moved restlessly, and it was with what Keats daintily calls a too
happy happiness. This unwonted abstraction by love of all dignity
from a man of whom it had ever seemed the chief component, was,
in its distressing incongruity, a pain to her which quenched much
of the pleasure she derived from the proof that she was idolized.
　　　“I will try to love you,” she was saying, in a trembling
voice quite unlike her usual self-confidence. “And if I can be-
lieve in any way that I shall make you a good wife I shall indeed
be willing to marry you. But, Mr. Boldwood, hesitation on so high
a matter is honourable in any woman, and I don't want to give a
solemn promise to-night. I would rather ask you to wait a few
weeks till I can see my situation better.
　　　“But you have every reason to believe that then--”
　　　“I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five
or six weeks, between this time and harvest, that you say you are
going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your
wife,” she said, firmly. “But remember this distinctly, I don't
promise yet.”
　　　“It is enough; I don't ask more. I can wait on those dear
words. And now, Miss Everdene, good-night!”
　　　“Good-night,” she said, graciously--almost tenderly; and
Boldwood withdrew with a serene smile.
　　　Bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his
heart before her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the
sorry look of a grand bird without the feathers that make it grand.
She had been awe-struck at her past temerity, and was struggling
to make amends without thinking whether the sin quite deserved
the penalty she was schooling herself to pay. To have brought all
this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation
was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the
most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when
that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous.








　　　Among the multifarious duties which Bathsheba had voluntar-
ily imposed upon herself by dispensing with the services of a bail-
iff, was the particular one of looking round the homestead before
going to bed, to see that all was right and safe for the night.
Gabriel had almost constantly preceded her in this tour every eve-
ning, watching her affairs as carefully as any specially appointed
officer of surveillance could have done; but this tender devotion
was to a great extent unknown to his mistress, and as much as was
known was somewhat thanklessly received. Women are never tired of
bewailing man's fickleness in love, but they only seem to snub his
constancy.
　　　As watching is best done invisibly, she usually carried a dark
lantern in her hand, and every now and then turned on the light to
examine nooks and corners with the coolness of a metropolitan pol-
iceman. This coolness may have owed its existence not so much to
her fearlessness of expected danger as to her freedom from the sus-
picion of any; her worst anticipated discovery being that a horse
might not be well bedded, the fowls not all in, or a door not closed.
　　　This night the buildings were inspected as usual, and she went
round to the farm paddock. Here the only sounds disturbing the
stillness were steady munchings of many mouths, and stentorian
breathings from all but invisible noses, ending in snores and puffs
like the blowing of bellows slowly. Then the munching would rec-
ommence, when the lively imagination might assist the eye to dis-
cern a group of pink-white nostrils, shaped as caverns, and very
clammy and humid on their surfaces, not exactly pleasant to the
touch until one got used to them; the mouths beneath having a
great partiality for closing upon any loose end of Bathsheba's ap-
parel which came within reach of their tongues. Above each of
these a still keener vision suggested a brown forehead and two
staring though not unfriendly eyes, and above all a pair of whitish
crescent-shaped horns like two particularly new moons, an oc-
casional stolid "moo!" proclaiming beyond the shade of a doubt
that these phenomena were the features and persons of Daisy,
Whitefoot, Bonny-lass, Jolly-O, Spot, Twinkle-eye, etc., etc. --
the respectable dairy of Devon cows belonging to Bathsheba a-
foresaid.
　　　Her way back to the house was by a path through a young
plantation of tapering firs, which had been planted some years
earlier to shelter the premises from the north wind. By reason
of the density of the interwoven foliage overhead, it was gloomy
there at cloudless noontide, twilight in the evening, dark as mid-
night at dusk, and black as the ninth plague of Egypt at midnight.
To describe the spot is to call it a vast, low, naturally formed
hall, the plumy ceiling of which was supported by slender pillars
of living wood, the floor being covered with a soft dun carpet of
dead spikelets and mildewed cones, with a tuft of grass-blades
here and there.
　　　This bit of the path was always the crux of the night's
ramble, though, before starting, her apprehensions of danger were
not vivid enough to lead her to take a companion. Slipping along
here covertly as Time, Bathsheba fancied she could hear footsteps
entering the track at the opposite end. It was certainly a rustle
of footsteps. Her own instantly fell as gently as snowflakes. She
reassured herself by a remembrance that the path was public, and
that the traveller was probably some villager returning home; re-
gretting, at the same time, that the meeting should be about to
occur in the darkest point of her route, even though only just
outside her own door.
　　　The noise approached, came close, and a figure was apparent-
ly on the point of gliding past her when something tugged at her
skirt and pinned it forcibly to the ground. The instantaneous
check nearly threw Bathsheba off her balance. In recovering she
struck against warm clothes and buttons.
　　　“A rum start, upon my soul!” said a masculine voice, a
foot or so above her head. “Have I hurt you, mate?”
　　　“No,” said Bathsheba, attempting to shrink away.
　　　“We have got hitched together somehow, I think.”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“Are you a woman?”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“A lady, I should have said.”
　　　“It doesn't matter.”
　　　“I am a man.”
　　　“Oh!”
　　　Bathsheba softly tugged again, but to no purpose.
　　　“Is that a dark lantern you have? I fancy so,” said the
man.
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“If you'll allow me I'll open it, and set you free.”
　　　A hand seized the lantern, the door was opened, the rays
burst out from their prison, and Bathsheba beheld her position
with astonishment.
　　　The man to whom she was hooked was brilliant in brass and
scarlet. He was a soldier. His sudden appearance was to darkness
what the sound of a trumpet is to silence. Gloom, the genius loci
at all times hitherto, was now totally overthrown, less by the lan-
tern-light than by what the lantern lighted. The contrast of this
revelation with her anticipations of some sinister figure in sombre
garb was so great that it had upon her the effect of a fairy trans-
formation.
　　　It was immediately apparent that the military man's spur had
become entangled in the gimp which decorated the skirt of her
dress. He caught a view of her face.
　　　“I'll unfasten you in one moment, miss,” he said, with
new-born gallantry.
　　　“Oh no--I can do it, thank you,” she hastily replied, and
stooped for the performance.
　　　The unfastening was not such a trifling affair. The rowel
of the spur had so wound itself among the gimp cords in those
few moments, that separation was likely to be a matter of time.
　　　He too stooped, and the lantern standing on the ground be-
twixt them threw the gleam from its open side among the fir-tree
needles and the blades of long damp grass with the effect of a
large glowworm. It radiated upwards into their faces, and sent
over half the plantation gigantic shadows of both man and woman,
each dusky shape becoming distorted and mangled upon the tree-
trunks till it wasted to nothing.
　　　He looked hard into her eyes when she raised them for a
moment; Bathsheba looked down again, for his gaze was too strong
to be received point-blank with her own. But she had obliquely
noticed that he was young and slim, and that he wore three chev-
rons upon his sleeve.
　　　Bathsheba pulled again.
　　　“You are a prisoner, miss; it is no use blinking the mat-
ter,” said the soldier, drily. “I must cut your dress if you
are in such a hurry.”
　　　“Yes--please do!” she exclaimed, helplessly.
　　　“It wouldn't be necessary if you could wait a moment,”
and he unwound a cord from the little wheel. She withdrew her
own hand, but, whether by accident or design, he touched it.
Bathsheba was vexed; she hardly knew why.
　　　His unravelling went on, but it nevertheless seemed com-
ing to no end. She looked at him again.--
　　　"Thank you for the sight of such a beautiful face!" said
the young sergeant, without ceremony.
　　　She coloured with embarrassment. "'Twas unwillingly shown,"
she replied, stiffly, and with as much dignity -- which was
very little -- as she could infuse into a position of captivity.
　　　"I like you the better for that incivility, miss," he said.
　　　"I should have liked -- I wish -- you had never shown yourself
to me by intruding here!" She pulled again, and the gathers of
her dress began to give way like liliputian musketry.
　　　"I deserve the chastisement your words give me. But why should
such a fair and dutiful girl have such an aversion to her father's
sex?"
　　　"Go on your way, please."
　　　"What, Beauty, and drag you after me? Do but look; I never saw
such a tangle!"
　　　"Oh, 'tis shameful of you; you have been making it worse on pur-
pose to keep me here -- you have!"
　　　"Indeed, I don't think so," said the sergeant, with a merry twinkle.
　　　"I tell you you have!" she exclaimed, in high temper. I insist upon
undoing it. Now, allow me!"
　　　"Certainly, miss; I am not of steel." He added a sigh which had as
much archness in it as a sigh could possess without losing its nature
altogether. "I am thankful for beauty, even when 'tis thrown to me
like a bone to a dog. These moments will be over too soon!"
　　　She closed her lips in a determined silence.
　　　Bathsheba was revolving in her mind whether by a bold and
desperate rush she could free herself at the risk of leaving her
skirt bodily behind her. The thought was too dreadful. The dress
--which she had put on to appear stately at the supper--was the
head and front of her wardrobe; not another in her stock became
her so well. What woman in Bathsheba's position, not naturally
timid, and within call of her retainers, would have bought escape
from a dashing soldier at so dear a price?
　　　“All in good time; it will soon be done, I perceive,” said her
cool friend.
　　　“This trifling provokes, and--and--”
　　　“Not too cruel!”
　　　“--Insults me!”
　　　“It is done in order that I may have the pleasure of apologiz-
ing to so charming a woman, which I straightway do most humbly,
madam,” he said, bowing low.
　　　Bathsheba really knew not what to say.
　　　“I've seen a good many women in my time,” continued the
young man in a murmur, and more thoughtfully than hitherto, crit-
ically regarding her bent head at the same time; “but I've never
seen a woman so beautiful as you. Take it or leave it--be offend-
ed or like it--I don't care.”
　　　“Who are you, then, who can so well afford to despise o-
pinion?”
　　　“No stranger. Sergeant Troy. I am staying in this place.--
There! it is undone at last, you see. Your light fingers were more
eager than mine. I wish it had been the knot of knots, which
there's no untying!”
　　　This was worse and worse. She started up, and so did he.
How to decently get away from him--that was her difficulty now.
She sidled off inch by inch, the lantern in her hand, till she
could see the redness of his coat no longer.
　　　“Ah, Beauty; good-bye!” he said.
　　　She made no reply, and, reaching a distance of twenty or
thirty yards, turned about, and ran indoors.
　　　Liddy had just retired to rest. In ascending to her own
chamber, Bathsheba opened the girl's door an inch or two, and,
panting, said--
　　　“Liddy, is any soldier staying in the village--sergeant some-
body--rather gentlemanly for a sergeant, and good looking--a
red coat with blue facings?”
　　　“No, miss.... No, I say; but really it might be Sergeant
Troy home on furlough, though I have not seen him. He was here
once in that way when the regiment was at Casterbridge.”
　　　“Yes; that's the name. Had he a moustache--no whiskers or
beard?”
　　　“He had.”
　　　“What kind of a person is he?”
　　　“Oh! miss--I blush to name it--a gay man! But I know him
to be very quick and trim, who might have made his thousands,
like a squire. Such a clever young dandy as he is! He's a doctor's
son by name, which is a great deal; and he's an earl's son by
nature!”
　　　“Which is a great deal more. Fancy! Is it true?”
　　　“Yes. And, he was brought up so well, and sent to Cast-
erbridge Grammar School for years and years. Learnt all languag-
es while he was there; and it was said he got on so far that he
could take down Chinese in shorthand; but that I don't answer
for, as it was only reported. However, he wasted his gifted lot,
and listed a soldier; but even then he rose to be a sergeant
without trying at all. Ah! such a blessing it is to be high-born;
nobility of blood will shine out even in the ranks and files.
And is he really come home, miss?”
　　　“I believe so. Good-night, Liddy.”
　　　After all, how could a cheerful wearer of skirts be perma-
nently offended with the man? There are occasions when girls
like Bathsheba will put up with a great deal of unconventional
behaviour. When they want to be praised, which is often, when
they want to be mastered, which is sometimes; and when they
want no nonsense, which is seldom. Just now the first feeling
was in the ascendant with Bathsheba, with a dash of the second.
Moreover, by chance or by devilry, the ministrant was antecedent-
ly made interesting by being a handsome stranger who had evident-
ly seen better days.
　　　So she could not clearly decide whether it was her opinion
that he had insulted her or not.
　　　“Was ever anything so odd!” she at last exclaimed to her-
self, in her own room. “And was ever anything so meanly done as
what I did--to skulk away like that from a man who was only civil
and kind!” Clearly she did not think his barefaced praise of her
person an insult now.
　　　It was a fatal omission of Boldwood's that he had never
once told her she was beautiful.








　　　Idiosyncrasy and vicissitude had combined to stamp Sergeant
Troy as an exceptional being.
　　　He was a man to whom memories were an incumbrance, and
anticipations a superfluity. Simply feeling, considering, and caring
for what was before his eyes, he was vulnerable only in the present.
His outlook upon time was as a transient flash of the eye now and
then: that projection of consciousness into days gone by and to
come, which makes the past a synonym for the pathetic and the
future a word for circumspection, was foreign to Troy. With him the
past was yesterday; the future, to-morrow; never, the day after.
　　　On this account he might, in certain lights, have been regard-
ed as one of the most fortunate of his order. For it may be argued
with great plausibility that reminiscence is less an endowment than
a disease, and that expectation in its only comfortable form--that
of absolute faith--is practically an impossibility; whilst in the form
of hope and the secondary compounds, patience, impatience, re-
solve, curiosity, it is a constant fluctuation between pleasure and
pain.
　　　Sergeant Troy, being entirely innocent of the practice of ex-
pectation, was never disappointed. To set against this negative gain
there may have been some positive losses from a certain narrowing of
the higher tastes and sensations which it entailed. But limitation
of the capacity is never recognized as a loss by the loser therefrom:
in this attribute moral or æsthetic poverty contrasts plausibly with
material, since those who suffer do not mind it, whilst those who
mind it soon cease to suffer. It is not a denial of anything to have
been always without it, and what Troy had never enjoyed he did not
miss; but, being fully conscious that what sober people missed he en-
joyed, his capacity, though really less, seemed greater than theirs.
　　　He was moderately truthful towards men, but to women lied like
a Cretan--a system of ethics above all others calculated to win pop-
ularity at the first flush of admission into lively society; and the
possibility of the favour gained being transitory had reference only
to the future.
　　　He never passed the line which divides the spruce vices from
the ugly; and hence, though his morals had hardly been applauded,
disapproval of them had frequently been tempered with a smile.
This treatment had led to his becoming a sort of regrater of other
men's gallantries, to his own aggrandizement as a Corinthian,
rather than to the moral profit of his hearers.
　　　His reason and his propensities had seldom any reciprocating
influence, having separated by mutual consent long ago: thence it
sometimes happened that, while his intentions were as honourable as
could be wished, any particular deed formed a dark background which
threw them into fine relief. The sergeant's vicious phases being
the offspring of impulse, and his virtuous phases of cool medita-
tion, the latter had a modest tendency to be oftener heard of than
seen.
　　　Troy was full of activity, but his activities were less of a
locomotive than a vegetative nature; and, never being based upon
any original choice of foundation or direction, they were exercised
on whatever object chance might place in their way. Hence, whilst
he sometimes reached the brilliant in speech because that was spon-
taneous, he fell below the commonplace in action, from inability to
guide incipient effort. He had a quick comprehension and consider-
able force of character; but, being without the power to combine
them, the comprehension became engaged with trivialities whilst
waiting for the will to direct it, and the force wasted itself in
useless grooves through unheeding the comprehension.
　　　He was a fairly well-educated man for one of middle class--
exceptionally well educated for a common soldier. He spoke fluently
and unceasingly. He could in this way be one thing and seem another:
for instance, he could speak of love and think of dinner; call on
the husband to look at the wife; be eager to pay and intend to owe.
　　　The wondrous power of flattery in passados at woman is a
perception so universal as to be remarked upon by many people al-
most as automatically as they repeat a proverb, or say that they
are Christians and the like, without thinking much of the enormous
corollaries which spring from the proposition. Still less is it
acted upon for the good of the complemental being alluded to. With
the majority such an opinion is shelved with all those trite aphor-
isms which require some catastrophe to bring their tremendous mean-
ings thoroughly home. When expressed with some amount of reflective-
ness it seems co-ordinate with a belief that this flattery must be
reasonable to be effective. It is to the credit of men that few at-
tempt to settle the question by experiment, and it is for their hap-
piness, perhaps, that accident has never settled it for them. Never-
theless, that a male dissembler who by deluging her with untenable
fictions charms the female wisely, may acquire powers reaching to
the extremity of perdition, is a truth taught to many by unsought
and wringing occurrences. And some profess to have attained to the
same knowledge by experiment as aforesaid, and jauntily continue
their indulgence in such experiments with terrible effect. Sergeant
Troy was one.
　　　He had been known to observe casually that in dealing with
womankind the only alternative to flattery was cursing and swear-
ing. There was no third method. “Treat them fairly, and you are
a lost man.” he would say.
　　　This person's public appearance in Weatherbury promptly
followed his arrival there. A week or two after the shearing,
Bathsheba, feeling a nameless relief of spirits on account of
Boldwood's absence, approached her hayfields and looked over the
hedge towards the haymakers. They consisted in about equal pro-
portions of gnarled and flexuous forms, the former being the men,
the latter the women, who wore tilt bonnets covered with nankeen,
which hung in a curtain upon their shoulders. Coggan and Mark
Clark were mowing in a less forward meadow, Clark humming a tune
to the strokes of his scythe, to which Jan made no attempt to
keep time with his. In the first mead they were already loading
hay, the women raking it into cocks and windrows, and the men
tossing it upon the waggon.
　　　From behind the waggon a bright scarlet spot emerged, and
went on loading unconcernedly with the rest. It was the gallant
sergeant, who had come haymaking for pleasure; and nobody could
deny that he was doing the mistress of the farm real knight-ser-
vice by this voluntary contribution of his labour at a busy time.
　　　As soon as she had entered the field Troy saw her, and
sticking his pitchfork into the ground and picking up his crop
or cane, he came forward. Bathsheba blushed with half-angry embar-
rassment, and adjusted her eyes as well as her feet to the direct
line of her path.








　　　“Ah, Miss Everdene!” said the sergeant, touching his diminu-
tive cap. “Little did I think it was you I was speaking to the o-
ther night. And yet, if I had reflected, the ‘Queen of the Corn-
market' (truth is truth at any hour of the day or night, and I
heard you so named in Casterbridge yesterday), the ‘Queen of the
Corn-market.' I say, could be no other woman. I step across now to
beg your forgiveness a thousand times for having been led by my feel-
ings to express myself too strongly for a stranger. To be sure I am
no stranger to the place--I am Sergeant Troy, as I told you, and I
have assisted your uncle in these fields no end of times when I was
a lad. I have been doing the same for you to-day.”
　　　“I suppose I must thank you for that, Sergeant Troy,” said
the Queen of the Corn-market, in an indifferently grateful tone.
　　　The sergeant looked hurt and sad. “Indeed you must not,
Miss Everdene,” he said. “Why could you think such a thing neces-
sary?”
　　　“I am glad it is not.”
　　　"Why? if I may ask without offence."
　　　"Because I don't much want to thank you for anything."
　　　"I am afraid I have made a hole with my tongue that my heart
will never mend. O these intolerable times: that ill-luck should
follow a man for honestly telling a woman she is beautiful! 'Twas
the most I said -- you must own that; and the least I could say
-- that I own myself."
　　　"There is some talk I could do without more easily than money."
　　　"Indeed. That remark is a sort of digression."
　　　"No. It means that I would rather have your room than your
company."
　　　"And I would rather have curses from you than kisses from any
other woman; so I'll stay here."
　　　Bathsheba was absolutely speechless. And yet she could not
help feeling that the assistance he was rendering forbade a harsh
repulse.
　　　"Well," continued Troy, "I suppose there is a praise which is
rudeness, and that may be mine. At the same time there is a
treatment which is injustice, and that may be yours. Because a
plain blunt man, who has never been taught concealment, speaks
out his mind without exactly intending it, he's to be snapped off
like the son of a sinner."
　　　“Indeed there's no such case between us,” she said, turn-
ing away. “I don't allow strangers to be bold and impudent--even
in praise of me.”
　　　“Ah--it is not the fact but the method which offends you,”
he said, carelessly. “But I have the sad satisfaction of knowing
that my words, whether pleasing or offensive, are unmistakably true.
Would you have had me look at you, and tell my acquaintance that
you are quite a common-place woman, to save you the embarrass-
ment of being stared at if they come near you? Not I. I couldn't
tell any such ridiculous lie about a beauty to encourage a single
woman in England in too excessive a modesty.”
　　　“It is all pretence--what you are saying!” exclaimed Bath-
sheba, laughing in spite of herself at the sly method. “You have
a rare invention, Sergeant Troy. Why couldn't you have passed by
me that night, and said nothing?--that was all I meant to reproach
you for.”
　　　“Because I wasn't going to. Half the pleasure of a feeling lies
in being able to express it on the spur of the moment, and I let out
mine. It would have been just the same if you had been the reverse
person -- ugly and old -- I should have exclaimed about it in the
same way."
　　　"How long is it since you have been so afflicted with strong
feeling, then?"
　　　"Oh, ever since I was big enough to know loveliness from de-
formity."
　　　"'Tis to be hoped your sense of the difference you speak of
doesn't stop at faces, but extends to morals as well."
　　　"I won't speak of morals or religion -- my own or anybody
else's. Though perhaps I should have been a very good Christian
if you pretty women hadn't made me an idolater."
　　　Bathsheba moved on to hide the irrepressible dimplings of
merriment. Troy followed, whirling his crop.
　　　"But -- Miss Everdene -- you do forgive me?"
　　　"Hardly."
　　　"Why?"
　　　"You say such things."
　　　"I said you were beautiful, and I'll say so still; for, by -- so
you are! The most beautiful ever I saw, or may I fall dead this in-
stant! Why, upon my ----"
　　　"Don't -- don't! I won't listen to you -- you are so profane!"
she said, in a restless state between distress at hearing him and
a penchant to hear more.
　　　“I again say you are a most fascinating woman. There's no-
thing remarkable in my saying so, is there? I'm sure the fact is e-
vident enough. Miss Everdene, my opinion may be too forcibly let
out to please you, and, for the matter of that, too insignificant
to convince you, but surely it is honest, and why can't it be ex-
cused?”
　　　“Because it--it isn't a correct one,” she femininely mur-
mured.
　　　“Oh, fie--fie! Am I any worse for breaking the third of that
Terrible Ten than you for breaking the ninth?”
　　　“Well, it doesn't seem quite true to me that I am fascin-
ating,” she replied evasively.
　　　“Not so to you: then I say with all respect that, if so, it is
owing to your modesty, Miss Everdene. "But surely you must
have been told by everybody of what everybody notices? and you
should take their words for it."
　　　"They don't say so exactly."
　　　"Oh yes, they must!"
　　　"Well, I mean to my face, as you do," she went on, allowing
herself to be further lured into a conversation that intention had
rigorously forbidden.
　　　"But you know they think so?"
　　　"No -- that is -- I certainly have heard Liddy say they do,
but ----" She paused.
　　　Capitulation -- that was the purport of the simple reply, guard-
ed as it was -- capitulation, unknown to herself. Never did a fragile
tailless sentence convey a more perfect meaning. The careless se-
geant smiled within himself, and probably too the devil smiled from
a loop-hole in Tophet, for the moment was the turning-point of a
career. Her tone and mien signified beyond mistake that the seed
which was to lift the foundation had taken root in the chink: the
remainder was a mere question of time and natural changes.
　　　"There the truth comes out!" said the soldier, in reply. "Nev-
er tell me that a young lady can live in a buzz of admiration without
knowing something about it. Ah, well, Miss Everdene, you are--par-
don my blunt way--you are rather an injury to our race than other-
wise.”
　　　“How--indeed?” she said, opening her eyes.
　　　“Oh, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as
a lamb (an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do
for a rough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of
your pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon.
Why, Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may
do more harm than good in the world.” The sergeant looked down the
mead in critical abstraction. “Probably some one man on an average
falls in love with each ordinary woman. She can marry him: he is con-
tent, and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men always
covet--your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailing
fancy for you--you can only marry one of that many. Out of these say
twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised love in
drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or at-
tempt to make a mark in the world, because they have no ambition a-
part from their attachment to you; twenty more--the susceptible per-
son myself possibly among them--will be always draggling after you,
getting where they may just see you, doing desperate things. Men
are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over their passion
with more or less success. But all these men will be saddened. And
not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women they
might have married are saddened with them. There's my tale. That's
why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss Everdene, is
hardly a blessing to her race.”
　　　The handsome sergeant's features were during this speech as
rigid and stern as John Knox's in addressing his gay young queen.
　　　Seeing she made no reply, he said, “Do you read French?”
　　　“No; I began, but when I got to the verbs, father died,”
she said simply.
　　　“I do--when I have an opportunity, which latterly has not
been often (my mother was a Parisienne)--and there's a proverb
they have,
　　　"Qui aime bien chatie bien -- 'He chastens who loves well.' Do
you understand me?"
　　　"Ah!" she replied, and there was even a little tremulousness in
the usually cool girl's voice; "if you can only fight half as
winningly as you can talk, you are able to make a pleasure of a
bayonet wound!" And then poor Bathsheba instantly perceived her
slip in making this admission: in hastily trying to retrieve it,
she went from bad to worse. "Don't, however, suppose that I derive
any pleasure from what you tell me."
　　　"I know you do not -- I know it perfectly," said Troy, with much
hearty conviction on the exterior of his face: and altering the
expression to moodiness; "when a dozen men are ready to speak
tenderly to you, and give the admiration you deserve without adding
the warning you need, it stands to reason that my poor rough-and-
ready mixture of praise and blame cannot convey much pleasure.
Fool as I may be, I am not so conceited as to suppose that!"
　　　"I think you -- are conceited, nevertheless," said Bathsheba,
looking askance at a reed she was fitfully pulling with one hand,
having lately grown feverish under the soldier's system of proce-
dure -- not because the nature of his cajolery was entirely unper-
ceived, but because its vigour was overwhelming.
　　　　　　“I would not own it to anybody else--nor do I exactly to
you. Still, there might have been some self-conceit in my foolish
supposition the other night. I knew that what I said in admiration
might be an opinion too often forced upon you to give any plea-
sure, but I certainly did think that the kindness of your nature
might prevent you judging an uncontrolled tongue harshly--which
you have done--and thinking badly of me and wounding me this
morning, when I am working hard to save your hay.”
　　　“Well, you need not think more of that: perhaps you did
not mean to be rude to me by speaking out your mind: indeed, I
believe you did not,” said the shrewd woman, in painfully inno-
cent earnest. “And I thank you for giving help here. But--but
mind you don't speak to me again in that way, or in any
other, unless I speak to you.”
　　　“Oh, Miss Bathsheba! That is too hard!”
　　　“No, it isn't. Why is it?”
　　　“You will never speak to me; for I shall not be here long.
I am soon going back again to the miserable monotony of drill--
and perhaps our regiment will be ordered out soon. And yet you
take away the one little ewe-lamb of pleasure that I have in
this dull life of mine. Well, perhaps generosity is not a wo-
man's most marked characteristic.”
　　　“When are you going from here?” she asked, with some
interest.
　　　“In a month.”
　　　“But how can it give you pleasure to speak to me?”
　　　“Can you ask Miss Everdene--knowing as you do--what my
offence is based on?”
　　　 “If you do care so much for a silly trifle of that kind,
then, I don't mind doing it,” she uncertainly and doubtingly
answered. “But you can't really care for a word from me? you
only say so--I think you only say so.”
　　　“That's unjust--but I won't repeat the remark. I am
too gratified to get such a mark of your friendship at any price
to cavil at the tone. I do, Miss Everdene, care for it. You may
think a man foolish to want a mere word--just a good morning.
Perhaps he is--I don't know. But you have never been a man
looking upon a woman, and that woman yourself.”
　　　“Well.”
　　　“Then you know nothing of what such an experience is like
--and Heaven forbid that you ever should!”
　　　“Nonsense, flatterer! What is it like? I am interested
in knowing.”
　　　“Put shortly, it is not being able to think, hear, or look in
any direction except one without wretchedness, nor there with-
out torture.”
　　　“Ah, sergeant, it won't do--you are pretending!” she said,
shaking her head. “Your words are too dashing to be true.”
　　　“I am not, upon the honour of a soldier.”
　　　“But why is it so?--Of course I ask for mere pastime.”
　　　“Because you are so distracting--and I am so distracted.”
　　　“You look like it.”
　　　“I am indeed.”
　　　“Why, you only saw me the other night!”
　　　“That makes no difference. The lightning works instant-
aneously. I loved you then, at once--as I do now.”
　　　Bathsheba surveyed him curiously, from the feet upward,
as high as she liked to venture her glance, which was not quite
so high as his eyes.
　　　“You cannot and you don't,” she said demurely. “There
is no such sudden feeling in people. I won't listen to you any
longer. Hear me, I wish I knew what o'clock it is--I am going--
I have wasted too much time here already!”
　　　The sergeant looked at his watch and told her. “What,
haven't you a watch, miss?” he inquired.
　　　“I have not just at present--I am about to get a new
one.”
　　　“No. You shall be given one. Yes--you shall. A gift,
Miss Everdene--a gift.”
　　　And before she knew what the young man was intending, a
heavy gold watch was in her hand.
　　　“It is an unusually good one for a man like me to pos-
sess,” he quietly said. “That watch has a history. Press the
spring and open the back.”
　　　She did so.
　　　“What do you see?”
　　　“A crest and a motto.”
　　　“A coronet with five points, and beneath, Cedit amor
rebus--‘Love yields to circumstance.' It's the motto of the
Earls of Severn. That watch belonged to the last lord, and was
given to my mother's husband, a medical man, for his use till
I came of age, when it was to be given to me. It was all the
fortune that ever I inherited. That watch has regulated imper-
ial interests in its time--the stately ceremonial, the courtly
assignation, pompous travels, and lordly sleeps. Now it is yours.”
　　　“But, Sergeant Troy, I cannot take this--I cannot!” she
exclaimed, with round-eyed wonder. “A gold watch! What are you
doing? Don't be such a dissembler!”
　　　The sergeant retreated to avoid receiving back his gift,
which she held out persistently towards him. Bathsheba followed
as he retired.
　　　"Keep it -- do, Miss Everdene -- keep it!" said the erratic
child of impulse. "The fact of your possessing it makes it
worth ten times as much to me. A more plebeian one will answer
my purpose just as well, and the pleasure of knowing whose
heart my old one beats against -- well, I won't speak of that.
It is in far worthier hands than ever it has been in before."
　　　"But indeed I can't have it!" she said, in a perfect simmer
of distress. "Oh, how can you do such a thing; that is if you
really mean it! Give me your dead father's watch, and such a
valuable one! You should not be so reckless, indeed, Sergeant
Troy!"
　　　"I loved my father: good; but better, I love you more. That's
how I can do it," said the sergeant, with an intonation of such
exquisite fidelity to nature that it was evidently not all acted
now. Her beauty, which, whilst it had been quiescent, he had
praised in jest, had in its animated phases moved him to earnest;
and though his seriousness was less than she imagined, it was
probably more than he imagined himself.
　　　Bathsheba was brimming with agitated bewilderment, and she
said, in half-suspicious accents of feeling, "Can it be! Oh, how
can it be, that you care for me, and so suddenly!" You have seen
so little of me: I may not be really so--so nice-looking as I seem
to you. Please, do take it; Oh, do! I cannot and will not have it.
Believe me, your generosity is too great. I have never done you a
single kindness, and why should you be so kind to me?”
　　　A factitious reply had been again upon his lips, but it was
again suspended, and he looked at her with an arrested eye. The
truth was, that as she now stood--excited, wild, and honest as the
day--her alluring beauty bore out so fully the epithets he had bes-
towed upon it that he was quite startled at his temerity in advanc-
ing them as false. He said mechanically, “Ah, why?” and continued
to look at her.
　　　“And my workfolk see me following you about the field, and
are wondering. Oh, this is dreadful!” she went on, unconscious of
the transmutation she was effecting.
　　　“I did not quite mean you to accept it at first, for it was
my one poor patent of nobility,” he broke out, bluntly; “but, upon
my soul, I wish you would now. Without any shamming, come! Don't
deny me the happiness of wearing it for my sake? But you are too
lovely even to care to be kind as others are.”
　　　“No, no; don't say so! I have reasons for reserve which I
cannot explain.”
　　　“Let it be, then, let it be,” he said, receiving back the
watch at last; “I must be leaving you now. And will you speak to
me for these few weeks of my stay?”
　　　“Indeed I will. Yet, I don't know if I will! Oh, why did you
come and disturb me so!”
　　　“Perhaps in setting a gin, I have caught myself. Such things
have happened. Well, will you let me work in your fields?” he coax-
ed.
　　　“Yes, I suppose so; if it is any pleasure to you.”
　　　“Miss Everdene, I thank you.”
　　　“No, no.”
　　　“Good-bye!”
　　　The sergeant brought his hand to the cap on the slope of his
head, saluted, and returned to the distant group of haymakers.
　　　Bathsheba could not face the haymakers now. Her heart errati-
cally flitting hither and thither from perplexed excitement, hot,
and almost tearful, she retreated homeward, murmuring, “Oh, what
have I done! What does it mean! I wish I knew how much of it was
true!”








　　　The Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year.
It was in the latter part of June, and the day after the interview
with Troy in the hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her gar-
den, watching a swarm in the air and guessing their probable settl-
ing place. Not only were they late this year, but unruly. Sometimes
throughout a whole season all the swarms would alight on the lowest
attainable bough--such as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-
tree; next year they would, with just the same unanimity, make
straight off to the uppermost member of some tall, gaunt costard,
or quarrenden, and there defy all invaders who did not come armed
with ladders and staves to take them.
　　　This was the case at present. Bathsheba's eyes, shaded by one
hand, were following the ascending multitude against the unexplor-
able stretch of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy
trees spoken of. A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged
formations of the universe, time and times ago, was observable. The
bustling swarm had swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze,
which now thickened to a nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough
and grew still denser, till it formed a solid black spot upon the light.
　　　The men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay
--even Liddy had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand--
Bathsheba resolved to hive the bees herself, if possible. She had
dressed the hive with herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and
crook, made herself impregnable with armour of leather gloves,
straw hat, and large gauze veil--once green but now faded to snuff
colour--and ascended a dozen rungs of the ladder. At once she
heard, not ten yards off, a voice that was beginning to have a
strange power in agitating her.
　　　“Miss Everdene, let me assist you; you should not attempt
such a thing alone.”
　　　Troy was just opening the garden gate.
　　　Bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pull-
ed the skirt of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous
flurry, and as well as she could slid down the ladder. By the time
she reached the bottom Troy was there also, and he stooped to pick
up the hive.
　　　“How fortunate I am to have dropped in at this moment!” ex-
claimed the sergeant.
　　　She found her voice in a minute. “What! and will you shake
them in for me?” she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a fal-
tering way; though, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave
way enough.
　　　“Will I!” said Troy. “Why, of course I will. How blooming
you are to-day!” Troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the
ladder to ascend.
　　　“But you must have on the veil and gloves, or you'll be stung
fearfully!”
　　　“Ah, yes. I must put on the veil and gloves. Will you kindly
show me how to fix them properly?”
　　　“And you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap
has no brim to keep the veil off, and they'd reach your face.”
　　　“The broad-brimmed hat, too, by all means.”
　　　So a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off
--veil and all attached--and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his
own into a gooseberry bush. Then the veil had to be tied at its low-
er edge round his collar and the gloves put on him.
　　　He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flur-
ried as she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the
removal of yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners
which had kept him off.
　　　Bathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweep-
ing and shaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the
other hand for them to fall into. She made use of an unobserved min-
ute whilst his attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her
plumes a little. He came down holding the hive at arm's length, be-
hind which trailed a cloud of bees.
　　　“Upon my life,” said Troy, through the veil, “holding up this
hive makes one's arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise.”
When the maneuver was complete he approached her. “Would you be
good enough to untie me and let me out? I am nearly stifled inside
this silk cage.”
　　　To hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of unty-
ing the string about his neck, she said:--
　　　“I have never seen that you spoke of.”
　　　“What?”
　　　“The sword-exercise.”
　　　“Ah! would you like to?” said Troy.
　　　Bathsheba hesitated. She had heard wondrous reports from time
to time by dwellers in Weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned a-
while in Casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious
performance, the sword-exercise. Men and boys who had peeped
through chinks or over walls into the barrack-yard returned with ac-
counts of its being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutre-
ments and weapons glistening like stars -- here, there, around -- yet
all by rule and compass. So she said mildly what she felt strongly.
　　　"Yes; I should like to see it very much."
　　　“And so you shall; you shall see me go through it.”
　　　“No! How?”
　　　“Let me consider.”
　　　“Not with a walking-stick--I don't care to see that. It must
be a real sword.”
　　　“Yes, I know; and I have no sword here; but I think I could
get one by the evening. Now, will you do this?”
　　　Troy bent over her and murmured some suggestion in a low voice.
　　　“Oh no, indeed!” said Bathsheba, blushing. “Thank you very
much, but I couldn't on any account.”
　　　“Surely you might? Nobody would know.”
　　　She shook her head, but with a weakened negation. “If I were
to,” she said, “I must bring Liddy too. Might I not?”
　　　Troy looked far away. “I don't see why you want to bring her,”
he said coldly.
　　　An unconscious look of assent in Bathsheba's eyes betrayed
that something more than his coldness had made her also feel that
Liddy would be superfluous in the suggested scene. She had felt it,
even whilst making the proposal.
　　　“Well, I won't bring Liddy--and I'll come. But only for a very
short time,” she added; “a very short time.”
　　　“It will not take five minutes,” said Troy.








　　　The hill opposite Bathsheba's dwelling extended, a mile off, in-
to an uncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall
thickets of brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid
growth, and radiant in hues of clear and untainted green.
　　　At eight o'clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling
ball of gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long,
luxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been heard
among them, and Bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft,
feathery arms caressing her up to her shoulders. She paused, turn-
ed, went back over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she
cast a farewell glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolv-
ed not to remain near the place after all.
　　　She saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder
of the rise. It disappeared on the other side.
　　　She waited one minute--two minutes--thought of Troy's disap-
pointment at her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she a-
gain ran along the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the
original direction. She was now literally trembling and panting at
this her temerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and
went quickly, and her eyes shone with an infrequent light. Yet go she
must.She reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns. Troy
stood in the bottom, looking up towards her.
　　　“I heard you rustling through the fern before I saw you,” he
said, coming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope.
　　　The pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a
top diameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the
sunshine to reach their heads. Standing in the centre, the sky over-
head was met by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to the
bottom of the slope and then abruptly ceased. The middle within the
belt of verdure was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss and
grass intermingled, so yielding that the foot was half-buried within
it.
　　　“Now,” said Troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it
into the sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing,
“first, we have four right and four left cuts; four right and four
left thrusts. Infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than ours,
to my mind; but they are not so swashing. They have seven cuts and
three thrusts. So much as a preliminary. Well, next, our cut one is
as if you were sowing your corn--so.” Bathsheba saw a sort of rain-
bow, upside down in the air, and Troy's arm was still again. “Cut
two, as if you were hedging--so. Three, as if you were reaping--so.
Four, as if you were threshing--in that way. Then the same on the
left. The thrusts are these: one, two, three, four, right; one, two,
three, four, left.” He repeated them. “Have 'em again?” he said.
“One, two--”
　　　She hurriedly interrupted: “I'd rather not; though I don't
mind your twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!”
　　　“Very well. I'll let you off the ones and threes. Next, cuts,
points and guards altogether.” Troy duly exhibited them. “Then
there's pursuing practice, in this way.” He gave the movements as
before. “There, those are the stereotyped forms. ---- "The in-
fantry have two most diabolical upward cuts, which we are too
humane to use. Like this -- three, four."
　　　"How murderous and bloodthirsty!"
　　　"They are rather deathy. Now I'll be more interesting, and
let you see some loose play -- giving all the cuts and points,
infantry and cavalry, quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously
-- with just enough rule to regulate instinct and yet not to fetter
it. You are my antagonist, with this difference from real warfare,
that I shall miss you every time by one hair's breadth, or perhaps
two. Mind you don't flinch, whatever you do."
　　　I'll be sure not to!" she said invincibly.
　　　He pointed to about a yard in front of him.
　　　Bathsheba's adventurous spirit was beginning to find some
grains of relish in these highly novel proceedings. She took up
her position as directed, facing Troy.
　　　“Now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do
what I wish, I'll give you a preliminary test.”
　　　He flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and
the next thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade
of the sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just a-
bove her hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging
as it were from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her
body. The third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same
sword, perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in Troy's
hand (in the position technically called “recover swords”). All was as
quick as electricity.
　　　“Oh!” she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side.
“Have you run me through?--no, you have not! Whatever have
you done!”
　　　“I have not touched you,” said Troy, quietly. “It was mere
sleight of hand. The sword passed behind you. Now you are not a-
fraid, are you? Because if you are I can't perform. I give my word
that I will not only not hurt you, but not once touch you.”
　　　“I don't think I am afraid. You are quite sure you will not
hurt me?”
　　　“Quite sure.”
　　　“Is the sword very sharp?”
　　　“O no--only stand as still as a statue. Now!”
　　　In an instant the atmosphere was transformed to Bathsheba's
eyes. Beams of light caught from the low sun's rays, above, around,
in front of her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven -- all emitted
in the marvellous evolutions of Troy's reflecting blade, which
seemed everywhere at once, and yet nowhere specially. These
circling gleams were accompanied by a keen rush that was almost a
whistling -- also springing from all sides of her at once. In short,
she was enclosed in a firmament of light, and of sharp hisses, re-
sembling a sky-full of meteors close at hand.
　　　Never since the broadsword became the national weapon had
there been more dexterity shown in its management than by the
hands of Sergeant Troy, and never had he been in such splendid
temper for the performance as now in the evening sunshine among
the ferns with Bathsheba. It may safely be asserted with respect
to the closeness of his cuts, that had it been possible for the edge
of the sword to leave in the air a permanent substance wherever
it flew past, the space left untouched would have been almost a
mould of Bathsheba's figure.
　　　Behind the luminous streams of this aurora militaris, she could
see the hue of Troy's sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over
the space covered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and
behind all Troy himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the
rear cuts, half turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly
measuring her breadth and outline, and his lips tightly closed in
sustained effort. Next, his movements lapsed slower, and she could
see them individually. The hissing of the sword had ceased, and he
stopped entirely.
　　　"That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying, he said, before she
had moved or spoken. "Wait: I'll do it for you."
　　　An arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had des-
cended. The lock droped to the ground.
　　　"Bravely borne!" said Troy. "You didn't flinch a shade's thick-
ness. Wonderful in a woman!"
　　　"It was because I didn't expect it. Oh, you have spoilt my
hair!"
　　　“Only once more.”
　　　“No--no! I am afraid of you--indeed I am!” she cried.
　　　“I won't touch you at all--not even your hair. I am only going
to kill that caterpillar settling on you. Now: still!”
　　　It appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen
the front of her bodice as his resting place. She saw the point glisten
towards her bosom, and seemingly enter it. Bathsheba closed her eyes in
the full persuasion that she was killed at last. However, feeling just
as usual, she opened them again.
　　　“There it is, look,” said the sergeant, holding his sword before
her eyes.
　　　The caterpillar was spitted upon its point.
　　　“Why, it is magic!” said Bathsheba, amazed.
　　　“Oh no--dexterity. I merely gave point to your bosom where the
caterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the exten-
sion a thousandth of an inch short of your surface.”
　　　“But how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that
has no edge?”
　　　“No edge! This sword will shave like a razor. Look here.”
　　　He touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting
it, showed her a thin shaving of scarf-skin dangling therefrom.
　　　“But you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn't cut
me!”
　　　“That was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your
safety. The risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not
to force me to tell you a fib to escape it.”
　　　She shuddered. "I have been within an inch of my life, and
didn't know it!"
　　　"More precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch
of being pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times."
　　　"Cruel, cruel, 'tis of you!"
　　　"You have been perfectly safe, nevertheless. My sword never
errs." And Troy returned the weapon to the scabbard.
　　　Bathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feelings resulting
from the scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather.
　　　"I must leave you now," said Troy, softly. "And I'll venture to
take and keep this in remembrance of you."
　　　She saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which
he had severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers,
unfasten a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put it
inside. She felt powerless to withstand or deny him. He was altogeth-
er too much for her, and Bathsheba seemed as one who, facing a re-
viving wind, finds it blow so strongly that it stops the breath. He drew
near and said, "I must be leaving you."
　　　He drew nearer still. A minute later and she saw his scarlet form
disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand swiftly
waved.
　　　That minute's interval had brought the blood beating into her face,
set her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and
enlarged emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought. It had
brought upon her a stroke resulting, as did that of Moses in Horeb,
in a liquid stream -- here a stream of tears. She felt like one who
has sinned a great sin.
　　　The circumstance had been the gentle dip of Troy's mouth down-
wards upon her own. He had kissed her.








We now see the element of folly distinctly mingling with the many
varying particulars which made up the character of Bathsheba Everdene.
It was almost foreign to her intrinsic nature. Introduced as lymph on
the dart of Eros, it eventually permeated and coloured her whole
constitution. Bathsheba, though she had too much understanding to be
entirely governed by her womanliness, had too much womanliness to use
her understanding to the best advantage. Perhaps in no minor point does
woman astonish her helpmate more than in the strange power she pos-
sesses of believing cajoleries that she knows to be false--except,
indeed, in that of being utterly sceptical on strictures that she knows
to be true.
　　　Bathsheba loved Troy in the way that only self-reliant women love
when they abandon their self-reliance. When a strong woman recklessly
throws away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never
had any strength to throw away. One source of her inadequacy is the nov-
elty of the occasion. She has never had practice in making the best of
such a condition. Weakness is doubly weak by being new.
　　　Bathsheba was not conscious of guile in this matter. Though in
one sense a woman of the world, it was, after all, that world of day-
light coteries and green carpets wherein cattle form the passing crowd
and winds the busy hum; where a quiet family of rabbits or hares lives
on the other side of your party-wall, where your neighbour is everybody
in the tything, and where calculation is confined to market-days. Of
the fabricated tastes of good fashionable society she knew but little,
and of the formulated self-indulgence of bad, nothing at all. Had her
utmost thoughts in this direction been distinctly worded (and by herself
they never were), they would only have amounted to such a matter as
that she felt her impulses to be pleasanter guides than her discretion.
Her love was entire as a child's, and though warm as summer it was
fresh as spring. Her culpability lay in her making no attempt to
control feeling by subtle and careful inquiry into consquences. She
could show others the steep and thorny way, but "reck'd not her own
rede,"
　　　And Troy's deformities lay deep down from a woman's vision,
whilst his embellishments were upon the very surface; thus contrast-
ing with homely Oak, whose defects were patent to the blindest, and
whose virtues were as metals in a mine.
　　　The difference between love and respect was markedly shown in
her conduct. Bathsheba had spoken of her interest in Boldwood with
the greatest freedom to Liddy, but she had only communed with her
own heart concerning Troy.
　　　All this infatuation Gabriel saw, and was troubled thereby from
the time of his daily journey a-field to the time of his return, and on
to the small hours of many a night. That he was not beloved had hither-
to been his great sorrow; that Bathsheba was getting into the toils was
now a sorrow greater than the first, and one which nearly obscured it.
It was a result which paralleled the oft-quoted observation of Hippo-
crates concerning physical pains.
　　　That is a noble though perhaps an unpromising love which not even
the fear of breeding aversion in the bosom of the one beloved can deter
from combating his or her errors. Oak determined to speak to his mis-
tress. He would base his appeal on what he considered her unfair treat-
ment of Farmer Boldwood, now absent from home.
　　　An opportunity occurred one evening when she had gone for a short
walk by a path through the neighbouring cornfields. It was dusk when
Oak, who had not been far a-field that day, took the same path and met
her returning, quite pensively, as he thought.
　　　The wheat was now tall, and the path was narrow; thus the way was
quite a sunken groove between the embowing thicket on either side. Two
persons could not walk abreast without damaging the crop, and Oak stood
aside to let her pass.
　　　“Oh, is it Gabriel?” she said. “You are taking a walk too. Good-
night.”
　　　“I thought I would come to meet you, as it is rather late,” said Oak,
turning and following at her heels when she had brushed somewhat
quickly by him.
　　　“Thank you, indeed, but I am not very fearful.”
　　　“Oh no; but there are bad characters about.”
　　　“I never meet them.”
　　　Now Oak, with marvellous ingenuity, had been going to introduce
the gallant sergeant through the channel of “bad characters.” But all
at once the scheme broke down, it suddenly occurring to him that this
was rather a clumsy way, and too barefaced to begin with. He tried an-
other preamble.
　　　“And as the man who would naturally come to meet you is away from
home, too--I mean Farmer Boldwood--why, thinks I, I'll go,” he said.
　　　“Ah, yes.” She walked on without turning her head, and for many
steps nothing further was heard from her quarter than the rustle of her
dress against the heavy corn-ears. Then she resumed rather tartly--
　　　"I don't quite understand what you meant by saying that Mr. Bold-
wood would naturally come to meet me."
　　　I meant on account of the wedding which they say is likely to
take place between you and him, miss. Forgive my speaking plainly."
　　　"They say what is not true." she returned quickly. No marriage
is likely to take place between us."
　　　Gabriel now put forth his unobscured opinion, for the moment had
come. "Well, Miss Everdene," he said, "putting aside what people say,
I never in my life saw any courting if his is not a courting of you."
　　　Bathsheba would probably have terminated the conversation there
and then by flatly forbidding the subject, had not her conscious weak-
ness of position allured her to palter and argue in endeavours to
better it.
　　　“Since this subject has been mentioned,” she said very emphati-
cally, “I am glad of the opportunity of clearing up a mistake which
is very common and very provoking. I didn't definitely promise Mr. Bold-
wood anything. I have never cared for him. I respect him, and he has
urged me to marry him. But I have given him no distinct answer. As
soon as he returns I shall do so; and the answer will be that I cannot
think of marrying him.”
　　　“People are full of mistakes, seemingly.”
　　　“They are.”
　　　“The other day they said you were trifling with him, and you a-
lmost proved that you were not; lately they have said that you be not,
and you straightway begin to show--”
　　　“That I am, I suppose you mean.”
　　　“Well, I hope they speak the truth.”
　　　“They do, but wrongly applied. I don't trifle with him; but then,
I have nothing to do with him.”
　　　Oak was unfortunately led on to speak of Boldwood's rival in a
wrong tone to her after all. “I wish you had never met that young Ser-
geant Troy, miss,” he sighed.
　　　Bathsheba's steps became faintly spasmodic. “Why?” she asked.
　　　“He is not good enough for 'ee.”
　　　“Did any one tell you to speak to me like this?”
　　　“Nobody at all.”
　　　"Then it appears to me that Sergeant Troy does not concern us
here," she said, intractably." Yet I must say that Sergeant Troy is an
educated man, and quite worthy of any woman. He is well born."
　　　"His being higher in learning and birth than the ruck o' soldiers
is anything but a proof of his worth. It show's his course to be
down'ard."
　　　"I cannot see what this has to do with our conversation. Mr.
Troy's course is not by any means downward; and his superiority IS
a proof of his worth!"
　　　“I believe him to have no conscience at all. And I cannot help
begging you, miss, to have nothing to do with him. Listen to me this
once--only this once! I don't say he's such a bad man as I have fancied
--I pray to God he is not. But since we don't exactly know what he is,
why not behave as if he might be bad, simply for your own safety? Don't
trust him, mistress; I ask you not to trust him so.”
　　　“Why, pray?”
　　　“I like soldiers, but this one I do not like,” he said, sturdily. “His
cleverness in his calling may have tempted him astray, and what is
mirth to the neighbours is ruin to the woman. When he tries to
talk to 'ee again, why not turn away with a short 'Good day'; and when
you see him coming one way, turn the other. When he says anything
laughable, fail to see the point and don't smile, and speak of him be-
fore those who will report your talk as 'that fantastical man,' or
'that Sergeant What's-his-name.' 'That man of a family that has come to
the dogs.' Don't be unmannerly towards en, but harmless-uncivil, and so
get rid of the man.”
　　　No Christmas robin detained by a window-pane ever pulsed as did
Bathsheba now.
　　　“I say--I say again--that it doesn't become you to talk about
him. Why he should be mentioned passes me quite!” she exclaimed des-
perately. “I know this, th-th-that he is a thoroughly conscientious
man--blunt sometimes even to rudeness--but always speaking his mind
about you plain to your face!”
　　　“Oh.”
　　　“He is as good as anybody in this parish! He is very particular,
too, about going to church--yes, he is!”
　　　“I am afeard nobody saw him there. I never did, certainly.”
　　　“The reason of that is,” she said eagerly, “that he goes in
privately by the old tower door, just when the service commences,
and sits at the back of the gallery. He told me so.”
　　　This supreme instance of Troy's goodness fell upon Gabriel
ears like the thirteenth stroke of crazy clock. It was not only receive-
d with utter incredulity as regarded itself, but threw a doubt on all
the assurances that had preceded it.
　　　Oak was grieved to find how entirely she trusted him. He brim-
med with deep feeling as he replied in a steady voice, the steadi-
ness of which was spoilt by the palpableness of his great effort to
keep it so: --
　　　"You know, mistress, that I love you, and shall love you always.
I only mention this to bring to your mind that at any rate I would
wish to do you no harm: beyond that I put it aside. I have lost in the
race for money and good things, and I am not such a fool as to pre-
tend to 'ee now I am poor, and you have got altogether above me.
But Bathsheba, dear mistress, this I beg you to consider -- that, both
to keep yourself well honoured among the workfolk, and in common
generosity to an honourable man who loves you as well as I, you
should be more discreet in your bearing towards this soldier."
　　　“Don't, don't, don't!” she exclaimed, in a choking voice.
　　　“Are ye not more to me than my own affairs, and even life!” he
went on. “Come, listen to me! I am six years older than you, and Mr.
Boldwood is ten years older than I, and consider--I do beg of 'ee to
consider before it is too late--how safe you would be in his hands!”
　　　Oak's allusion to his own love for her lessened, to some extent,
her anger at his interference; but she could not really forgive him
for letting his wish to marry her be eclipsed by his wish to do her
good, any more than for his slighting treatment of Troy.
　　　“I wish you to go elsewhere,” she commanded, a paleness of face
invisible to the eye being suggested by the trembling words. “Do not
remain on this farm any longer. I don't want you--I beg you to go!”
　　　“That's nonsense,” said Oak, calmly. “This is the second time
you have pretended to dismiss me; and what's the use o' it?”
　　　“Pretended! You shall go, sir--your lecturing I will not hear!
I am mistress here.”
　　　“Go, indeed--what folly will you say next? Treating me like
Dick, Tom and Harry when you know that a short time ago my position
was as good as yours! Upon my life, Bathsheba, it is too barefaced.
You know, too, that I can't go without putting things in such a strait
as you wouldn't get out of I can't tell when. Unless, indeed, you'll
promise to have an understanding man as bailiff, or manager, or some-
thing. I'll go at once if you'll promise that.”
　　　“I shall have no bailiff; I shall continue to be my own manager,”
she said decisively.
　　　“Very well, then; you should be thankful to me for biding. How
would the farm go on with nobody to mind it but a woman? But mind this,
I don't wish 'ee to feel you owe me anything. Not I. What I do, I do.
Sometimes I say I should be as glad as a bird to leave the place--for
don't suppose I'm content to be a nobody. I was made for better things.
However, I don't like to see your concerns going to ruin, as they must
if you keep in this mind.... I hate taking my own measure so plain,
but, upon my life, your provoking ways make a man say what he wouldn't
dream of at other times! I own to being rather interfering. But you
know well enough how it is, and who she is that I like too well, and
feel too much like a fool about to be civil to her!”
　　　It is more than probable that she privately and unconsciously
respected him a little for this grim fidelity, which had been shown in
his tone even more than in his words. At any rate she murmured something
to the effect that he might stay if he wished. She said more distinctly,
“Will you leave me alone now? I don't order it as a mistress--I ask it
as a woman, and I expect you not to be so uncourteous as to refuse.”
　　　“Certainly I will, Miss Everdene,” said Gabriel, gently. He won-
dered that the request should have come at this moment, for the strife
was over, and they were on a most desolate hill, far from every human
habitation, and the hour was getting late. He stood still and allowed
her to get far ahead of him till he could only see her form upon the sky.
　　　A distressing explanation of this anxiety to be rid of him at that
point now ensued. A figure apparently rose from the earth beside her.
The shape beyond all doubt was Troy's. Oak would not be even a possible
listener, and at once turned back till a good two hundred yards were be-
tween the lovers and himself.
　　　Gabriel went home by way of the churchyard. In passing the tower
he thought of what she had said about the sergeant's virtuous habit of
entering the church unperceived at the beginning of service. Believing
that the little gallery door alluded to was quite disused, he ascended
the external flight of steps at the top of which it stood, and examined
it. The pale lustre yet hanging in the north-western heaven was suffi-
cient to show that a sprig of ivy had grown from the wall across the
door to a length of more than a foot, delicately tying the panel to the
stone jamb. It was a decisive proof that the door had not been opened
at least since Troy came back to Weatherbury.








　　　Half an hour later Bathsheba entered her own house. There burnt
upon her face when she met the light of the candles the flush and ex-
citement which were little less than chronic with her now. The farewell
words of Troy, who had accompanied her to the very door, still linger-
ed in her ears. He had bidden her adieu for two days, which were, so he
stated, to be spent at Bath in visiting some friends. He had also kiss-
ed her a second time.
　　　It is only fair to Bathsheba to explain here a little fact which
did not come to light till a long time afterwards: that Troy's presen-
tation of himself so aptly at the roadside this evening was not by any
distinctly preconcerted arrangement. He had hinted--she had forbidden;
and it was only on the chance of his still coming that she had dismiss-
ed Oak, fearing a meeting between them just then.
　　　She now sank down into a chair, wild and perturbed by all these
new and fevering sequences. Then she jumped up with a manner of deci-
sion, and fetched her desk from a side table.
　　　In three minutes, without pause or modification, she had written
a letter to Boldwood, at his address beyond Casterbridge, saying mild-
ly but firmly that she had well considered the whole subject he had
brought before her and kindly given her time to decide upon; that her
final decision was that she could not marry him. She had expressed to
Oak an intention to wait till Boldwood came home before communicating
to him her conclusive reply. But Bathsheba found that she could not
wait.
　　　It was impossible to send this letter till the next day; yet to
quell her uneasiness by getting it out of her hands, and so, as it
were, setting the act in motion at once, she arose to take it to any
one of the women who might be in the kitchen.
　　　She paused in the passage. A dialogue was going on in the kitch-
en, and Bathsheba and Troy were the subject of it.
　　　“If he marry her, she'll gie up farming.”
　　　“'Twill be a gallant life, but may bring some trouble between
the mirth--so say I.”
　　　“Well, I wish I had half such a husband.”
　　　Bathsheba had too much sense to mind seriously what her servi-
tors said about her; but too much womanly redundance of speech to
leave alone what was said till it died the natural death of unminded
things. She burst in upon them.
　　　“Who are you speaking of?” she asked.
　　　There was a pause before anybody replied. At last Liddy said
frankly, “What was passing was a bit of a word about yourself, miss.”
　　　“I thought so! Maryann and Liddy and Temperance--now I forbid
you to suppose such things. You know I don't care the least for Mr.
Troy--not I. Everybody knows how much I hate him.--Yes,” repeated
the froward young person, “hate him!”
　　　“We know you do, miss,” said Liddy; “and so do we all.”
　　　“I hate him too,” said Maryann.
　　　“Maryann--Oh you perjured woman! How can you speak that wicked
story!” said Bathsheba, excitedly. “You admired him from your heart
only this morning in the very world, you did. Yes, Maryann, you know
it!”
　　　“Yes, miss, but so did you. He is a wild scamp now, and you
are right to hate him.”
　　　“He's not a wild scamp! How dare you to my face! I have no
right to hate him, nor you, nor anybody. But I am a silly woman! What
is it to me what he is? You know it is nothing. I don't care for him;
I don't mean to defend his good name, not I. Mind this, if any of you
say a word against him you'll be dismissed instantly!”
　　　She flung down the letter and surged back into the parlour,
with a big heart and tearful eyes, Liddy following her.
　　　“Oh miss!” said mild Liddy, looking pitifully into Bathsheba's
face. “I am sorry we mistook you so! I did think you cared for him;
but I see you don't now.”
　　　“Shut the door, Liddy.”
　　　Liddy closed the door, and went on: “People always say such
foolery, miss. I'll make answer hencefor'ard, ‘Of course a lady like
Miss Everdene can't love him'; I'll say it out in plain black and white.”
　　　Bathsheba burst out: "O Liddy, are you such a simpleton? Can't
you read riddles? Can't you see? Are you a woman yourself?"
　　　Liddy's clear eyes rounded with wonderment.
　　　"Yes; you must be a blind thing, Liddy!" she said, in reckless
abandonment and grief. "Oh, I love him to very distraction and
misery and agony! Don't be frightened at me, though perhaps I am
enough to frighten any innocent woman. Come closer -- closer."
She put her arms round Liddy's neck. "I must let it out to some-
body; it is wearing me away! Don't you yet know enough of me to
see through that miserable denial of mine? O God, what a lie it was!
Heaven and my Love forgive me. And don't you know that a woman
who loves at all thinks nothing of perjury when it is balanced against
her love? There, go out of the room; I want to be quite alone.”
　　　Liddy went towards the door.
　　　“Liddy, come here. Solemnly swear to me that he's not a fast
man; that it is all lies they say about him!”
　　　“But, miss, how can I say he is not if--”
　　　“You graceless girl! How can you have the cruel heart to repeat
what they say? Unfeeling thing that you are.... But I'll see if you or
anybody else in the village, or town either, dare do such a thing!”
She started off, pacing from fireplace to door, and back again.
　　　“No, miss. I don't--I know it is not true!” said Liddy, fright-
ened at Bathsheba's unwonted vehemence.
　　　“I suppose you only agree with me like that to please me. But,
Liddy, he cannot be bad, as is said. Do you hear?”
　　　“Yes, miss, yes.”
　　　“And you don't believe he is?”
　　　“I don't know what to say, miss,” said Liddy, beginning to cry.
“If I say No, you don't believe me; and if I say Yes, you rage at me!”
　　　“Say you don't believe it--say you don't!”
　　　“I don't believe him to be so bad as they make out.”
　　　"He is not bad at all.... My poor life and heart, how weak I am!"
she moaned, in a relaxed, desultory way, heedless of Liddy's presence.
"Oh, how I wish I had never seen him! Lovingis misery for women
always. I shall never forgive God for making me a woman, and dearly
am I beginning to pay for the honour of owning a pretty face." She
freshened and turned to Liddy suddenly. “Mind this, Lydia Smallbury,
if you repeat anywhere a single word of what I have said to you in-
side this closed door, I'll never trust you, or love you, or have you
with me a moment longer--not a moment!”
　　　“I don't want to repeat anything,” said Liddy, with womanly
dignity of a diminutive order; “but I don't wish to stay with you.
And, if you please, I'll go at the end of the harvest, or this week,
or to-day.... I don't see that I deserve to be put upon and stormed at
for nothing!” concluded the small woman, bigly.
　　　“No, no, Liddy; you must stay!” said Bathsheba, dropping from
haughtiness to entreaty with capricious inconsequence. “You must not
notice my being in a taking just now. You are not as a servant--you
are a companion to me. Dear, dear--I don't know what I am doing since
this miserable ache of my heart has weighted and worn upon me so! What
shall I come to! I suppose I shall get further and further into trou-
bles. I wonder sometimes if I am doomed to die in the Union. I am
friendless enough, God knows!”
　　　“I won't notice anything, nor will I leave you!” sobbed Liddy,
impulsively putting up her lips to Bathsheba's, and kissing her.
　　　Then Bathsheba kissed Liddy, and all was smooth again.
　　　“I don't often cry, do I, Lidd? but you have made tears come
into my eyes,” she said, a smile shining through the moisture. “Try
to think him a good man, won't you, dear Liddy?”
　　　“I will, miss, indeed.”
　　　“He is a sort of steady man in a wild way, you know. That's bet-
ter than to be as some are, wild in a steady way. I am afraid that's
how I am. And promise me to keep my secret--do, Liddy! And do not let
them know that I have been crying about him, because it will be dread-
ful for me, and no good to him, poor thing!”
　　　"Death's head himself shan't wring it from me, mistress, if I've a
mind to keep anything; and I'll always be your friend," replied Liddy,
emphatically, at the same time bringing a few more tears into her own
eyes, not from any particular necessity, but from an artistic sense of
making herself in keeping with the remainder of the picture, which
seems to influence women at such times. "I think God likes us to be
good friends, don't you?"
　　　"Indeed I do."
　　　"And, dear miss, you won't harry me and storm at me, will you?
because you seem to swell so tall as a lion then, and it frightens me!
Do you know, I fancy you would be a match for any man when you are
in one o' your takings."
　　　"Never! do you?" said Bathsheba, slightly laughing, though some-
what seriously alarmed by this Amazonian picture of herself. "I hope I
am not a bold sort of maid -- mannish?" she continued with some an-
xiety.
　　　"Oh no, not mannish; but so almighty womanish that 'tis getting on
that way sometimes. Ah! miss," she said, after having drawn her breath
very sadly in and sent it very sadly out, "I wish I had half your failing that
way. 'Tis a great protection to a poor maid in these illegit'mate days!"








　　　The next evening Bathsheba, with the idea of getting out of the
way of Mr. Boldwood in the event of his returning to answer her note in
person, proceeded to fulfil an engagement made with Liddy some few
hours earlier. Bathsheba's companion, as a gauge of their reconciliation,
had been granted a week's holiday to visit her sister, who was married
to a thriving hurdler and cattle-crib-maker living in a delightful labyrinth
of hazel copse not far beyond Yalbury. The arrangement was that Miss
Everdene should honour them by coming there for a day or two to in-
spect some ingenious contrivances which this man of the woods had
introduced into his wares.
　　　Leaving her instructions with Gabriel and Maryann, that they were
to see everything carefully locked up for the night, she went out of
the house just at the close of a timely thunder-shower, which had re-
fined the air, and daintily bathed the coat of the land, though all be-
neath was dry as ever. Freshness was exhaled in an essence from the
varied contours of bank and hollow, as if the earth breathed maiden
breath; and the pleased birds were hymning to the scene. Before her,
among the clouds, there was a contrast in the shape of lairs of fierce
light which showed themselves in the neighbourhood of a hidden sun, lin-
gering on to the farthest north-west corner of the heavens that this mid-
summer season allowed.
　　　She had walked nearly two miles of her journey, watching how the
day was retreating, and thinking how the time of deeds was quietly melt-
ing into the time of thought, to give place in its turn to the time of
prayer and sleep, when she beheld advancing over Yalbury hill the very
man she sought so anxiously to elude. Boldwood was stepping on, not with
that quiet tread of reserved strength which was his customary gait, in
which he always seemed to be balancing two thoughts. His manner was
stunned and sluggish now.
　　　Boldwood had for the first time been awakened to woman's privi-
leges in tergiversation even when it involves another person's possible
blight. That Bathsheba was a firm and positive girl, far less inconse-
quent than her fellows, had been the very lung of his hope; for he had
held that these qualities would lead her to adhere to a straight course
for consistency's sake, and accept him, though her fancy might not
flood him with the iridescent hues of uncritical love. But the argument
now came back as sorry gleams from a broken mirror. The discovery was
no less a scourge than a surprise.
　　　He came on looking upon the ground, and did not see Bathsheba
till they were less than a stone's throw apart. He looked up at the
sound of her pit-pat, and his changed appearance sufficiently denoted
to her the depth and strength of the feelings paralyzed by her letter.
　　　“Oh; is it you, Mr. Boldwood?” she faltered, a guilty warmth
pulsing in her face.
　　　Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a
means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which
are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can
enter an ear. It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter
moods that they avoid the pathway of sound. Boldwood's look was
unanswerable.
　　　Seeing she turned a little aside, he said, “What, are you afraid
of me?”
　　　“Why should you say that?” said Bathsheba.
　　　“I fancied you looked so,” said he. “And it is most strange,
because of its contrast with my feeling for you.”
　　　She regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited.
　　　“You know what that feeling is,” continued Boldwood, deliberate-
ly. “A thing strong as death. No dismissal by a hasty letter affects
that.”
　　　“I wish you did not feel so strongly about me,” she murmured.
“It is generous of you, and more than I deserve, but I must not hear
it now.”
　　　“Hear it? What do you think I have to say, then? I am not to mar-
ry you, and that's enough. Your letter was excellently plain. I want
you to hear nothing--not I.”
　　　Bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove
for freeing herself from this fearfully awkward position. She confusedly
said, "Good evening," and was moving on. Boldwood walked up to her
heavily and dully.
　　　"Bathsheba -- darling -- is it final indeed?"
　　　"Indeed it is."
　　　"Oh, Bathsheba -- have pity upon me!" Boldwood burst out. "God's
sake, yes -- I am come to that low, lowest stage -- to ask a woman
for pity! Still, she is you -- she is you."
　　　Bathsheba commanded herself well. But she could hardly get a clear
voice for what came instinctively to her lips: "There is little honour
to the woman in that speech." It was only whispered, for something
unutterably mournful no less than distressing in this spectacle of a
man showing himself to be so entirely the vane of a passion enervated
the feminine instinct for punctilios.
　　　“I am beyond myself about this, and am mad,” he said. “I am no
stoic at all to be supplicating here; but I do supplicate to you. I wish
you knew what is in me of devotion to you; but it is impossible, that.
In bare human mercy to a lonely man, don't throw me off now!”
　　　“I don't throw you off--indeed, how can I? I never had you.” In
her noon-clear sense that she had never loved him she forgot for a
moment her thoughtless angle on that day in February.
　　　“But there was a time when you turned to me, before I thought of
you! I don't reproach you, for even now I feel that the ignorant and
cold darkness that I should have lived in if you had not attracted me by
that letter--valentine you call it--would have been worse than my know-
ledge of you, though it has brought this misery. But, I say, there was
a time when I knew nothing of you, and cared nothing for you, and yet
you drew me on. And if you say you gave me no encouragement, I can-
not but contradict you.”
　　　“What you call encouragement was the childish game of an idle
minute. I have bitterly repented of it--ay, bitterly, and in tears. Can
you still go on reminding me?”
　　　"I don't accuse you of it -- I deplore it. I took for earnest what
you insist was jest, and now this that I pray to be jest you say
is awful, wretched earnest. Our moods meet at wrong places. I wish
your feeling was more like mine, or my feeling more like yours! Oh,
could I but have foreseen the torture that trifling trick was going
to lead me into, how I should have cursed you; but only having been
able to see it since, I cannot do that, for I love you too well! But
it is weak, idle drivelling to go on like this.... Bathsheba, you
are the first woman of any shade or nature that I have ever looked
at to love, and it is the having been so near claiming you for my
own that makes this denial so hard to bear. How nearly you promised
me! But I don't speak now to move your heart, and make you grieve
because of my pain; it is no use, that. I must bear it; my pain would
get no less by paining you."
　　　"But I do pity you -- deeply -- O, so deeply!" she earnestly said.
　　　"Do no such thing -- do no such thing. Your dear love, Bathshe-
ba, is such a vast thing beside your pity, that the loss of your pity as
well as your love is no great addition to my sorrow, nor does the gain of
your pity make it sensibly less. O sweet--how dearly you spoke to me
behind the spear-bed at the washing-pool, and in the barn at the shear-
ing, and that dearest last time in the evening at your home! Where are
your pleasant words all gone--your earnest hope to be able to love me?
Where is your firm conviction that you would get to care for me very
much? Really forgotten?--really?”
　　　She checked emotion, looked him quietly and clearly in the face,
and said in her low, firm voice, “Mr. Boldwood, I promised you nothing.
Would you have had me a woman of clay when you paid me that furthest,
highest compliment a man can pay a woman--telling her he loves her? I
was bound to show some feeling, if I would not be a graceless shrew.
Yet each of those pleasures was just for the day--the day just for the
pleasure. How was I to know that what is a pastime to all other men was
death to you? Have reason, do, and think more kindly of me!”
　　　“Well, never mind arguing--never mind. One thing is sure: you
were all but mine, and now you are not nearly mine. Everything is
changed, and that by you alone, remember. "You were nothing to me
once, and I was contented; you are now nothing to me again, and how
different the second nothing is from the first! Would to God you had
never taken me up, since it was only to throw me down!"
　　　Bathsheba, in spite of her mettle, began to feel unmistakable
signs that she was inherently the weaker vessel. She strove
miserably against this feminity which would insist upon supplying
unbidden emotions in stronger and stronger current. She had tried
to elude agitation by fixing her mind on the trees, sky, any trivial ob-
ject before her eyes, whilst his reproaches fell, but ingenuity could
not save her now.
　　　“I did not take you up--surely I did not!” she answered as hero-
ically as she could. “But don't be in this mood with me. I can endure
being told I am in the wrong, if you will only tell it me gently! O sir,
will you not kindly forgive me, and look at it cheerfully?”
　　　"Cheerfully! Can a man fooled to utter heart-burning find a
reason for being merry? If I have lost, how can I be as if I had won?
Heavens you must be heartless quite! Had I known what a fearfully
bitter sweet this was to be, how would I have avoided you, and never
seen you, and been deaf of you. I tell you all this, but what do you
care! You don't care."
　　　She returned silent and weak denials to his charges, and swayed
her head desperately, as if to thrust away the words as they came
showering about her ears from the lips of the trembling man in the
climax of life, with his bronzed Roman face and fine frame.
　　　“Dearest, dearest, I am wavering even now between the two oppo-
sites of recklessly renouncing you, and labouring humbly for you again.
Forget that you have said No, and let it be as it was! Say, Bathsheba,
that you only wrote that refusal to me in fun--come, say it to me!”
　　　“It would be untrue, and painful to both of us. You overrate my
capacity for love. I don't possess half the warmth of nature you be-
lieve me to have. An unprotected childhood in a cold world has beaten
gentleness out of me.”
　　　He immediately said with more resentment: "That may be true,
somewhat; but ah, Miss Everdene, it won't do as a reason! You are not
the cold woman you would have me believe. No, no! It isn't because
you have no feeling in you that you don't love me. You naturally would
have me think so -- you would hide from me that you have a burning
heart like mine. You have love enough, but it is turned into a new chan-
nel. I know where."
　　　The swift music of her heart became hubbub now, and she throbbed
to extremity. He was coming to Troy. He did then know what had occurr-
ed! And the name fell from his lips the next moment.
　　　"Why did Troy not leave my treasure alone?" he asked, fiercely.
“When I had no thought of injuring him, why did he force himself upon
your notice! Before he worried you your inclination was to have me; when
next I should have come to you your answer would have been Yes. Can
you deny it--I ask, can you deny it?”
　　　She delayed the reply, but was too honest to withhold it. “I can-
not,” she whispered.
　　　“I know you cannot. But he stole in in my absence and robbed me.
Why didn't he win you away before, when nobody would have been
grieved?--when nobody would have been set tale-bearing. "Now the
people sneer at me -- the very hills and sky seem to laugh at me till
I blush shamefuly for my folly. I have lost my respect, my good name,
my standing -- lost it, never to get it again. Go and marry your man --
go on!"
　　　"Oh sir -- Mr. Boldwood!"
　　　"You may as well. I have no further claim upon you. As for me, I
had better go somewhere alone, and hide -- and pray. I loved a woman
once. I am now ashamed. When I am dead they'll say, Miserable love-sick
man that he was. Heaven -- heaven -- if I had got jilted secretly, and
the dishonour not known, and my position kept! But no matter, it is gone,
and the woman not gained. Shame upon him -- shame!"
　　　His unreasonable anger terrified her, and she glided from him,
without obviously moving, as she said, "I am only a girl -- do not speak
to me so!"
　　　"All the time you knew -- how very well you knew -- that your
new freak was my misery. Dazzled by brass and scarlet -- Oh, Bath-
sheba -- this is woman's folly indeed!"
　　　She fired up at once. “You are taking too much upon yourself!”
she said, vehemently. “Everybody is upon me--everybody. It is unmanly
to attack a woman so! I have nobody in the world to fight my battles
for me; but no mercy is shown. Yet if a thousand of you sneer and say
things against me, I will not be put down!”
　　　 “You'll chatter with him doubtless about me. Say to him, 'Bold-
wood would have died for me.' Yes, and you have given way to him,
knowing him to be not the man for you. He has kissed you -- claimed
you as his. Do you hear -- he has kissed you. Deny it!"
　　　The most tragic woman is cowed by a tragic man, and although
Boldwood was, in vehemence and glow, nearly her own self rendered
into another sex, Bathsheba's cheek quivered. She gasped, "Leave
me, sir -- leave me! I am nothing to you. Let me go on!"
　　　"Deny that he has kissed you."
　　　"I shall not."
　　　"Ha -- then he has!" came hoarsely from the farmer.
　　　"He has," she said, slowly, and, in spite of her fear, defiantly.
"I am not ashamed to speak the truth."
　　　"Then curse him; and curse him!" said Boldwood, breaking into
a whispered fury." Whilst I would have given worlds to touch your
hand, you have let a rake come in without right or ceremony and
-- kiss you! Heaven's mercy -- kiss you! ... Ah, a time of his life
shall come when he will have to repent, and think wretchedly of the
pain he has caused another man; and then may he ache, and wish, and
curse, and yearn -- as I do now!"
　　　“Don't, don't, oh, don't pray down evil upon him!” she im-
plored in a miserable cry. “Anything but that--anything. Oh, be
kind to him, sir, for I love him true!”
　　　Boldwood's ideas had reached that point of fusion at which
outline and consistency entirely disappear. The impending night
appeared to concentrate in his eye. He did not hear her at all now.
　　　"I'll punish him -- by my soul, that will I! I'll meet him, soldier
or no, and I'll horsewhip the untimely stripling for this reckless theft
of my one delight. If he were a hundred men I'd horsewhip him ----"
He dropped his voice suddenly and unnaturally. "Bathsheba, sweet,
lost coquette, pardon me! I've been blaming you, threatening you,
behaving like a churl to you, when he's the greatest sinner. He stole
your dear heart away with his unfathomable lies!"...It is a fortunate
thing for him that he's gone back to his regiment--that he's away
up the country, and not here! I hope he may not return here just yet.
I pray God he may not come into my sight, for I may be tempted beyond
myself. Oh, Bathsheba, keep him away--yes, keep him away from me!”
　　　For a moment Boldwood stood so inertly after this that his soul
seemed to have been entirely exhaled with the breath of his passion-
ate words. He turned his face away, and withdrew, and his form was
soon covered over by the twilight as his footsteps mixed in with the
low hiss of the leafy trees.
　　　Bathsheba, who had been standing motionless as a model all
this latter time, flung her hands to her face, and wildly attempted to
ponder on the exhibition which had just passed away. Such astounding
wells of fevered feeling in a still man like Mr. Boldwood were incomp-
rehensible, dreadful. Instead of being a man trained to repression he
was -- what she had seen him.
　　　The force of the farmer's threats lay in their relation to a
circumstance known at present only to herself: her lover was coming
back to Weatherbury in the course of the very next day or two. Troy
had not returned to his distant barracks as Boldwood and others sup-
posed, but had merely gone to visit some acquaintance in Bath, and
had yet a week or more remaining to his furlough.
　　　She felt wretchedly certain that if he revisited her just at
this nick of time, and came into contact with Boldwood, a fierce quar-
rel would be the consequence. She panted with solicitude when she
thought of possible injury to Troy. The least spark would kindle
the farmer's swift feelings of rage and jealousy; he would lose his
self-mastery as he had this evening; Troy's blitheness might become
aggressive; it might take the direction of derision, and Boldwood's
anger might then take the direction of revenge.
　　　With almost a morbid dread of being thought a gushing girl, this
guileless woman too well concealed from the world under a manner
of carelessness the warm depths of her strong emotions. But now
there was no reserve. In her distraction, instead of advancing
further she walked up and down, beating the air with her fingers,
pressing on her brow, and sobbing brokenly to herself. Then she sat
down on a heap of stones by the wayside to think. There she remained
long. Above the dark margin of the earth appeared foreshores and
promontories of coppery cloud, bounding a green and pellucid expanse
in the western sky. Amaranthine glosses came over them then, and the
unresting world wheeled her round to a contrasting prospect eastward,
in the shape of indecisive and palpitating stars. She gazed upon their
silent throes amid the shades of space, but realised none at all. Her
troubled spirit was far away with Troy.








The village of Weatherbury was quiet as the graveyard in its midst, and
the living were lying well-nigh as still as the dead. The church clock
struck eleven. The air was so empty of other sounds that the whirr of
the clockwork immediately before the strokes was distinct, and so was
also the click of the same at their close. The notes flew forth with
the usual blind obtuseness of inanimate things--flapping and rebound-
ing among walls, undulating against the scattered clouds, spreading
through their interstices into unexplored miles of space.
　　　Bathsheba's crannied and mouldy halls were to-night occupied
only by Maryann, Liddy being, as was stated, with her sister, whom
Bathsheba had set out to visit. A few minutes after eleven had struck,
Maryann turned in her bed with a sense of being disturbed. She was
totally unconscious of the nature of the interruption to her sleep.
It led to a dream, and the dream to an awakening, with an uneasy
sensation that something had happened. She left her bed and looked
out of the window. The paddock abutted on this end of the building,
and in the paddock she could just discern by the uncertain gray a
moving figure approaching the horse that was feeding there. The fig-
ure seized the horse by the forelock, and led it to the corner of
the field. Here she could see some object which circumstances proved
to be a vehicle, for after a few minutes spent apparently in harn-
essing, she heard the trot of the horse down the road, mingled with
the sound of light wheels.
　　　Two varieties only of humanity could have entered the paddock
with the ghostlike glide of that mysterious figure. They were a woman
and a gipsy man. A woman was out of the question in such an occupa-
tion at this hour, and the comer could be no less than a thief, who
might probably have known the weakness of the household on this par-
ticular night, and have chosen it on that account for his daring at-
tempt. Moreover, to raise suspicion to conviction itself, there were
gipsies in Weatherbury Bottom.
　　　Maryann, who had been afraid to shout in the robber's presence,
having seen him depart had no fear. She hastily slipped on her clothes,
stumped down the disjointed staircase with its hundred creaks, ran to
Coggan's, the nearest house, and raised an alarm. Coggan called Gab-
riel, who now again lodged in his house as at first, and together
they went to the paddock. Beyond all doubt the horse was gone.
　　　“Hark!” said Gabriel.
　　　They listened. Distinct upon the stagnant air came the sounds
of a trotting horse passing up Longpuddle Lane--just beyond the gip-
sies' encampment in Weatherbury Bottom.
　　　“That's our Dainty--I'll swear to her step,” said Jan.
　　　“Mighty me! Won't mis'ess storm and call us stupids when she
comes back!” moaned Maryann. “How I wish it had happened when she
was at home, and none of us had been answerable!”
　　　“We must ride after,” said Gabriel, decisively. “I'll be
responsible to Miss Everdene for what we do. Yes, we'll follow.”
　　　“Faith, I don't see how,” said Coggan. “All our horses are
too heavy for that trick except little Poppet, and what's she between
two of us?--If we only had that pair over the hedge we might do some-
thing.”
　　　“Which pair?”
　　　“Mr. Boldwood's Tidy and Moll.”
　　　“Then wait here till I come hither again,” said Gabriel. He
ran down the hill towards Farmer Boldwood's.
　　　“Farmer Boldwood is not at home,” said Maryann.
　　　“All the better,” said Coggan. “I know what he's gone for.”
　　　Less than five minutes brought up Oak again, running at the
same pace, with two halters dangling from his hand.
　　　“Where did you find 'em?” said Coggan, turning round and leap-
ing upon the hedge without waiting for an answer.
　　　“Under the eaves. I knew where they were kept,” said Gabriel,
following him. “Coggan, you can ride bare-backed? there's no time
to look for saddles.”
　　　“Like a hero!” said Jan.
　　　“Maryann, you go to bed,” Gabriel shouted to her from the
top of the hedge.
　　　Springing down into Boldwood's pastures, each pocketed his hal-
ter to hide it from the horses, who, seeing the men empty-handed,
docilely allowed themselves to be seized by the mane, when the hal-
ters were dexterously slipped on. Having neither bit nor bridle, Oak
and Coggan extemporized the former by passing the rope in each case
through the animal's mouth and looping it on the other side. Oak
vaulted astride, and Coggan clambered up by aid of the bank, when
they ascended to the gate and galloped off in the direction taken by
Bathsheba's horse and the robber. Whose vehicle the horse had been har-
nessed to was a matter of some uncertainty.　　　Weatherbury Bottom
was reached in three or four minutes. They scanned the shady green
patch by the roadside. The gipsies were gone.
　　　“The villains!” said Gabriel. “Which way have they gone, I
wonder?”
　　　“Straight on, as sure as God made little apples,” said Jan.
　　　“Very well; we are better mounted, and must overtake 'em”,
said Oak. “Now on at full speed!”
　　　No sound of the rider in their van could now be discovered. The
road-metal grew softer and more clayey as Weatherbury was left behind,
and the late rain had wetted its surface to a somewhat plastic, but
not muddy state. They came to cross-roads. Coggan suddenly pulled up
Moll and slipped off.
　　　“What's the matter?” said Gabriel.
　　　“We must try to track 'em, since we can't hear 'em,” said Jan,
fumbling in his pockets. He struck a light, and held the match to the
ground. The rain had been heavier here, and all foot and horse tracks
made previous to the storm had been abraded and blurred by the drops,
and they were now so many little scoops of water, which reflected the
flame of the match like eyes. One set of tracks was fresh and had no
water in them; one pair of ruts was also empty, and not small canals,
like the others. The footprints forming this recent impression were
full of information as to pace; they were in equidistant pairs, three
or four feet apart, the right and left foot of each pair being exact-
ly opposite one another.
　　　“Straight on!” Jan exclaimed. “Tracks like that mean a stiff
gallop. No wonder we don't hear him. And the horse is harnessed—look
at the ruts. Ay, that's our mare sure enough!”
　　　“How do you know?”
　　　“Old Jimmy Harris only shoed her last week, and I'd swear to
his make among ten thousand.”
　　　“The rest of the gipsies must ha' gone on earlier, or some other
way,” said Oak. “You saw there were no other tracks?”
　　　“True.” They rode along silently for a long weary time. Coggan
carried an old pinchbeck repeater which he had inherited from some gen-
ius in his family; and it now struck one. He lighted another match, and
examined the ground again.
　　　“'Tis a canter now,” he said, throwing away the light. “A twist-
y, rickety pace for a gig. The fact is, they over-drove her at starting;
we shall catch 'em yet.”
　　　Again they hastened on, and entered Blackmore Vale. Coggan's watch
struck one. When they looked again the hoof-marks were so spaced as to
form a sort of zigzag if united, like the lamps along a street.
　　　“That's a trot, I know,” said Gabriel.
　　　“Only a trot now,” said Coggan, cheerfully. “We shall overtake
him in time.”
　　　They pushed rapidly on for yet two or three miles. “Ah! a moment,”
said Jan. “Let's see how she was driven up this hill. 'Twill help us.”
A light was promptly struck upon his gaiters as before, and the examina-
tion made.
　　　“Hurrah!” said Coggan. “She walked up here—and well she might.
We shall get them in two miles, for a crown.”
　　　They rode three, and listened. No sound was to be heard save a
millpond trickling hoarsely through a hatch, and suggesting gloomy
possibilities of drowning by jumping in.
　　　Gabriel dismounted when they came to a turning. The tracks
were absolutely the only guide as to the direction that they now had,
and great caution was necessary to avoid confusing them with some
others which had made their appearance lately.
　　　“What does this mean?--though I guess,” said Gabriel, look-
ing up at Coggan as he moved the match over the ground about the
turning. Coggan, who, no less than the panting horses, had latterly
shown signs of weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters.
This time only three were of the regular horseshoe shape. Every
fourth was a dot.
　　　He screwed up his face and emitted a long “Whew-w-w!”
　　　“Lame,” said Oak.
　　　“Yes. Dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore,” said Coggan slow-
ly, staring still at the footprints.
　　　“We'll push on,” said Gabriel, remounting his humid steed.
　　　Although the road along its greater part had been as good as any
turnpike-road in the country, it was nominally only a byway. The last
turning had brought them into the high road leading to Bath. Coggan
recollected himself.
　　　“We shall have him now!” he exclaimed.
　　　“Where?”
　　　“Sherton Turnpike. The keeper of that gate is the sleepiest
man between here and London--Dan Randall, that's his name--knowed en
for years, when he was at Casterbridge gate. Between the lameness and
the gate 'tis a done job.”
　　　They now advanced with extreme caution. Nothing was said until,
against a shady background of foliage, five white bars were visible,
crossing their route a little way ahead.
　　　“Hush--we are almost close!” said Gabriel.
　　　“Amble on upon the grass,” said Coggan.
　　　The white bars were blotted out in the midst by a dark shape in
front of them. The silence of this lonely time was pierced by an ex-
clamation from that quarter.
　　　“Hoy-a-hoy! Gate!”
　　　It appeared that there had been a previous call which they had
not noticed, for on their close approach the door of the turnpike-house
opened, and the keeper came out half-dressed, with a candle in his hand.
The rays illumined the whole group.
　　　“Keep the gate close!” shouted Gabriel. “He has stolen the
horse!”
　　　“Who?” said the turnpike-man.
　　　Gabriel looked at the driver of the gig, and saw a woman--Bath-
sheba, his mistress.
　　　On hearing his voice she had turned her face away from the light.
Coggan had, however, caught sight of her in the meanwhile.
　　　“Why, 'tis mistress--I'll take my oath!” he said, amazed.
　　　Bathsheba it certainly was, and she had by this time done the
trick she could do so well in crises not of love, namely, mask a sur-
prise by coolness of manner.
　　　“Well, Gabriel,” she inquired quietly, “where are you going?”
　　　“We thought--” began Gabriel.
　　　“I am driving to Bath,” she said, taking for her own use the
assurance that Gabriel lacked. “An important matter made it necessary
for me to give up my visit to Liddy, and go off at once. What, then, were
you following me?”
　　　“We thought the horse was stole.”
　　　“Well--what a thing! How very foolish of you not to know that I
had taken the trap and horse. I could neither wake Maryann nor get into
the house, though I hammered for ten minutes against her window-sill. For-
tunately, I could get the key of the coach-house, so I troubled no one
further. Didn't you think it might be me?”
　　　“Why should we, miss?”
　　　“Perhaps not. Why, those are never Farmer Boldwood's horses!
Goodness mercy! what have you been doing--bringing trouble upon me in
this way? What! mustn't a lady move an inch from her door without being
dogged like a thief?”
　　　“But how was we to know, if you left no account of your doings?”
expostulated Coggan, “and ladies don't drive at these hours, miss, as
a jineral rule of society.”
　　　“I did leave an account--and you would have seen it in the
morning. I wrote in chalk on the coach-house doors that I had come
back for the horse and gig, and driven off; that I could arouse nobody,
and should return soon.”
　　　“But you'll consider, ma'am, that we couldn't see that till it
got daylight.”
　　　“True,” she said, and though vexed at first she had too much
sense to blame them long or seriously for a devotion to her that was
as valuable as it was rare. She added with a very pretty grace, “Well,
I really thank you heartily for taking all this trouble; but I wish
you had borrowed anybody's horses but Mr. Boldwood's.”
　　　“Dainty is lame, miss,” said Coggan. “Can ye go on?”
　　　“It was only a stone in her shoe. I got down and pulled it out
a hundred yards back. I can manage very well, thank you. I shall be
in Bath by daylight. Will you now return, please?”
　　　She turned her head--the gateman's candle shimmering upon her
quick, clear eyes as she did so--passed through the gate, and was soon
wrapped in the embowering shades of mysterious summer boughs. Coggan
and Gabriel put about their horses, and, fanned by the velvety air of this
July night, retraced the road by which they had come.
　　　"A strange vagary, this of hers, isn't it, Oak?" said Coggan, curiously.
　　　"Yes," said Gabriel, shortly.
　　　“She won't be in Bath by no daylight!”
　　　“Coggan, suppose we keep this night's work as quiet as we
can?”
　　　“I am of one and the same mind.”
　　　“Very well. We shall be home by three o'clock or so, and
can creep into the parish like lambs.”

　　　Bathsheba's perturbed meditations by the roadside had ulti-
mately evolved a conclusion that there were only two remedies for
the present desperate state of affairs. The first was merely to keep
Troy away from Weatherbury till Boldwood's indignation had cooled;
the second to listen to Oak's entreaties, and Boldwood's denunci-
ations, and give up Troy altogether.
　　　Alas! Could she give up this new love--induce him to renounce
her by saying she did not like him--could no more speak to him, and
beg him, for her good, to end his furlough in Bath, and see her and
Weatherbury no more?
　　　It was a picture full of misery, but for a while she contemplated
it firmly, allowing herself, nevertheless, as girls will, to dwell upon
the happy life she would have enjoyed had Troy been Boldwood, and
the path of love the path of duty--inflicting upon herself gratuitous
tortures by imagining him the lover of another woman after forgetting
her; for she had penetrated Troy's nature so far as to estimate his
tendencies pretty accurately, but unfortunately loved him no less in
thinking that he might soon cease to love her--indeed, considerably
more.
　　　She jumped to her feet. She would see him at once. Yes, she
would implore him by word of mouth to assist her in this dilemma. A
letter to keep him away could not reach him in time, even if he should
be disposed to listen to it.
　　　Was Bathsheba altogether blind to the obvious fact that the sup-
port of a lover's arms is not of a kind best calculated to assist a re-
solve to renounce him? Or was she sophistically sensible, with a thrill
of pleasure, that by adopting this course for getting rid of him she was
ensuring a meeting with him, at any rate, once more?
　　　It was now dark, and the hour must have been nearly ten. The
only way to accomplish her purpose was to give up her idea of visiting
Liddy at Yalbury, return to Weatherbury Farm, put the horse into the
gig, and drive at once to Bath. The scheme seemed at first impossible:
the journey was a fearfully heavy one, even for a strong horse, at her
own estimate; and she much underrated the distance. It was most vent-
uresome for a woman, at night, and alone.
　　　But could she go on to Liddy's and leave things to take their
course? No, no; anything but that. Bathsheba was full of a stimulating
turbulence, beside which caution vainly prayed for a hearing. She turn-
ed back towards the village.
　　　Her walk was slow, for she wished not to enter Weatherbury till
the cottagers were in bed, and, particularly, till Boldwood was secure.
Her plan was now to drive to Bath during the night, see Sergeant Troy
in the morning before he set out to come to her, bid him farewell, and
dismiss him: then to rest the horse thoroughly (herself to weep the while,
she thought), starting early the next morning on her return journey. By
this arrangement she could trot Dainty gently all the day, reach Liddy
at Yalbury in the evening, and come home to Weatherbury with her whenever
they chose—so nobody would know she had been to Bath at all. Such was
Bathsheba's scheme. But in her topographical ignorance as a late comer
to the place, she misreckoned the distance of her journey as not much
more than half what it really was.
　　　This idea she proceeded to carry out, with what initial success
we have already seen.








　　　A week passed, and there were no tidings of Bathsheba; nor was
there any explanation of her Gilpin's rig.
　　　Then a note came for Maryann, stating that the business which had
called her mistress to Bath still detained her there; but that she hoped
to return in the course of another week.
　　　Another week passed. The oat-harvest began, and all the men were
a-field under a monochromatic Lammas sky, amid the trembling air and
short shadows of noon. Indoors nothing was to be heard save the droning
of blue-bottle flies; out-of-doors the whetting of scythes and the hiss
of tressy oat-ears rubbing together as their perpendicular stalks of
amber-yellow fell heavily to each swath. Every drop of moisture not in
the men's bottles and flagons in the form of cider was raining as per-
spiration from their foreheads and cheeks. Drought was everywhere else.
　　　They were about to withdraw for a while into the charitable shade
of a tree in the fence, when Coggan saw a figure in a blue coat and
brass buttons running to them across the field.
　　　“I wonder who that is?” he said.
　　　“I hope nothing is wrong about mistress,” said Maryann, who with
some other women was tying the bundles (oats being always sheafed on
this farm), “but an unlucky token came to me indoors this morning. I
went to unlock the door and dropped the key, and it fell upon the stone
floor and broke into two pieces. Breaking a key is a dreadful bodement.
I wish mis'ess was home.”
　　　“'Tis Cain Ball,” said Gabriel, pausing from whetting his reap-
hook.
　　　Oak was not bound by his agreement to assist in the corn-field;
but the harvest month is an anxious time for a farmer, and the corn was
Bathsheba's, so he lent a hand.
　　　“He's dressed up in his best clothes,” said Matthew Moon. “He
hev been away from home for a few days, since he's had that felon u-
pon his finger; for 'a said, since I can't work I'll have a hollerday.”
　　　“A good time for one—a' excellent time,” said Joseph Poorgrass,
straightening his back; for he, like some of the others, had a way of
resting a while from his labour on such hot days for reasons preternatu-
rally small; of which Cain Ball's advent on a week-day in his Sunday-
clothes was one of the first magnitude. “'Twas a bad leg allowed me to
read the Pilgrim's Progress, and Mark Clark learnt All-Fours in a whitlow.”
　　　“Ay, and my father put his arm out of joint to have time to go
courting,” said Jan Coggan, in an eclipsing tone, wiping his face with
his shirt-sleeve and thrusting back his hat upon the nape of his neck.
　　　By this time Cainy was nearing the group of harvesters, and was
perceived to be carrying a large slice of bread and ham in one hand, from
which he took mouthfuls as he ran, the other being wrapped in a bandage.
When he came close, his mouth assumed the bell shape, and he began to
cough violently.
　　　“Now, Cainy!” said Gabriel, sternly. “How many more times must
I tell you to keep from running so fast when you be eating? You'll
choke yourself some day, that's what you'll do, Cain Ball.”
　　　"Hok-hok-hok!" replied Cain. "A crumb of my victuals went the
wrong way--hok-hok! That's what 'tis, Mister Oak! And I've been visit-
ing to Bath because I had a felon on my thumb; yes, and I've seen--
ahok-hok!"
　　　Directly Cain mentioned Bath, they all threw down their hooks
and forks and drew round him. Unfortunately the erratic crumb did not
improve his narrative powers, and a supplementary hindrance was that
of a sneeze, jerking from his pocket his rather large watch, which dang-
led in front of the young man pendulum-wise.
　　　“Yes,” he continued, directing his thoughts to Bath and letting
his eyes follow, “I've seed the world at last--yes--and I've seed our
mis'ess--ahok-hok-hok!”
　　　“Bother the boy!” said Gabriel. “Something is always going the
wrong way down your throat, so that you can't tell what's necessary to
be told.”
　　　“Ahok! there! Please, Mister Oak, a gnat have just fleed into
my stomach and brought the cough on again!”
　　　“Yes, that's just it. Your mouth is always open, you young ras-
cal!”
　　　“'Tis terrible bad to have a gnat fly down yer throat, pore
boy!” said Matthew Moon.
　　　“Well, at Bath you saw--” prompted Gabriel.
　　　“I saw our mistress,” continued the junior shepherd, “and a
sojer, walking along. And bymeby they got closer and closer, and then
they went arm-in-crook, like courting complete--hok-hok! like court-
ing complete--hok!--courting complete--” Losing the thread of his
narrative at this point simultaneously with his loss of breath, their
informant looked up and down the field apparently for some clue to it.
“Well, I see our mis'ess and a soldier--a-ha-a-wk!”
　　　“Damn the boy!” said Gabriel.
　　　“'Tis only my manner, Mister Oak, if ye'll excuse it,” said
Cain Ball, looking reproachfully at Oak, with eyes drenched in their
own dew.
　　　“Here's some cider for him--that'll cure his throat,” said
Jan Coggan, lifting a flagon of cider, pulling out the cork, and ap-
plying the hole to Cainy's mouth; Joseph Poorgrass in the meantime
beginning to think apprehensively of the serious consequences that
would follow Cainy Ball's strangulation in his cough, and the history
of his Bath adventures dying with him.
　　　“For my poor self, I always say ‘please God' afore I do any-
thing,” said Joseph, in an unboastful voice; “and so should you,
Cain Ball. 'Tis a great safeguard, and might perhaps save you from
being choked to death some day.”
　　　Mr. Coggan poured the liquor with unstinted liberality at the
suffering Cain's circular mouth; half of it running down the side of
the flagon, and half of what reached his mouth running down outside
his throat, and half of what ran in going the wrong way, and being
coughed and sneezed around the persons of the gathered reapers
in the form of a cider fog, which for a moment hung in the sunny
air like a small exhalation.
　　　“There's a great clumsy sneeze! Why can't ye have better man-
ners, you young dog!” said Coggan, withdrawing the flagon.
　　　“The cider went up my nose!” cried Cainy, as soon as he could
speak; “and now 'tis gone down my neck, and into my poor dumb felon,
and over my shiny buttons and all my best cloze!”
　　　“The poor lad's cough is terrible unfortunate,” said Matthew
Moon. “And a great history on hand, too. Bump his back, shepherd.”
　　　“'Tis my nater,” mourned Cain. “Mother says I always was so
excitable when my feelings were worked up to a point!”
　　　“True, true,” said Joseph Poorgrass. “The Balls were always a
very excitable family. I knowed the boy's grandfather--a truly nervous
and modest man, even to genteel refinery. 'Twas blush, blush with him,
almost as much as 'tis with me--not but that 'tis a fault in me!”
　　　“Not at all, Master Poorgrass,” said Coggan. “'Tis a very
noble quality in ye.”
　　　“Heh-heh! well, I wish to noise nothing abroad--nothing at all,”
murmured Poorgrass, diffidently. “But we be born to things--that's
true. Yet I would rather my trifle were hid; though, perhaps, a high
nater is a little high, and at my birth all things were possible to
my Maker, and he may have begrudged no gifts.... But under your bushel,
Joseph! under your bushel with 'ee! A strange desire, neighbours, this
desire to hide, and no praise due. Yet there is a Sermon on the Mount
with a calendar of the blessed at the head, and certain meek men may
be named therein.”
　　　“Cainy's grandfather was a very clever man,” said Matthew Moon.
“Invented a' apple-tree out of his own head, which is called by his
name to this day--the Early Ball. You know 'em, Jan? A Quarrenden graft-
ed on a Tom Putt, and a Rathe-ripe upon top o' that again. 'Tis trew 'a
used to bide about in a public-house wi' a 'ooman in a way he had no
business to by rights, but there--'a were a clever man in the sense of
the term.”
　　　“Now then,” said Gabriel, impatiently, “what did you see, Cain?”
　　　“I seed our mis'ess go into a sort of a park place, where there's
seats, and shrubs and flowers, arm-in-crook with a sojer,” continued
Cainy, firmly, and with a dim sense that his words were very effective
as regarded Gabriel's emotions. “And I think the sojer was Sergeant Troy.
And they sat there together for more than half-an-hour, talking moving
things, and she once was crying a'most to death. And when they came out
her eyes were shining and she was as white as a lily; and they looked
into one another's faces, as far-gone friendly as a man and woman can
be.”
　　　Gabriel's features seemed to get thinner. “Well, what did you see
besides?”
　　　“Oh, all sorts.”　　　
　　　“White as a lily? You are sure 'twas she?”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“Well, what besides?”
　　　“Great glass windows to the shops, and great clouds in the sky,
full of rain, and old wooden trees in the country round.”
　　　“You stun-poll! What will ye say next?” said Coggan.
　　　“Let en alone,” interposed Joseph Poorgrass. “The boy's meaning
is that the sky and the earth in the kingdom of Bath is not altogether
different from ours here. 'Tis for our good to gain knowledge of strange
cities, and as such the boy's words should be suffered, so to speak it.”
　　　“And the people of Bath,” continued Cain, “never need to light
their fires except as a luxury, for the water springs up out of the earth
ready boiled for use.”
　　　“'Tis true as the light,” testified Matthew Moon. “I've heard o-
ther navigators say the same thing.”
　　　“They drink nothing else there,” said Cain, “and seem to enjoy
it, to see how they swaller it down.”
　　　“Well, it seems a barbarian practice enough to us, but I daresay
the natives think nothing o' it,” said Matthew.
　　　“And don't victuals spring up as well as drink?” asked Coggan,
twirling his eye.
　　　“No--I own to a blot there in Bath--a true blot. God didn't pro-
vide 'em with victuals as well as drink, and 'twas a drawback I couldn't
get over at all.”
　　　“Well, 'tis a curious place, to say the least,” observed Moon;
“and it must be a curious people that live therein.”
　　　“Miss Everdene and the soldier were walking about together, you
say?” said Gabriel, returning to the group.
　　　“Ay, and she wore a beautiful gold-colour silk gown, trimmed with
black lace, that would have stood alone 'ithout legs inside if required.
'Twas a very winsome sight; and her hair was brushed splendid. And when
the sun shone upon the bright gown and his red coat--my! how handsome
they looked. You could see 'em all the length of the street.”
　　　“And what then?” murmured Gabriel.
　　　“And then I went into Griffin's to hae my boots hobbed, and then
I went to Riggs's batty-cake shop, and asked 'em for a penneth of the
cheapest and nicest stales, that were all but blue-mouldy, but not quite.
And whilst I was chawing 'em down I walked on and seed a clock with a
face as big as a baking trendle--”
　　　“But that's nothing to do with mistress!”
　　　“I'm coming to that, if you'll leave me alone, Mister Oak!” re-
monstrated Cainy. “If you excites me, perhaps you'll bring on my cough,
and then I shan't be able to tell ye nothing.”
　　　“Yes--let him tell it his own way,” said Coggan.
　　　Gabriel settled into a despairing attitude of patience, and Cainy
went on:--
　　　“And there were great large houses, and more people all the week
long than at Weatherbury club-walking on White Tuesdays. And I went to
grand churches and chapels. And how the parson would pray! Yes; he would
kneel down and put up his hands together, and make the holy gold rings
on his fingers gleam and twinkle in yer eyes, that he'd earned by pray-
ing so excellent well!--Ah yes, I wish I lived there.”
　　　“Our poor Parson Thirdly can't get no money to buy such rings,”
said Matthew Moon, thoughtfully. “And as good a man as ever walked. I
don't believe poor Thirdly have a single one, even of humblest tin or
copper. Such a great ornament as they'd be to him on a dull afternoon,
when he's up in the pulpit lighted by the wax candles! But 'tis imposs-
ible, poor man. Ah, to think how unequal things be.”
　　　“Perhaps he's made of different stuff than to wear 'em,” said
Gabriel, grimly. “Well, that's enough of this. Go on, Cainy--quick.”
　　　"Oh--and the new style of parsons wear moustaches and long
beards," continued the illustrious traveller, "and look like Moses and
Aaron complete, and make we fokes in the congregation feel all over
like the children of Israel."
　　　"A very right feeling--very," said Joseph Poorgrass.
　　　"And there's two religions going on in the nation now--High
Church and High Chapel. And, thinks I, I'll play fair; so I went
to High Church in the morning, and High Chapel in the afternoon."
　　　"A right and proper boy," said Joseph Poorgrass.
　　　"Well, at High Church they pray singing, and worship all the colours
of the rainbow; and at High Chapel they pray preaching, and worship
drab and whitewash only."
　　　And then--I didn't see no more of Miss Everdene at all.”
　　　“Why didn't you say so afore, then?” exclaimed Oak, with much
disappointment.
　　　“Ah,” said Matthew Moon, “she'll wish her cake dough if so be
she's over intimate with that man.”
　　　“She's not over intimate with him,” said Gabriel, indignantly.
　　　“She would know better,” said Coggan. “Our mis'ess has too
much sense under they knots of black hair to do such a mad thing.”
　　　“You see, he's not a coarse, ignorant man, for he was well
brought up,” said Matthew, dubiously. “'Twas only wildness that made
him a soldier, and maids rather like your man of sin.”
　　　“Now, Cain Ball,” said Gabriel restlessly, “can you swear in
the most awful form that the woman you saw was Miss Everdene?”
　　　“Cain Ball, you be no longer a babe and suckling,” said Joseph
in the sepulchral tone the circumstances demanded, “and you know what
taking an oath is. 'Tis a horrible testament mind ye, which you say
and seal with your blood-stone, and the prophet Matthew tells us that
on whomsoever it shall fall it will grind him to powder. Now, before
all the work-folk here assembled, can you swear to your words as the
shepherd asks ye?”
　　　“Please no, Mister Oak!” said Cainy, looking from one to the
other with great uneasiness at the spiritual magnitude of the position.
“I don't mind saying 'tis true, but I don't like to say 'tis damn
true, if that's what you mane.”
　　　“Cain, Cain, how can you!” asked Joseph sternly. “You be ask-
ed to swear in a holy manner, and you swear like wicked Shimei, the
son of Gera, who cursed as he came. Young man, fie!”
　　　“No, I don't! 'Tis you want to squander a pore boy's soul, Jo-
seph Poorgrass--that's what 'tis!” said Cain, beginning to cry. “All
I mane is that in common truth 'twas Miss Everdene and Sergeant Troy,
but in the horrible so-help-me truth that ye want to make of it per-
haps 'twas somebody else!”
　　　“There's no getting at the rights of it,” said Gabriel, turn-
ing to his work.
　　　“Cain Ball, you'll come to a bit of bread!” groaned Joseph
Poorgrass.
　　　Then the reapers' hooks were flourished again, and the old sounds
went on. Gabriel, without making any pretence of being lively, did nothing
to show that he was particularly dull. However, Coggan knew pretty near-
ly how the land lay, and when they were in a nook together he said--
　　　“Don't take on about her, Gabriel. What difference does it make
whose sweetheart she is, since she can't be yours?”
　　　“That's the very thing I say to myself,” said Gabriel.








　　　That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan's gar-
den-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest.
　　　A vehicle of some kind was softly creeping along the grassy margin
of the lane. From it spread the tones of two women talking. The tones
were natural and not at all suppressed. Oak instantly knew the voices to
be those of Bathsheba and Liddy.
　　　The carriage came opposite and passed by. It was Miss Everdene's
gig, and Liddy and her mistress were the only occupants of the seat. Lid-
dy was asking questions about the city of Bath, and her companion was an-
swering them listlessly and unconcernedly. Both Bathsheba and the horse
seemed weary.
　　　The exquisite relief of finding that she was here again, safe and
sound, overpowered all reflection, and Oak could only luxuriate in the
sense of it. All grave reports were forgotten.
　　　He lingered and lingered on, till there was no difference between
the eastern and western expanses of sky, and the timid hares began to
limp courageously round the dim hillocks. Gabriel might have been there
an additional half-hour when a dark form walked slowly by. “Good-night,
Gabriel,” the passer said.
　　　It was Boldwood. “Good-night, sir,” said Gabriel.
　　　Boldwood likewise vanished up the road, and Oak shortly afterwards
turned indoors to bed.
　　　Farmer Boldwood went on towards Miss Everdene's house. He reached
the front, and approaching the entrance, saw a light in the parlour. The
blind was not drawn down, and inside the room was Bathsheba, looking over
some papers or letters. Her back was towards Boldwood. He went to the
door, knocked, and waited with tense muscles and an aching brow.
　　　Boldwood had not been outside his garden since his meeting with
Bathsheba in the road to Yalbury. Silent and alone, he had remained in
moody meditation on woman's ways, deeming as essentials of the whole
sex the accidents of the single one of their number he had ever closely
beheld. By degrees a more charitable temper had pervaded him, and this
was the reason of his sally to-night. He had come to apologize and beg
forgiveness of Bathsheba with something like a sense of shame at his vio-
lence, having but just now learnt that she had returned--only from a visit
to Liddy, as he supposed, the Bath escapade being quite unknown to him.
　　　He inquired for Miss Everdene. Liddy's manner was odd, but he did
not notice it. She went in, leaving him standing there, and in her ab-
sence the blind of the room containing Bathsheba was pulled down. Bold-
wood augured ill from that sign. Liddy came out.
　　　“My mistress cannot see you, sir,” she said.
　　　The farmer instantly went out by the gate. He was unforgiven--
that was the issue of it all. He had seen her who was to him simulta-
neously a delight and a torture, sitting in the room he had shared with
her as a peculiarly privileged guest only a little earlier in the summer,
and she had denied him an entrance there now.
　　　Boldwood did not hurry homeward. It was ten o'clock at least, when,
walking deliberately through the lower part of Weatherbury, he heard the
carrier's spring van entering the village. The van ran to and from a town
in a northern direction, and it was owned and driven by a Weatherbury man,
at the door of whose house it now pulled up. The lamp fixed to the head
of the hood illuminated a scarlet and gilded form, who was the first to a-
light.
　　　“Ah!” said Boldwood to himself, “come to see her again.”
　　　Troy entered the carrier's house, which had been the place of his
lodging on his last visit to his native place. Boldwood was moved by a
sudden determination. He hastened home. In ten minutes he was back again,
and made as if he were going to call upon Troy at the carrier's. But as he
approached, some one opened the door and came out. He heard this person
say “Good-night” to the inmates, and the voice was Troy's. This was
strange, coming so immediately after his arrival. Boldwood, however, has-
tened up to him. Troy had what appeared to be a carpet-bag in his hand--
the same that he had brought with him. It seemed as if he were going to
leave again this very night.
　　　Troy turned up the hill and quickened his pace. Boldwood stepped
forward.
　　　“Sergeant Troy?”
　　　“Yes--I'm Sergeant Troy.”
　　　“Just arrived from up the country, I think?”
　　　“Just arrived from Bath.”
　　　“I am William Boldwood.”
　　　“Indeed.”
　　　The tone in which this word was uttered was all that had been want-
ed to bring Boldwood to the point.
　　　“I wish to speak a word with you,” he said.
　　　“What about?”
　　　“About her who lives just ahead there--and about a woman you
have wronged.”
　　　“I wonder at your impertinence,” said Troy, moving on.
　　　“Now look here,” said Boldwood, standing in front of him,
“wonder or not, you are going to hold a conversation with me.”
　　　Troy heard the dull determination in Boldwood's voice, looked at
his stalwart frame, then at the thick cudgel he carried in his hand. He
remembered it was past ten o'clock. It seemed worth while to be civil to
Boldwood.
　　　“Very well, I'll listen with pleasure,” said Troy, placing his bag on
the ground, “only speak low, for somebody or other may overhear us in
the farmhouse there.”
　　　“Well then--I know a good deal concerning your Fanny Robin's at-
tachment to you. I may say, too, that I believe I am the only person in
the village, excepting Gabriel Oak, who does know it. You ought to marry
her.”
　　　“I suppose I ought. Indeed, I wish to, but I cannot.”
　　　“Why?”
　　　Troy was about to utter something hastily; he then checked himself
and said, “I am too poor.” His voice was changed. Previously it had had
a devil-may-care tone. It was the voice of a trickster now.
　　　Boldwood's present mood was not critical enough to notice tones.
He continued, “I may as well speak plainly; and understand, I don't wish
to enter into the questions of right or wrong, woman's honour and shame,
or to express any opinion on your conduct. I intend a business transaction
with you.”
　　　“I see,” said Troy. “Suppose we sit down here.”
　　　An old tree trunk lay under the hedge immediately opposite, and
they sat down.
　　　“I was engaged to be married to Miss Everdene,” said Boldwood,
“but you came and--”
　　　“Not engaged,” said Troy.
　　　“As good as engaged.”
　　　“If I had not turned up she might have become engaged to you.”
　　　“Hang might!”
　　　“Would, then.”
　　　“If you had not come I should certainly--yes, certainly--have been
accepted by this time. If you had not seen her you might have been mar-
ried to Fanny. Well, there's too much difference between Miss Everdene's
station and your own for this flirtation with her ever to benefit you by end-
ing in marriage. So all I ask is, don't molest her any more. Marry Fanny.
I'll make it worth your while.”
　　　“How will you?”
　　　“I'll pay you well now, I'll settle a sum of money upon her, and
I'll see that you don't suffer from poverty in the future. I'll put it
clearly. Bathsheba is only playing with you: you are too poor for her as I
said; so give up wasting your time about a great match you'll never make
for a moderate and rightful match you may make to-morrow; take up your
carpet-bag, turn about, leave Weatherbury now, this night, and you shall
take fifty pounds with you. Fanny shall have fifty to enable her to pre-
pare for the wedding, when you have told me where she is living, and she
shall have five hundred paid down on her wedding-day.”
　　　In making this statement Boldwood's voice revealed only too clearly
a consciousness of the weakness of his position, his aims, and his method.
His manner had lapsed quite from that of the firm and dignified Boldwood
of former times; and such a scheme as he had now engaged in he would
have condemned as childishly imbecile only a few months ago.
　　　We discern a grand force in the lover which he lacks whilst a free
man; but there is a breadth of vision in the free man which in the lover
we vainly seek. Where there is much bias there must be some narrow-
ness, and love, though added emotion, is subtracted capacity. Boldwood
exemplified this to an abnormal degree: he knew nothing of Fanny Rob-
in's circumstances or whereabouts, he knew nothing of Troy's
possibilities, yet that was what he said.
　　　“I like Fanny best,” said Troy; “and if, as you say, Miss Everdene
is out of my reach, why I have all to gain by accepting your money, and
marrying Fan. But she's only a servant.”
　　　“Never mind--do you agree to my arrangement?”
　　　“I do.”
　　　“Ah!” said Boldwood, in a more elastic voice. “Oh, Troy, if
you like her best, why then did you step in here and injure my happi-
ness?”
　　　“I love Fanny best now,” said Troy. “But Bathsh--Miss Everdene
inflamed me, and displaced Fanny for a time. It is over now.”
　　　“Why should it be over so soon? And why then did you come here
again?”
　　　“There are weighty reasons. Fifty pounds at once, you said!”
　　　“I did,” said Boldwood, “and here they are--fifty sovereigns.”
He handed Troy a small packet.
　　　“You have everything ready--it seems that you calculated on my
accepting them,” said the sergeant, taking the packet.
　　　“I thought you might accept them,” said Boldwood.
　　　“You've only my word that the programme shall be adhered to,
whilst I at any rate have fifty pounds.”
　　　“I had thought of that, and I have considered that if I can't
appeal to your honour I can trust to your--well, shrewdness we'll call
it--not to lose five hundred pounds in prospect, and also make a bitter
enemy of a man who is willing to be an extremely useful friend.”
　　　“Stop, listen!” said Troy in a whisper.
　　　A light pit-pat was audible upon the road just above them.
　　　“By George--'tis she,” he continued. “I must go on and meet
her.”
　　　“She--who?”
　　　“Bathsheba.”
　　　“Bathsheba--out alone at this time o' night!” said Boldwood in
amazement, and starting up. “Why must you meet her?”
　　　“She was expecting me to-night--and I must now speak to her, and
wish her good-bye, according to your wish.”
　　　“I don't see the necessity of speaking.”
　　　“It can do no harm--and she'll be wandering about looking for me
if I don't. You shall hear all I say to her. It will help you in your love-
making when I am gone.”
　　　“Your tone is mocking.”
　　　“Oh no. And remember this, if she does not know what has become
of me, she will think more about me than if I tell her flatly I have come
to give her up.”
　　　“Will you confine your words to that one point?--Shall I hear ev-
ery word you say?”
　　　“Every word. Now sit still there, and hold my carpet bag for me,
and mark what you hear.”
　　　The light footstep came closer, halting occasionally, as if the
walker listened for a sound. Troy whistled a double note in a soft, fluty
tone.
　　　“Come to that, is it!” murmured Boldwood, uneasily.
　　　“You promised silence,” said Troy.
　　　“I promise again.”
　　　Troy stepped forward.
　　　“Frank, dearest, is that you?” The tones were Bathsheba's.
　　　“O God!” said Boldwood.
　　　“Yes,” said Troy to her.
　　　“How late you are,” she continued, tenderly. “Did you come by
the carrier? I listened and heard his wheels entering the village, but
it was some time ago, and I had almost given you up, Frank.”
　　　“I was sure to come,” said Frank. “You knew I should, did you
not?”
　　　“Well, I thought you would,” she said, playfully; “and, Frank,
it is so lucky! There's not a soul in my house but me to-night. I've
packed them all off so nobody on earth will know of your visit to your
lady's bower. Liddy wanted to go to her grandfather's to tell him about
her holiday, and I said she might stay with them till to-morrow--when
you'll be gone again.”
　　　“Capital,” said Troy. “But, dear me, I had better go back for
my bag, because my slippers and brush and comb are in it; you run home
whilst I fetch it, and I'll promise to be in your parlour in ten minutes.”
　　　"Yes." She turned and tripped up the hill again.
　　　During the progress of this dialogue there was a nervous twitch-
ing of Boldwood's tightly closed lips, and his face became bathed in a
clammy dew. He now started forward towards Troy. Troy turned to him
and took up the bag.
　　　Shall I tell her I have come to give her up and cannot marry her?"
said the soldier, mockingly.
　　　"No, no; wait a minute. I want to say more to you--more to you!"
said Boldwood, in a hoarse whisper.
　　　"Now," said Troy, "you see my dilemma. Perhaps I am a bad man--
the victim of my impulses--led away to do what I ought to leave un-
done. I can't, however, marry them both. And I have two reasons for
choosing Fanny. First, I like her best upon the whole, and second, you
make it worth my while.”
　　　At the same instant Boldwood sprang upon him, and held him by
the neck. Troy felt Boldwood's grasp slowly tightening. The move was
absolutely unexpected.
　　　“A moment,” he gasped. “You are injuring her you love!”
　　　“Well, what do you mean?” said the farmer.
　　　“Give me breath,” said Troy.
　　　"By Heaven, I've a mind to kill you!"
　　　"And ruin her."
　　　"Save her."
　　　"Oh, how can she be saved now, unless I marry her?"
　　　Boldwood groaned. He reluctantly released the soldier, and flung
him back against the hedge. "Devil, you torture me!" said he.
　　　Troy rebounded like a ball, and was about to make a dash at the
farmer; but he checked himself, saying lightly--
　　　"It is not worth while to measure my strength with you. Indeed it
is a barbarous way of settling a quarrel. I shall shortly leave the army
because of the same conviction. Now after that revelation of how the
land lies with Bathsheba, 'twould be a mistake to kill me, would it not?"
　　　"'Twould be a mistake to kill you," repeated Boldwood, mechanic-
ally, with a bowed head.
　　　"Better kill yourself."
　　　"Far better."
　　　"I'm glad you see it."
　　　"Troy, make her your wife, and don't act upon what I arranged
just now. The alternative is dreadful, but take Bathsheba; I
give her up! She must love you indeed to sell soul and body to
you so utterly as she has done. Wretched woman--deluded woman--
you are, Bathsheba!"
　　　"But about Fanny?"
　　　"Bathsheba is a woman well to do," continued Boldwood, in nervous
anxiety, and, Troy, she will make a good wife; and, indeed, she is worth
your hastening on your marriage with her!"
　　　"But she has a will--not to say a temper, and I shall be a mere
slave to her. I could do anything with poor Fanny Robin."
　　　"Troy," said Boldwood, imploringly, "I'll do anything for you,
only don't desert her; pray don't desert her, Troy."
　　　"Which, poor Fanny?"
　　　"No; Bathsheba Everdene. Love her best! Love her tenderly! How
shall I get you to see how advantageous it will be to you to secure her at
once?"
　　　"I don't wish to secure her in any new way."
　　　Boldwood's arm moved spasmodically towards Troy's person again.
He repressed the instinct, and his form drooped as with pain.
　　　Troy went on--
　　　“I shall soon purchase my discharge, and then--”
　　　“But I wish you to hasten on this marriage! It will be better for
you both. You love each other, and you must let me help you to do it.”
　　　“How?”
　　　“Why, by settling the five hundred on Bathsheba instead of Fanny,
to enable you to marry at once. No; she wouldn't have it of me. I'll pay
it down to you on the wedding-day.”
　　　Troy paused in secret amazement at Boldwood's wild infatuation. He
carelessly said, “And am I to have anything now?”
　　　“Yes, if you wish to. But I have not much additional money with me.
I did not expect this; but all I have is yours.”
　　　Boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wakeful man, pulled out
the large canvas bag he carried by way of a purse, and searched it.
　　　“I have twenty-one pounds more with me,” he said. “Two notes
and a sovereign. But before I leave you I must have a paper signed--”
　　　“Pay me the money, and we'll go straight to her parlour, and make
any arrangement you please to secure my compliance with your wishes.
But she must know nothing of this cash business.”
　　　“Nothing, nothing,” said Boldwood, hastily. “Here is the sum,
and if you'll come to my house we'll write out the agreement for the
remainder, and the terms also.”
　　　“First we'll call upon her.”
　　　“But why? Come with me to-night, and go with me to-morrow to the
surrogate's.”
　　　“But she must be consulted; at any rate informed.”
　　　“Very well; go on.”
　　　They went up the hill to Bathsheba's house. When they stood at the
entrance, Troy said, “Wait here a moment.” Opening the door, he glided
inside, leaving the door ajar.
　　　Boldwood waited. In two minutes a light appeared in the passage.
Boldwood then saw that the chain had been fastened across the door.
Troy appeared inside, carrying a bedroom candlestick.
　　　“What, did you think I should break in?” said Boldwood, contempt-
uously.
　　　“Oh, no, it is merely my humour to secure things. Will you read
this a moment? I'll hold the light.”
　　　Troy handed a folded newspaper through the slit between door and
doorpost, and put the candle close. “That's the paragraph,” he said,
placing his finger on a line.
　　　Boldwood looked and read--

　　　　　　MARRIAGES.
　　　　　　On the 17th inst., at St. Ambrose's Church, Bath, by the
　　　　　　Rev. G. Mincing, B.A., Francis Troy, only son of the late
　　　　　　Edward Troy, Esq., M.D., of Weatherbury, and sergeant with
　　　　　　Dragoon Guards, to Bathsheba, only surviving daughter of
　　　　　　the late Mr. John Everdene, of Casterbridge.

　　　"This may be called Fort meeting Feeble, hey, Boldwood?" said
Troy. A low gurgle of derisive laughter followed the words.
　　　The paper fell from Boldwood's hands. Troy continued--
　　　"Fifty pounds to marry Fanny. Good. Twenty-one pounds not to
marry Fanny, but Bathsheba. Good. Finale: already Bathsheba's husband.
Now, Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends inter-
ference between a man and his wife. And another word. Bad as I am, I
am not such a villain as to make the marriage or misery of any woman
a matter of huckster and sale. Fanny has long ago left me. I don't know
where she is. I have searched everywhere. Another word yet. You say
you love Bathsheba; yet on the merest apparent evidence you instantly
believe in her dishonour. A fig for such love! Now that I've taught you
a lesson, take your money back again."
　　　"I will not; I will not!" said Boldwood, in a hiss.
　　　"Anyhow I won't have it," said Troy, contemptuously. He wrapped
the packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road.
　　　Boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. "You juggler of Satan!
You black hound! But I'll punish you yet; mark me, I'll punish you yet!"
　　　Another peal of laughter. Troy then closed the door, and locked
himself in.
　　　Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood's dark form might
have been seen walking about the hills and downs of Weatherbury like
an unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron.








It was very early the next morning--a time of sun and dew. The
confused beginnings of many birds' songs spread into the healthy
air, and the wan blue of the heaven was here and there coated with
thin webs of incorporeal cloud which were of no effect in obscuring
day. All the lights in the scene were yellow as to colour, and all
the shadows were attenuated as to form. The creeping plants about
the old manor-house were bowed with rows of heavy water drops, which
had upon objects behind them the effect of minute lenses of high
magnifying power.
　　　　　　Just before the clock struck five Gabriel Oak and Coggan
passed the village cross, and went on together to the fields. They were
yet barely in view of their mistress's house, when Oak fancied he saw
the opening of a casement in one of the upper windows. The two men
were at this moment partially screened by an elder bush, now begin-
ning to be enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused be-
fore emerging from its shade.
　　　A handsome man leaned idly from the lattice. He looked east
and then west, in the manner of one who makes a first morning sur-
vey. The man was Sergeant Troy. His red jacket was loosely thrown
on, but not buttoned, and he had altogether the relaxed bearing of
a soldier taking his ease.
　　　Coggan spoke first, looking quietly at the window.
　　　“She has married him!” he said.
　　　Gabriel had previously beheld the sight, and he now stood with
his back turned, making no reply.
　　“I fancied we should know something to-day,” continued Coggan.
“I heard wheels pass my door just after dark--you were out some-
where.” He glanced round upon Gabriel. “Good heavens above us,
Oak, how white your face is; you look like a corpse!”
　　　“Do I?” said Oak, with a faint smile.
　　　“Lean on the gate: I'll wait a bit.”
　　　“All right, all right.”
　　　They stood by the gate awhile, Gabriel listlessly staring at
the ground. His mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in
years of leisure the scenes of repentance that would ensue from this
work of haste. That they were married he had instantly decided. Why
had it been so mysteriously managed? It had become known that she
had had a fearful journey to Bath, owing to her miscalculating the
distance: that the horse had broken down, and that she had been
more than two days getting there. It was not Bathsheba's way to do
things furtively. With all her faults, she was candour itself. Could
she have been entrapped? The union was not only an unutterable
grief to him: it amazed him, notwithstanding that he had passed the
preceding week in a suspicion that such might be the issue of Troy's
meeting her away from home. Her quiet return with Liddy had to some
extent dispersed the dread. Just as that imperceptible motion which
appears like stillness is infinitely divided in its properties from still-
ness itself, so had his hope undistinguishable from despair differed
from despair indeed.
　　　In a few minutes they moved on again towards the house. The
sergeant still looked from the window.
　　　“Morning, comrades!” he shouted, in a cheery voice, when they
came up.
　　　Coggan replied to the greeting. "Bain't ye going to answer the
man?" he then said to Gabriel. "I'd say good morning--you needn't
spend a hapenny of meaning upon it, and yet keep the man civil."
　　　Gabriel soon decided too that, since the deed was done, to put
the best face upon the matter would be the greatest kindness to her
he loved.
　　　"Good morning, Sergeant Troy," he returned, in a ghastly voice.
　　　"A rambling, gloomy house this," said Troy, smiling.
　　　"Why--they MAY not be married!" suggested Coggan. "Perhaps
she's not there."
　　　Gabriel shook his head. The soldier turned a little towards the
east, and the sun kindled his scarlet coat to an orange glow.
　　　“But it is a nice old house,” responded Gabriel.
　　　“Yes--I suppose so; but I feel like new wine in an old bottle
here. My notion is that sash-windows should be put throughout, and
these old wainscoted walls brightened up a bit; or the oak cleared
quite away, and the walls papered.”
　　　“It would be a pity, I think.”
　　　“Well, no. A philosopher once said in my hearing that the old
builders, who worked when art was a living thing, had no respect for the
work of builders who went before them, but pulled down and altered as
they thought fit; and why shouldn't we? 'Creation and preservation don't
do well together,' says he, 'and a million of antiquarians can't invent
a style.' My mind exactly. I am for making this place more modern, that
we may be cheerful whilst we can.”
　　　The military man turned and surveyed the interior of the room, to
assist his ideas of improvement in this direction. Gabriel and Coggan be-
gan to move on.
　　　“Oh, Coggan,” said Troy, as if inspired by a recollection “do
you know if insanity has ever appeared in Mr. Boldwood's family?”
　　　Jan reflected for a moment.
　　　“I once heard that an uncle of his was queer in his head, but I
don't know the rights o't,” he said.
　　　“It is of no importance,” said Troy, lightly. “Well, I shall be down
in the fields with you some time this week; but I have a few matters
to attend to first. So good-day to you. We shall, of course, keep on just
as friendly terms as usual. I'm not a proud man: nobody is ever able to
say that of Sergeant Troy. However, what is must be, and here's half-a-
crown to drink my health, men.”
　　　Troy threw the coin dexterously across the front plot and over the
fence towards Gabriel, who shunned it in its fall, his face turning to an
angry red. Coggan twirled his eye, edged forward, and caught the money in
its ricochet upon the road.
　　　“Very well--you keep it, Coggan,” said Gabriel with disdain and
almost fiercely. “As for me, I'll do without gifts from him!”
　　　“Don't show it too much,” said Coggan, musingly. “For if he's
married to her, mark my words, he'll buy his discharge and be our master
here. Therefore 'tis well to say 'Friend' outwardly, though you say
'Troublehouse' within.”
　　　“Well--perhaps it is best to be silent; but I can't go further
than that. I can't flatter, and if my place here is only to be kept by
smoothing him down, my place must be lost.”
　　　A horseman, whom they had for some time seen in the distance, now
appeared close beside them.
　　　“There's Mr. Boldwood,” said Oak. “I wonder what Troy meant by
his question.”
　　　Coggan and Oak nodded respectfully to the farmer, just checked
their paces to discover if they were wanted, and finding they were not
stood back to let him pass on.
　　　The only signs of the terrible sorrow Boldwood had been combating
through the night, and was combating now, were the want of colour in
his well-defined face, the enlarged appearance of the veins in his fore-
head and temples, and the sharper lines about his mouth. The horse
bore him away, and the very step of the animal seemed significant of
dogged despair. Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his own grief in notic-
ing Boldwood's. He saw the square figure sitting erect upon the horse,
the head turned to neither side, the elbows steady by the hips, the brim
of the hat level and undisturbed in its onward glide, until the keen edge-
s of Boldwood's shape sank by degrees over the hill. To one who knew
the man and his story there was something more striking in this immob-
ility than in a collapse. The clash of discord between mood and matter
here was forced painfully home to the heart; and, as in laughter there
are more dreadful phases than in tears, so was there in the steadiness
of this agonized man an expression deeper than a cry.








　　　One night, at the end of August, when Bathsheba's experiences
as a married woman were still new, and when the weather was yet dry
and sultry, a man stood motionless in the stockyard of Weatherbury Up-
per Farm, looking at the moon and sky.
　　　The night had a sinister aspect. A heated breeze from the south
slowly fanned the summits of lofty objects, and in the sky dashes of
buoyant cloud were sailing in a course at right angles to that of ano-
ther stratum, neither of them in the direction of the breeze below.
The moon, as seen through these films, had a lurid metallic look. The
fields were sallow with the impure light, and all were tinged in mono-
chrome, as if beheld through stained glass.
　　　The same evening the sheep had trailed homeward head to tail,
the behaviour of the rooks had been confused, and the horses had
moved with timidity and caution.
　　　Thunder was imminent, and, taking some secondary appearances in-
to consideration, it was likely to be followed by one of the lengthen-
ed rains which mark the close of dry weather for the season. Before
twelve hours had passed a harvest atmosphere would be a bygone thing.
　　　Oak gazed with misgiving at eight naked and unprotected ricks,
massive and heavy with the rich produce of one-half the farm for that
year. He went on to the barn.
　　　This was the night which had been selected by Sergeant Troy--
ruling now in the room of his wife--for giving the harvest supper and
dance. As Oak approached the building the sound of violins and a tam-
bourine, and the regular jigging of many feet, grew more distinct. He
came close to the large doors, one of which stood slightly ajar, and
looked in.
　　　The central space, together with the recess at one end, was em-
ptied of all incumbrances, and this area, covering about two-thirds
of the whole, was appropriated for the gathering, the remaining end,
which was piled to the ceiling with oats, being screened off with
sail-cloth. Tufts and garlands of green foliage decorated the walls,
beams, and extemporized chandeliers, and immediately opposite to Oak
a rostrum had been erected, bearing a table and chairs. Here sat
three fiddlers, and beside them stood a frantic man with his hair on
end, perspiration streaming down his cheeks, and a tambourine quiver-
ing in his hand.
　　　The dance ended, and on the black oak floor in the midst a new
row of couples formed for another.
　　　“Now, ma'am, and no offence I hope, I ask what dance you would
like next?” said the first violin.
　　　“Really, it makes no difference,” said the clear voice of Bathshe-
ba, who stood at the inner end of the building, observing the scene
from behind a table covered with cups and viands. Troy was lolling
beside her.
　　　“Then,” said the fiddler, “I'll venture to name that the right
and proper thing is 'The Soldier's Joy'--there being a gallant
soldier married into the farm--hey, my sonnies, and gentlemen all?”
　　　“It shall be 'The Soldier's Joy,'” exclaimed a chorus.
　　　“Thanks for the compliment,” said the sergeant gaily, tak-
ing Bathsheba by the hand and leading her to the top of the dance.
“For though I have purchased my discharge from Her Most Gracious
Majesty's regiment of cavalry the 11th Dragoon Guards, to attend
to the new duties awaiting me here, I shall continue a soldier in
spirit and feeling as long as I live.”
　　　So the dance began. As to the merits of "The Soldier's Joy,"
there cannot be, and never were, two opinions. It has been observ-
ed in the musical circles of Weatherbury and its vicinity that this
melody, at the end of three-quarters of an hour of thunderous foot-
ing, still possesses more stimulative properties for the heel and toe
than the majority of other dances at their first opening. "The Sol-
dier's Joy" has, too, an additional charm, in being so admirably a-
dapted to the tambourine aforesaid--no mean instrument in the
hands of a performer who understands the proper convulsions,
spasms, St. Vitus's dances, and fearful frenzies necessary when
exhibiting its tones in their highest perfection.
　　　The immortal tune ended, a fine DD rolling forth from the bass-
viol with the sonorousness of a cannonade, and Gabriel delayed his
entry no longer. He avoided Bathsheba, and got as near as possible
to the platform, where Sergeant Troy was now seated, drinking brandy-
and-water, though the others drank without exception cider and ale.
Gabriel could not easily thrust himself within speaking distance of
the sergeant, and he sent a message, asking him to come down for
a moment. The sergeant said he could not attend.
　　　“Will you tell him, then,” said Gabriel, “that I only stepped ath'art
to say that a heavy rain is sure to fall soon, and that something
should be done to protect the ricks?”
　　　“Mr. Troy says it will not rain,” returned the messenger, “and
he cannot stop to talk to you about such fidgets.”
　　　In juxtaposition with Troy, Oak had a melancholy tendency to
look like a candle beside gas, and ill at ease, he went out again, think-
ing he would go home; for, under the circumstances, he had no heart
for the scene in the barn. At the door he paused for a moment: Troy
was speaking.
　　　“Friends, it is not only the harvest home that we are cele-
brating to-night; but this is also a Wedding Feast. A short time
ago I had the happiness to lead to the altar this lady, your mis-
tress, and not until now have we been able to give any public flour-
ish to the event in Weatherbury. That it may be thoroughly well
done, and that every man may go happy to bed, I have ordered to be
brought here some bottles of brandy and kettles of hot water. A tre-
ble-strong goblet will be handed round to each guest.”
　　　Bathsheba put her hand upon his arm, and, with upturned pale
face, said imploringly, “No--don't give it to them--pray don't, Frank!
It will only do them harm: they have had enough of everything.”
　　　“True--we don't wish for no more, thank ye,” said one or two.
　　　“Pooh!” said the sergeant contemptuously, and raised his voice
as if lighted up by a new idea. “Friends,” he said, “we'll send
the women-folk home! 'Tis time they were in bed. Then we cockbirds
will have a jolly carouse to ourselves! If any of the men show the
white feather, let them look elsewhere for a winter's work.”
　　　Bathsheba indignantly left the barn, followed by all the women
and children. The musicians, not looking upon themselves as “company,”
slipped quietly away to their spring waggon and put in the horse. Thus
Troy and the men on the farm were left sole occupants of the place.
Oak, not to appear unnecessarily disagreeable, stayed a little while;
then he, too, arose and quietly took his departure, followed by a
friendly oath from the sergeant for not staying to a second round of
grog.
　　　Gabriel proceeded towards his home. In approaching the door, his
toe kicked something which felt and sounded soft, leathery, and dis-
tended, like a boxing-glove. It was a large toad humbly travelling a-
cross the path. Oak took it up, thinking it might be better to kill
the creature to save it from pain; but finding it uninjured, he plac-
ed it again among the grass. He knew what this direct message from
the Great Mother meant. And soon came another.
　　　When he struck a light indoors there appeared upon the table
a thin glistening streak, as if a brush of varnish had been lightly
dragged across it. Oak's eyes followed the serpentine sheen to the
other side, where it led up to a huge brown garden-slug, which had
come indoors to-night for reasons of its own. It was Nature's second
way of hinting to him that he was to prepare for foul weather.
　　　Oak sat down meditating for nearly an hour. During this time
two black spiders, of the kind common in thatched houses, promenad-
ed the ceiling, ultimately dropping to the floor. This reminded him
that if there was one class of manifestation on this matter that he
thoroughly understood, it was the instincts of sheep. He left the
room, ran across two or three fields towards the flock, got upon a
hedge, and looked over among them.
　　　They were crowded close together on the other side around
some furze bushes, and the first peculiarity observable was that,
on the sudden appearance of Oak's head over the fence, they did
not stir or run away. They had now a terror of something greater
than their terror of man. But this was not the most noteworthy fea-
ture: they were all grouped in such a way that their tails, without
a single exception, were towards that half of the horizon from which
the storm threatened. There was an inner circle closely huddled,
and outside these they radiated wider apart, the pattern formed by
the flock as a whole not being unlike a vandyked lace collar, to
which the clump of furze-bushes stood in the position of a wear-
er's neck.
　　　This was enough to re-establish him in his original opini-
on. He knew now that he was right, and that Troy was wrong.
Every voice in nature was unanimous in bespeaking change. But
two distinct translations attached to these dumb expressions.
Apparently there was to be a thunder-storm, and afterwards a cold
continuous rain. The creeping things seemed to know all about
the later rain, but little of the interpolated thunder-storm; whilst
the sheep knew all about the thunder-storm and nothing of the
later rain.
　　　This complication of weathers being uncommon, was all the
more to be feared. Oak returned to the stack-yard. All was silent
here, and the conical tips of the ricks jutted darkly into the sky.
There were five wheat-ricks in this yard, and three stacks of bar-
ley. The wheat when threshed would average about thirty quarters
to each stack; the barley, at least forty. Their value to Bathsheba,
and indeed to anybody, Oak mentally estimated by the following sim-
ple calculation:--

5 × 30 = 150 quarters = 500 P.
3 × 40 = 120 quarters = 250 P.
––––
Total . . 750 P.

Seven hundred and fifty pounds in the divinest form that money can
wear--that of necessary food for man and beast: should the risk be
run of deteriorating this bulk of corn to less than half its value,
because of the instability of a woman? “Never, if I can prevent
it!” said Gabriel.
　　　Such was the argument that Oak set outwardly before him.
But man, even to himself, is a palimpsest, having an ostensible
writing, and another beneath the lines. It is possible that there
was this golden legend under the utilitarian one: “I will help
to my last effort the woman I have loved so dearly.”
　　　He went back to the barn to endeavour to obtain assistance
for covering the ricks that very night. All was silent within,
and he would have passed on in the belief that the party had bro-
ken up, had not a dim light, yellow as saffron by contrast with
the greenish whiteness outside, streamed through a knot-hole in
the folding doors.
　　　Gabriel looked in. An unusual picture met his eye.
　　　The candles suspended among the evergreens had burnt down
to their sockets, and in some cases the leaves tied about them
were scorched. Many of the lights had quite gone out, others
smoked and stank, grease dropping from them upon the floor.
Here, under the table, and leaning against forms and chairs
in every conceivable attitude except the perpendicular, were
the wretched persons of all the work-folk, the hair of their
heads at such low levels being suggestive of mops and brooms.
In the midst of these shone red and distinct the figure of
Sergeant Troy, leaning back in a chair. Coggan was on his
back, with his mouth open, huzzing forth snores, as were
several others; the united breathings of the horizonal assem-
blage forming a subdued roar like London from a distance.
Joseph Poorgrass was curled round in the fashion of a hedge-
hog, apparently in attempts to present the least possible por-
tion of his surface to the air; and behind him was dimly visible
an unimportant remnant of William Smallbury. The glasses and
cups still stood upon the table, a water-jug being overturned,
from which a small rill, after tracing its course with marvellous
precision down the centre of the long table, fell into the neck
of the unconscious Mark Clark, in a steady, monotonous drip,
like the dripping of a stalactite in a cave.
　　　Gabriel glanced hopelessly at the group, which, with one or
two exceptions, composed all the able-bodied men upon the farm.
He saw at once that if the ricks were to be saved that night, or
even the next morning, he must save them with his own hands.
　　　A faint “ting-ting” resounded from under Coggan's waist-
coat. It was Coggan's watch striking the hour of two.
　　　Oak went to the recumbent form of Matthew Moon, who usually
undertook the rough thatching of the home-stead, and shook him.
The shaking was without effect.
　　　Gabriel shouted in his ear, “where's your thatching-beetle
and rick-stick and spars?”
　　　“Under the staddles,” said Moon, mechanically, with the
unconscious promptness of a medium.
　　　Gabriel let go his head, and it dropped upon the floor like
a bowl. He then went to Susan Tall's husband.
　　　“Where's the key of the granary?”
　　　No answer. The question was repeated, with the same result.
To be shouted to at night was evidently less of a novelty to Su-
san Tall's husband than to Matthew Moon. Oak flung down Tall's
head into the corner again and turned away.
　　　To be just, the men were not greatly to blame for this
painful and demoralizing termination to the evening's entertain-
ment. Sergeant Troy had so strenuously insisted, glass in hand,
that drinking should be the bond of their union, that those who
wished to refuse hardly liked to be so unmannerly under the cir-
cumstances. Having from their youth up been entirely unaccustom-
ed to any liquor stronger than cider or mild ale, it was no won-
der that they had succumbed, one and all, with extraordinary un-
iformity, after the lapse of about an hour.
　　　Gabriel was greatly depressed. This debauch boded ill for
that wilful and fascinating mistress whom the faithful man even
now felt within him as the embodiment of all that was sweet and
bright and hopeless.
　　　He put out the expiring lights, that the barn might not
be endangered, closed the door upon the men in their deep and
oblivious sleep, and went again into the lone night.
　　　A hot breeze, as if breathed from the parted lips of some
dragon about to swallow the globe, fanned him from the south,
while directly opposite in the north rose a grim misshapen
body of cloud, in the very teeth of the wind. So unnaturally
did it rise that one could fancy it to be lifted by machinery
from below. Meanwhile the faint cloudlets had flown back into
the south-east corner of the sky, as if in terror of the large
cloud, like a young brood gazed in upon by some monster.
　　　Going on to the village, Oak flung a small stone against
the window of Laban Tall's bedroom, expecting Susan to open it;
but nobody stirred. He went round to the back door, which had
been left unfastened for Laban's entry, and passed in to the
foot of the staircase.
　　　“Mrs. Tall, I've come for the key of the granary, to get
at the rick-cloths,” said Oak, in a stentorian voice.
　　　“Is that you?” said Mrs. Susan Tall, half awake.
　　　“Yes,” said Gabriel.
　　　“Come along to bed, do, you drawlatching rogue--keeping
a body awake like this!”
　　　“It isn't Laban--'tis Gabriel Oak. I want the key of the
granary.”
　　　“Gabriel! What in the name of fortune did you pretend to
be Laban for?”
　　　“I didn't. I thought you meant--”
　　　“Yes you did! What do you want here?”
　　　“The key of the granary.”
　　　“Take it then. 'Tis on the nail. People coming disturb-
ing women at this time of night ought--”
　　　Gabriel took the key, without waiting to hear the conclu-
sion of the tirade. Ten minutes later his lonely figure might
have been seen dragging four large water-proof coverings across
the yard, and soon two of these heaps of treasure in grain were
covered snug--two cloths to each. Two hundred pounds were secur-
ed. Three wheat-stacks remained open, and there were no more
cloths. Oak looked under the staddles and found a fork. He mount-
ed the third pile of wealth and began operating, adopting the
plan of sloping the upper sheaves one over the other; and, in
addition, filling the interstices with the material of some un-
tied sheaves.
　　　So far all was well. By this hurried contrivance Bathshe-
ba's property in wheat was safe for at any rate a week or two,
provided always that there was not much wind.
　　　Next came the barley. This it was only possible to protect
by systematic thatching. Time went on, and the moon vanished
not to reappear. It was the farewell of the ambassador previous
to war. The night had a haggard look, like a sick thing; and there
came finally an utter expiration of air from the whole heaven in
the form of a slow breeze, which might have been likened to a
death. And now nothing was heard in the yard but the dull thuds
of the beetle which drove in the spars, and the rustle of thatch
in the intervals.








　　　A light flapped over the scene, as if reflected from phos-
phorescent wings crossing the sky, and a rumble filled the air.
It was the first move of the approaching storm.
　　　The second peal was noisy, with comparatively little visi-
ble lightning. Gabriel saw a candle shining in Bathsheba's bed-
room, and soon a shadow swept to and fro upon the blind.
　　　Then there came a third flash. Maneuvers of a most extra-
ordinary kind were going on in the vast firmamental hollows ov-
erhead. The lightning now was the colour of silver, and gleamed
in the heavens like a mailed army. Rumbles became rattles. Gab-
riel from his elevated position could see over the landscape at
least half-a-dozen miles in front. Every hedge, bush, and tree
was distinct as in a line engraving. In a paddock in the same
direction was a herd of heifers, and the forms of these were vis-
ible at this moment in the act of galloping about in the wildest
and maddest confusion, flinging their heels and tails high into
the air, their heads to earth. A poplar in the immediate fore-
ground was like an ink stroke on burnished tin. Then the picture
vanished, leaving the darkness so intense that Gabriel worked
entirely by feeling with his hands.
　　　He had stuck his ricking-rod, or poniard, as it was indif-
ferently called--a long iron lance, polished by handling--into
the stack, used to support the sheaves instead of the support
called a groom used on houses. A blue light appeared in the zen-
ith, and in some indescribable manner flickered down near the
top of the rod. It was the fourth of the larger flashes. A moment
later and there was a smack--smart, clear, and short. Gabriel
felt his position to be anything but a safe one, and he resolved
to descend.
　　　Not a drop of rain had fallen as yet. He wiped his weary
brow, and looked again at the black forms of the unprotected
stacks. Was his life so valuable to him after all? What were his
prospects that he should be so chary of running risk, when im-
portant and urgent labour could not be carried on without such
risk? He resolved to stick to the stack. However, he took a pre-
caution. Under the staddles was a long tethering chain, used to
prevent the escape of errant horses. This he carried up the lad-
der, and sticking his rod through the clog at one end, allowed
the other end of the chain to trail upon the ground. The spike
attached to it he drove in. Under the shadow of this extemporiz-
ed lightning-conductor he felt himself comparatively safe.
　　　Before Oak had laid his hands upon his tools again out
leapt the fifth flash, with the spring of a serpent and the shout
of a fiend. It was green as an emerald, and the reverberation
was stunning. What was this the light revealed to him? In the
open ground before him, as he looked over the ridge of the rick,
was a dark and apparently female form. Could it be that of the
only venturesome woman in the parish--Bathsheba? The form
moved on a step: then he could see no more.
　　　“Is that you, ma'am?” said Gabriel to the darkness.
　　　“Who is there?” said the voice of Bathsheba.
　　　“Gabriel. I am on the rick, thatching.”
　　　“Oh, Gabriel!--and are you? I have come about them. The
weather awoke me, and I thought of the corn. I am so distressed
about it--can we save it anyhow? I cannot find my husband. Is he
with you?”
　　　“He is not here.”
　　　“Do you know where he is?”
　　　“Asleep in the barn.”
　　　“He promised that the stacks should be seen to, and now
they are all neglected! Can I do anything to help? Liddy is a-
fraid to come out. Fancy finding you here at such an hour! Sure-
ly I can do something?”
　　　“You can bring up some reed-sheaves to me, one by one,
ma'am; if you are not afraid to come up the ladder in the dark,”
said Gabriel. “Every moment is precious now, and that would
save a good deal of time. It is not very dark when the light-
ning has been gone a bit.”
　　　“I'll do anything!” she said, resolutely. She instantly
took a sheaf upon her shoulder, clambered up close to his heels,
placed it behind the rod, and descended for another. .
　　　At her third ascent the rick suddenly brightened with the bra-
zen glare of shining majolica--every knot in every straw was vis-
ible. On the slope in front of him appeared two human shapes,
black as jet. The rick lost its sheen--the shapes vanished. Gab-
riel turned his head. It had been the sixth flash which had come
from the east behind him, and the two dark forms on the slope
had been the shadows of himself and Bathsheba.
　　　Then came the peal. It hardly was credible that such a
heavenly light could be the parent of such a diabolical sound.
　　　“How terrible!” she exclaimed, and clutched him by the
sleeve. Gabriel turned, and steadied her on her aerial perch by
holding her arm. At the same moment, while he was still revers-
ed in his attitude, there was more light, and he saw, as it were,
a copy of the tall poplar tree on the hill drawn in black on the
wall of the barn. It was the shadow of that tree, thrown across
by a secondary flash in the west.
　　　The next flare came. Bathsheba was on the ground now,
shouldering another sheaf, and she bore its dazzle without
flinching—thunder and all--and again ascended with the load. There
was then a silence everywhere for four or five minutes, and the
crunch of the spars, as Gabriel hastily drove them in, could a-
gain be distinctly heard. He thought the crisis of the storm had
passed. But there came a burst of light.
　　　“Hold on!” said Gabriel, taking the sheaf from her shoul-
der, and grasping her arm again.
　　　Heaven opened then, indeed. The flash was almost too novel
for its inexpressibly dangerous nature to be at once realized,
and they could only comprehend the magnificence of its beauty.
It sprang from east, west, north, south, and was a perfect
dance of death. The forms of skeletons appeared in the air,
shaped with blue fire for bones--dancing, leaping, striding,
racing around, and mingling altogether in unparalleled confusion.
With these were intertwined undulating snakes of green, and behind
these was a broad mass of lesser light. Simultaneously came from
every part of the tumbling sky what may be called a shout; since,
though no shout ever came near it, it was more of the nature of a
shout than of anything else earthly. In the meantime one of the
grisly forms had alighted upon the point of Gabriel's rod, to run
invisibly down it, down the chain, and into the earth. Gabriel was
almost blinded, and he could feel Bathsheba's warm arm tremble in
his hand--a sensation novel and thrilling enough; but love, life,
everything human, seemed small and trifling in such close juxta-
position with an infuriated universe.
　　　Oak had hardly time to gather up these impressions into a
thought, and to see how strangely the red feather of her hat
shone in this light, when the tall tree on the hill before men-
tioned seemed on fire to a white heat, and a new one among these
terrible voices mingled with the last crash of those preceding.
It was a stupefying blast, harsh and pitiless, and it fell upon
their ears in a dead, flat blow, without that reverberation
which lends the tones of a drum to more distant thunder. By the
lustre reflected from every part of the earth and from the wide
domical scoop above it, he saw that the tree was sliced down
the whole length of its tall, straight stem, a huge riband of
bark being apparently flung off. The other portion remained e-
rect, and revealed the bared surface as a strip of white down
the front. The lightning had struck the tree. A sulphurous smell
filled the air; then all was silent, and black as a cave in Hinnom.
　　　“We had a narrow escape!” said Gabriel, hurriedly.
“You had better go down.”
　　　Bathsheba said nothing; but he could distinctly hear her
rhythmical pants, and the recurrent rustle of the sheaf beside
her in response to her frightened pulsations. She descended
the ladder, and, on second thoughts, he followed her. The dark-
ness was now impenetrable by the sharpest vision. They both
stood still at the bottom, side by side. Bathsheba appeared to
think only of the weather--Oak thought only of her just then.
At last he said--
　　　"The storm seems to have passed now, at any rate."
　　　"I think so too," said Bathsheba. "Though there are multi-
tudes of gleams, look!"
　　　The sky was now filled with an incessant light, frequent
repetition melting into complete continuity, as an unbroken
sound results from the successive strokes on a gong.
　　　"Nothing serious," said he. "I cannot understand no rain
falling. But Heaven be praised, it is all the better for us. I am
now going up again."
　　　"Gabriel, you are kinder than I deserve! I will stay and help
you yet. Oh, why are not some of the others here!"
　　　"They would have been here if they could," said Oak, in a
hesitating way.
　　　"O, I know it all--all," she said, adding slowly: "They are all
asleep in the barn, in a drunken sleep, and my husband among
them. That's it, is it not? Don't think I am a timid woman and can't
endure things."
　　　"I am not certain," said Gabriel. "I will go and see."
　　　He crossed to the barn, leaving her there alone. He looked
through the chinks of the door. All was in total darkness, as he had
left it, and there still arose, as at the former time, the steady buzz
of many snores.
　　　He felt a zephyr curling about his cheek, and turned. It was
Bathsheba's breath--she had followed him, and was looking into
the same chink.
　　　He endeavoured to put off the immediate and painful subject
of their thoughts by remarking gently, “If you'll come back again,
miss--ma'am, and hand up a few more; it would save much time.”
　　　Then Oak went back again, ascended to the top, stepped off
the ladder for greater expedition, and went on thatching. She
followed, but without a sheaf.
　　　“Gabriel,” she said, in a strange and impressive voice.
　　　Oak looked up at her. She had not spoken since he left the
barn. The soft and continual shimmer of the dying lightning show-
ed a marble face high against the black sky of the opposite quar-
ter. Bathsheba was sitting almost on the apex of the stack, her
feet gathered up beneath her, and resting on the top round of the
ladder.
　　　“Yes, mistress,” he said.
　　　“I suppose you thought that when I galloped away to Bath
that night it was on purpose to be married?”
　　　“I did at last--not at first,” he answered, somewhat sur-
prised at the abruptness with which this new subject was broached.
　　　“And others thought so, too?”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“And you blamed me for it?”
　　　“Well--a little.”
　　　“I thought so. Now, I care a little for your good opinion,
and I want to explain something--I have longed to do it ever since
I returned, and you looked so gravely at me. For if I were to die
--and I may die soon--it would be dreadful that you should always
think mistakenly of me. Now, listen.”
　　　Gabriel ceased his rustling.
　　　“I went to Bath that night in the full intention of break-
ing off my engagement to Mr. Troy. It was owing to circumstances
which occurred after I got there that--that we were married. Now,
do you see the matter in a new light?”
　　　“I do--somewhat.”
　　　“I must, I suppose, say more, now that I have begun. And
perhaps it's no harm, for you are certainly under no delusion
that I ever loved you, or that I can have any object in speak-
ing, more than that object I have mentioned. Well, I was alone
in a strange city, and the horse was lame. And at last I didn't
know what to do. I saw, when it was too late, that scandal might
seize hold of me for meeting him alone in that way. But I was
coming away, when he suddenly said he had that day seen a woー
man more beautiful than I, and that his constancy could not be
counted on unless I at once became his.... And I was grieved and
troubled--” She cleared her voice, and waited a moment, as if
to gather breath. “And then, between jealousy and distraction,
I married him!” she whispered with desperate impetuosity.
　　　Gabriel made no reply.
　　　“He was not to blame, for it was perfectly true about--
about his seeing somebody else,” she quickly added. “And now
I don't wish for a single remark from you upon the subject--in-
deed, I forbid it. I only wanted you to know that misunderstood
bit of my history before a time comes when you could never know
it.--You want some more sheaves?”
　　　She went down the ladder, and the work proceeded.　Gabriel
soon perceived a languor in the movements of his mistress up
and down, and he said to her, gently as a mother--
　　　"I think you had better go indoors now, you are tired. I can
finish the rest alone. If the wind does not change the rain is
likely to keep off."
　　　"If I am useless I will go," said Bathsheba, in a flagging caー
dence. "But O, if your life should be lost!"
　　　"You are not useless; but I would rather not tire you longer.
You have done well."
　　　"And you better!" she said, gratefully. "Thank you for your
devotion, a thousand times, Gabriel! Goodnight--I know you are
doing your very best for me."
　　　She diminished in the gloom, and vanished, and he heard the
latch of the gate fall as she passed through. He worked in a revー
erie now, musing upon her story, and upon the contradictoriness
of that feminine heart which had caused her to speak more warmly
to him to-night than she ever had done whilst unmarried and free
to speak as warmly as she chose.
　　　He was disturbed in his meditation by a grating noise from
the coach-house. It was the vane on the roof turning round, and
this change in the wind was the signal for a disastrous rain.








　　　It was now five o'clock, and the dawn was promising to
break in hues of drab and ash.
　　　The air changed its temperature and stirred itself more vig-
orously. Cool breezes coursed in transparent eddies round Oak's
face. The wind shifted yet a point or two and blew stronger. In
ten minutes every wind of heaven seemed to be roaming at large.
Some of the thatching on the wheat-stacks was now whirled fan-
tastically aloft, and had to be replaced and weighted with some
rails that lay near at hand. This done, Oak slaved away again
at the barley. A huge drop of rain smote his face, the wind snarled
round every corner, the trees rocked to the bases of their trunks,
and the twigs clashed in strife. Driving in spars at any point
and on any system, inch by inch he covered more and more safely
from ruin this distracting impersonation of seven hundred pounds.
The rain came on in earnest, and Oak soon felt the water to be
tracking cold and clammy routes down his back. Ultimately he was
reduced well-nigh to a homogeneous sop, and the dyes of his clothes
trickled down and stood in a pool at the foot of the ladder. The rain
stretched obliquely through the dull atmosphere in liquid spines,
unbroken in continuity between their beginnings in the clouds and
their points in him.
　　　Oak suddenly remembered that eight months before this
time he had been fighting against fire in the same spot as des-
perately as he was fighting against water now--and for a futile
love of the same woman. As for her--But Oak was generous and
true, and dismissed his reflections.
　　　It was about seven o'clock in the dark leaden morning
when Gabriel came down from the last stack, and thankfully ex-
claimed, “It is done!” He was drenched, weary, and sad, and
yet not so sad as drenched and weary, for he was cheered by a
sense of success in a good cause.
　　　Faint sounds came from the barn, and he looked that way.
Figures stepped singly and in pairs through the doors--all
walking awkwardly, and abashed, save the foremost, who wore a
red jacket, and advanced with his hands in his pockets, whist-
ling. The others shambled after with a conscience-stricken air:
the whole procession was not unlike Flaxman's group of the suit-
ors tottering on towards the infernal regions under the conduct
of Mercury. The gnarled shapes passed into the village, Troy,
their leader, entering the farmhouse. Not a single one of them
had turned his face to the ricks, or apparently bestowed one
thought upon their condition.
　　　Soon Oak too went homeward, by a different route from
theirs. In front of him against the wet glazed surface of the lane
he saw a person walking yet more slowly than himself under an
umbrella. The man turned and plainly started; he was Boldwood.
　　　"How are you this morning, sir?" said Oak.
　　　"Yes, it is a wet day.--Oh, I am well, very well, I thank you;
quite well."
　　　"I am glad to hear it, sir."
　　　Boldwood seemed to awake to the present by degrees. "You
look tired and ill, Oak," he said then, desultorily regarding his com-
panion.
　　　"I am tired. You look strangely altered, sir."
　　　"I? Not a bit of it: I am well enough. What put that into your
head?"
　　　"I thought you didn't look quite so topping as you used to, that
was all."
　　　"Indeed, then you are mistaken," said Boldwood, shortly. "No-
thing hurts me. My constitution is an iron one."
　　　“I've been working hard to get our ricks covered, and was bare-
ly in time. Never had such a struggle in my life.... Yours of course are
safe, sir.”
　　　“Oh yes,” Boldwood added, after an interval of silence: “What
did you ask, Oak?”
　　　“Your ricks are all covered before this time?”
　　　“No.”
　　　“At any rate, the large ones upon the stone staddles?”
　　　“They are not.”
　　　“Them under the hedge?”
　　　“No. I forgot to tell the thatcher to set about it.”
　　　“Nor the little one by the stile?”
　　　“Nor the little one by the stile. I overlooked the ricks this year.”
　　　“Then not a tenth of your corn will come to measure, sir.”
　　　“Possibly not.”
　　　“Overlooked them,” repeated Gabriel slowly to himself. It is
difficult to describe the intensely dramatic effect that announcement
had upon Oak at such a moment. All the night he had been feeling that
the neglect he was labouring to repair was abnormal and isolated--the
only instance of the kind within the circuit of the county. Yet at this
very time, within the same parish, a greater waste had been going on,
uncomplained of and disregarded. A few months earlier Boldwood's forget-
ting his husbandry would have been as preposterous an idea as a sailor
forgetting he was in a ship. Oak was just thinking that whatever he him-
self might have suffered from Bathsheba's marriage, here was a man who
had suffered more, when Boldwood spoke in a changed voice--that of one
who yearned to make a confidence and relieve his heart by an outpouring.
　　　“Oak, you know as well as I that things have gone wrong with me
lately. I may as well own it. I was going to get a little settled in life; but
in some way my plan has come to nothing.”s
　　　“I thought my mistress would have married you,” said Gabriel,
not knowing enough of the full depths of Boldwood's love to keep silence
on the farmer's account, and determined not to evade discipline by doing
so on his own. “However, it is so sometimes, and nothing happens that
we expect,” he added, with the repose of a man whom misfortune had
inured rather than subdued.
　　　“I daresay I am a joke about the parish,” said Boldwood, as if the
subject came irresistibly to his tongue, and with a miserable lightness
meant to express his indifference.
　　　“Oh no--I don't think that.”
　　　“--But the real truth of the matter is that there was not, as
some fancy, any jilting on--her part. No engagement ever existed between
me and Miss Everdene. People say so, but it is untrue: she never prom-
ised me!” Boldwood stood still now and turned his wild face to Oak.
“Oh, Gabriel,” he continued, “I am weak and foolish, and I don't
know what, and I can't fend off my miserable grief!... I had some faint
belief in the mercy of God till I lost that woman. Yes, He prepared a
gourd to shade me, and like the prophet I thanked Him and was glad. But
the next day He prepared a worm to smite the gourd and wither it; and
I feel it is better to die than to live!”
　　　A silence followed. Boldwood aroused himself from the momentary
mood of confidence into which he had drifted, and walked on again, re-
suming his usual reserve.
　　　“No, Gabriel,” he resumed, with a carelessness which was like
the smile on the countenance of a skull: “it was made more of by other
people than ever it was by us. I do feel a little regret occasionally,
but no woman ever had power over me for any length of time. Well, good
morning; I can trust you not to mention to others what has passed be-
tween us two here.”








　　　On the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, and
about three miles from the former place, is Yalbury Hill, one of those
steep long ascents which pervade the highways of this undulating part
of South Wessex. In returning from market it is usual for the farmers
and other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up.
　　　One Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba's vehicle
was duly creeping up this incline. She was sitting listlessly in the
second seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in a farmer's market-
ing suit of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made young man.
Though on foot, he held the reins and whip, and occasionally aimed light
cuts at the horse's ear with the end of the lash, as a recreation. This
man was her husband, formerly Sergeant Troy, who, having bought his dis-
charge with Bathsheba's money, was gradually transforming himself into
a farmer of a spirited and very modern school. People of unalterable
ideas still insisted upon calling him “Sergeant” when they met him,
which was in some degree owing to his having still retained the well-
shaped moustache of his military days, and the soldierly bearing insep-
arable from his form and training.
　　　“Yes, if it hadn't been for that wretched rain I should have
cleared two hundred as easy as looking, my love,” he was saying. “Don't
you see, it altered all the chances? To speak like a book I once read,
wet weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our
country's history; now, isn't that true?”
　　　“But the time of year is come for changeable weather.”
　　　“Well, yes. The fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of ever-
ybody. Never did I see such a day as 'twas! 'Tis a wild open place, just
out of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like liquid misery.
Wind and rain—good Lord! Dark? Why, 'twas as black as my hat before the
last race was run. 'Twas five o'clock, and you couldn't see the horses
till they were almost in, leave alone colours. The ground was as heavy
as lead, and all judgment from a fellow's experience went for nothing.
Horses, riders, people, were all blown about like ships at sea. Three
booths were blown over, and the wretched folk inside crawled out upon
their hands and knees; and in the next field were as many as a dozen
hats at one time. Ay, Pimpernel regularly stuck fast, when about sixty
yards off, and when I saw Policy stepping on, it did knock my heart a-
gainst the lining of my ribs, I assure you, my love!”
　　　"And you mean, Frank," said Bathsheba, sadly--her voice was
painfully lowered from the fulness and vivacity of the previous sum-
mer--"that you have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by
this dreadful horse-racing? O, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to
take away my money so. We shall have to leave the farm; that will be
the end of it!"
　　　"Humbug about cruel. Now, there 'tis again--turn on the water-
works; that's just like you."
　　　"But you'll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting,
won't you?" she implored. Bathsheba was at the full depth for tears,
but she maintained a dry eye.
　　　"I don't see why I should; in fact, if it turns out to be a fine day,
I was thinking of taking you."
　　　"Never, never! I'll go a hundred miles the other way first. I hate
the sound of the very word!"
　　　"But the question of going to see the race or staying at home
has very little to do with the matter. Bets are all booked safely
enough before the race begins, you may depend. Whether it is a
bad race for me or a good one, will have very little to do with
our going there next Monday."
　　　"But you don't mean to say that you have risked anything on this
one too!" she exclaimed, with an agonized look.
　　　"There now, don't you be a little fool. Wait till you are told.
Why, Bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you
formerly had, and upon my life if I had known what a chicken-hearted
creature you were under all your boldness, I'd never have--I know what."
　　　A flash of indignation might have been seen in Bathsheba's dark
eyes as she looked resolutely ahead after this reply.
　　　They moved on without further speech, some early-withered leaves
from the trees which hooded the road at this spot occasionally spinning
downward across their path to the earth.
　　　A woman appeared on the brow of the hill. The ridge was in a cut-
ting, so that she was very near the husband and wife before she became
visible. Troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and whilst putting
his foot on the step the woman passed behind him.
　　　Though the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide envelop-
ed them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the ex-
treme poverty of the woman's garb, and the sadness of her face.
　　　“Please, sir, do you know at what time Casterbridge Union-house
closes at night?”
　　　The woman said these words to Troy over his shoulder.
　　　Troy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he seemed to
recover presence of mind sufficient to prevent himself from giving way
to his impulse to suddenly turn and face her. He said, slowly--
　　　“I don't know.”
　　　The woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined the
side of his face, and recognized the soldier under the yeoman's garb. Her
face was drawn into an expression which had gladness and agony both among
its elements. She uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down.
　　　“Oh, poor thing!” exclaimed Bathsheba, instantly preparing to a-
light.
　　　“Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!” said Troy, peremp-
torily throwing her the reins and the whip. “Walk the horse to the top:
I'll see to the woman.”
　　　“But I--”
　　　“Do you hear? Clk--Poppet!”
　　　The horse, gig, and Bathsheba moved on.
　　　“How on earth did you come here? I thought you were miles away, or
dead! Why didn't you write to me?” said Troy to the woman, in a strangely
gentle, yet hurried voice, as he lifted her up.
　　　“I feared to.”
　　　“Have you any money?”
　　　“None.”
　　　“Good Heaven--I wish I had more to give you! Here's--wretched--the
merest trifle. It is every farthing I have left. I have none but what my wife
gives me, you know, and I can't ask her now.”　　　
　　　The woman made no answer.
　　　“I have only another moment,” continued Troy; “and now listen.
Where are you going to-night? Casterbridge Union?”
　　　“Yes; I thought to go there.”
　　　“You shan't go there; yet, wait. Yes, perhaps for to-night; I can do
nothing better--worse luck! Sleep there to-night, and stay there to-morrow.
Monday is the first free day I have; and on Monday morning, at ten exactly,
meet me on Grey's Bridge just out of the town. I'll bring all the money I
can muster. You shan't want--I'll see that, Fanny; then I'll get you a lodg-
ing somewhere. Good-bye till then. I am a brute--but good-bye!”
　　　After advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the hill,
Bathsheba turned her head. The woman was upon her feet, and Bathsheba saw
her withdrawing from Troy, and going feebly down the hill by the third mile-
stone from Casterbridge. Troy then came on towards his wife, stepped into
the gig, took the reins from her hand, and without making any observation
whipped the horse into a trot. He was rather agitated.
　　　"Do you know who that woman was?" said Bathsheba, looking search-
ingly into his face.
　　　"I do," he said, looking boldly back into hers.
　　　"I thought you did," said she, with angry hauteur, and still regarding
him. "Who is she?"
　　　He suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit neither
of the women.
　　　"Nothing to either of us," he said. "I know her by sight."
　　　"What is her name?"
　　　"How should I know her name?"
　　　"I think you do."
　　　"Think if you will, and be--" The sentence was completed by a smart
cut of the whip round Poppet's flank, which caused the animal to start for-
ward at a wild pace. No more was said.








　　　For a considerable time the woman walked on. Her steps became feeb-
ler, and she strained her eyes to look afar upon the naked road, now in-
distinct amid the penumbrae of night. At length her onward walk dwindled
to the merest totter, and she opened a gate within which was a haystack.
Underneath this she sat down and presently slept.
　　　When the woman awoke it was to find herself in the depths of a
moonless and starless night. A heavy unbroken crust of cloud stretched
across the sky, shutting out every speck of heaven; and a distant halo
which hung over the town of Casterbridge was visible against the black
concave, the luminosity appearing the brighter by its great contrast
with the circumscribing darkness. Towards this weak, soft glow the wo-
man turned her eyes.
　　　“If I could only get there!” she said. “Meet him the day after
tomorrow: God help me! Perhaps I shall be in my grave before then.”
　　　A manor-house clock from the far depths of shadow struck the hour,
one, in a small, attenuated tone. After midnight the voice of a clock
seems to lose in breadth as much as in length, and to diminish its
sonorousness to a thin falsetto.
　　　Afterwards a light--two lights--arose from the remote shade, and
grew larger. A carriage rolled along the road, and passed the gate. It
probably contained some late diners-out. The beams from one lamp shone
for a moment upon the crouching woman, and threw her face into vivid
relief. The face was young in the groundwork, old in the finish; the
general contours were flexuous and childlike, but the finer lineaments
had begun to be sharp and thin.
　　　The pedestrian stood up, apparently with revived determination,
and looked around. The road appeared to be familiar to her, and she
carefully scanned the fence as she slowly walked along. Presently there
became visible a dim white shape; it was another milestone. She drew
her fingers across its face to feel the marks.
　　　“Two more!” she said.
　　　She leant against the stone as a means of rest for a short in-
terval, then bestirred herself, and again pursued her way. For a slight
distance she bore up bravely, afterwards flagging as before. This was
beside a lone copsewood, wherein heaps of white chips strewn upon the
leafy ground showed that woodmen had been faggoting and making hurdles
during the day. Now there was not a rustle, not a breeze, not the faint-
est clash of twigs to keep her company. The woman looked over the gate,
opened it, and went in. Close to the entrance stood a row of faggots,
bound and unbound, together with stakes of all sizes.
　　　For a few seconds the wayfarer stood with that tense stillness
which signifies itself to be not the end, but merely the suspension,
of a previous motion. Her attitude was that of a person who listens,
either to the external world of sound, or to the imagined discourse of
thought. A close criticism might have detected signs proving that she
was intent on the latter alternative. Moreover, as was shown by what
followed, she was oddly exercising the faculty of invention upon the
speciality of the clever Jacquet Droz, the designer of automatic sub-
stitutes for human limbs.
　　　By the aid of the Casterbridge aurora, and by feeling with her
hands, the woman selected two sticks from the heaps. These sticks were
nearly straight to the height of three or four feet, where each branch-
ed into a fork like the letter Y. She sat down, snapped off the small
upper twigs, and carried the remainder with her into the road. She
placed one of these forks under each arm as a crutch, tested them,
timidly threw her whole weight upon them--so little that it was--and
swung herself forward. The girl had made for herself a material aid.
　　　The crutches answered well. The pat of her feet, and the tap of
her sticks upon the highway, were all the sounds that came from the
traveller now. She had passed the last milestone by a good long distance,
and began to look wistfully towards the bank as if calculating upon an-
other milestone soon. The crutches, though so very useful, had their
limits of power. Mechanism only transfers labour, being powerless to
supersede it, and the original amount of exertion was not cleared a-
way; it was thrown into the body and arms. She was exhausted, and
each swing forward became fainter. At last she swayed sideways, and
fell.
　　　Here she lay, a shapeless heap, for ten minutes and more. The
morning wind began to boom dully over the flats, and to move afresh
dead leaves which had lain still since yesterday. The woman desperate-
ly turned round upon her knees, and next rose to her feet. Steadying
herself by the help of one crutch, she essayed a step, then another,
then a third, using the crutches now as walking-sticks only. Thus she
progressed till descending Mellstock Hill another milestone appeared,
and soon the beginning of an iron-railed fence came into view. She
staggered across to the first post, clung to it, and looked around.
　　　The Casterbridge lights were now individually visible. It was
getting towards morning, and vehicles might be hoped for, if not ex-
pected soon. She listened. There was not a sound of life save that
acme and sublimation of all dismal sounds, the bark of a fox, its
three hollow notes being rendered at intervals of a minute with the
precision of a funeral bell.
　　　“Less than a mile!” the woman murmured. “No; more,” she
added, after a pause. “The mile is to the county hall, and my rest-
ing-place is on the other side Casterbridge. A little over a mile,
and there I am!” After an interval she again spoke. “Five or six
steps to a yard--six perhaps. I have to go seventeen hundred yards.
A hundred times six, six hundred. Seventeen times that. O pity me,
Lord!”
　　　Holding to the rails, she advanced, thrusting one hand forward
upon the rail, then the other, then leaning over it whilst she drag-
ged her feet on beneath.
　　　This woman was not given to soliloquy; but extremity of feeling
lessens the individuality of the weak, as it increases that of the
strong. She said again in the same tone, “I'll believe that the end
lies five posts forward, and no further, and so get strength to pass
them.”
　　　This was a practical application of the principle that a half-
feigned and fictitious faith is better than no faith at all.
　　　She passed five posts and held on to the fifth.
　　　“I'll pass five more by believing my longed-for spot is at
the next fifth. I can do it.”
　　　She passed five more.
　　　“It lies only five further.”
　　　She passed five more.
　　　“But it is five further.”
　　　She passed them.
　　　“That stone bridge is the end of my journey,” she said, when
the bridge over the Froom was in view.
　　　She crawled to the bridge. During the effort each breath of the
woman went into the air as if never to return again.
　　　“Now for the truth of the matter,” she said, sitting down.
“The truth is, that I have less than half a mile.” Self-beguile-
ment with what she had known all the time to be false had given
her strength to come over half a mile that she would have been
powerless to face in the lump. The artifice showed that the wo-
man, by some mysterious intuition, had grasped the paradoxical
truth that blindness may operate more vigorously than prescience,
and the short-sighted effect more than the far-seeing; that lim-
itation, and not comprehensiveness, is needed for striking a blow.
　　　The half-mile stood now before the sick and weary woman like a
stolid Juggernaut. It was an impassive King of her world. The road here
ran across Durnover Moor, open to the road on either side. She survey-
ed the wide space, the lights, herself, sighed, and lay down against a
guard-stone of the bridge.
　　　Never was ingenuity exercised so sorely as the traveller here
exercised hers. Every conceivable aid, method, stratagem, mechanism,
by which these last desperate eight hundred yards could be overpassed
by a human being unperceived, was revolved in her busy brain, and dis-
missed as impracticable. She thought of sticks, wheels, crawling--she
even thought of rolling. But the exertion demanded by either of these
latter two was greater than to walk erect. The faculty of contrivance
was worn out. Hopelessness had come at last.
　　　“No further!” she whispered, and closed her eyes.
　　　From the stripe of shadow on the opposite side of the bridge a
portion of shade seemed to detach itself and move into isolation upon
the pale white of the road. It glided noiselessly towards the recumbent
woman.
　　　She became conscious of something touching her hand; it was soft-
ness and it was warmth. She opened her eyes, and the substance touch-
ed her face. A dog was licking her cheek.
　　　He was a huge, heavy, and quiet creature, standing darkly a-
gainst the low horizon, and at least two feet higher than the present
position of her eyes. Whether Newfoundland, mastiff, bloodhound, or
what not, it was impossible to say. He seemed to be of too strange and
mysterious a nature to belong to any variety among those of popular no-
menclature. Being thus assignable to no breed, he was the ideal embodi-
ment of canine greatness--a generalization from what was common to all.
Night, in its sad, solemn, and benevolent aspect, apart from its steal-
thy and cruel side, was personified in this form. Darkness endows the
small and ordinary ones among mankind with poetical power, and even
the suffering woman threw her idea into figure.
　　　In her reclining position she looked up to him just as in ear-
lier times she had, when standing, looked up to a man. The animal, who
was as homeless as she, respectfully withdrew a step or two when the
woman moved, and, seeing that she did not repulse him, he licked her
hand again.
　　　A thought moved within her like lightning. “Perhaps I can make
use of him--I might do it then!”
　　　She pointed in the direction of Casterbridge, and the dog seem-
ed to misunderstand: he trotted on. Then, finding she could not fol-
low, he came back and whined.
　　　The ultimate and saddest singularity of woman's effort and in-
vention was reached when, with a quickened breathing, she rose to a
stooping posture, and, resting her two little arms upon the shoulders
of the dog, leant firmly thereon, and murmured stimulating words.
Whilst she sorrowed in her heart she cheered with her voice, and what
was stranger than that the strong should need encouragement from the
weak was that cheerfulness should be so well stimulated by such utter
dejection. Her friend moved forward slowly, and she with small minc-
ing steps moved forward beside him, half her weight being thrown u-
pon the animal. Sometimes she sank as she had sunk from walking erect,
from the crutches, from the rails. The dog, who now thoroughly under-
stood her desire and her incapacity, was frantic in his distress on
these occasions; he would tug at her dress and run forward. She always
called him back, and it was now to be observed that the woman listen-
ed for human sounds only to avoid them. It was evident that she had
an object in keeping her presence on the road and her forlorn state
unknown.
　　　Their progress was necessarily very slow. They reached the bot-
tom of the town, and the Casterbridge lamps lay before them like
fallen Pleiads as they turned to the left into the dense shade of a
deserted avenue of chestnuts, and so skirted the borough. Thus the
town was passed, and the goal was reached.
　　　On this much-desired spot outside the town rose a picturesque
building. Originally it had been a mere case to hold people. The
shell had been so thin, so devoid of excrescence, and so closely
drawn over the accommodation granted, that the grim character of what
was beneath showed through it, as the shape of a body is visible un-
der a winding-sheet.
　　　Then Nature, as if offended, lent a hand. Masses of ivy grew
up, completely covering the walls, till the place looked like an ab-
bey; and it was discovered that the view from the front, over the
Casterbridge chimneys, was one of the most magnificent in the coun-
ty. A neighbouring earl once said that he would give up a year's
rental to have at his own door the view enjoyed by the inmates from
theirs--and very probably the inmates would have given up the view
for his year's rental.
　　　This stone edifice consisted of a central mass and two wings,
whereon stood as sentinels a few slim chimneys, now gurgling sorrow-
fully to the slow wind. In the wall was a gate, and by the gate a bell-
pull formed of a hanging wire. The woman raised herself as high as
possible upon her knees, and could just reach the handle. She moved
it and fell forwards in a bowed attitude, her face upon her bosom.
　　　It was getting on towards six o'clock, and sounds of movement
were to be heard inside the building which was the haven of rest to
this wearied soul. A little door by the large one was opened, and a
man appeared inside. He discerned the panting heap of clothes, went
back for a light, and came again. He entered a second time, and re-
turned with two women.
　　　These lifted the prostrate figure and assisted her in through
the doorway. The man then closed the door.
　　　“How did she get here?” said one of the women.
　　　“The Lord knows,” said the other.
　　　“There is a dog outside,” murmured the overcome traveller.
“Where is he gone? He helped me.”
　　　“I stoned him away,” said the man.
　　　The little procession then moved forward--the man in front
bearing the light, the two bony women next, supporting between them
the small and supple one. Thus they entered the house and disappeared.








　　　Bathsheba said very little to her husband all that evening of
their return from market, and he was not disposed to say much to her.
He exhibited the unpleasant combination of a restless condition with
a silent tongue. The next day, which was Sunday, passed nearly in the
same manner as regarded their taciturnity, Bathsheba going to church
both morning and afternoon. This was the day before the Budmouth races.
In the evening Troy said, suddenly—
　　　“Bathsheba, could you let me have twenty pounds?”
　　　Her countenance instantly sank. “Twenty pounds?” she said.
　　　“The fact is, I want it badly.” The anxiety upon Troy's face
was unusual and very marked. It was a culmination of the mood he had
been in all the day.
　　　“Ah! for those races to-morrow.”
　　　Troy for the moment made no reply. Her mistake had its advantag-
es to a man who shrank from having his mind inspected as he did now.
“Well, suppose I do want it for races?” he said, at last.
　　　“Oh, Frank!” Bathsheba replied, and there was such a volume of
entreaty in the words. “Only such a few weeks ago you said that I was
far sweeter than all your other pleasures put together, and that you would
give them all up for me; and now, won't you give up this one, which is
more a worry than a pleasure? Do, Frank. Come, let me fascinate you by
all I can do--by pretty words and pretty looks, and everything I can think
of--to stay at home. Say yes to your wife--say yes!”
　　　The tenderest and softest phases of Bathsheba's nature were promi-
nent now--advanced impulsively for his acceptance, without any of the
disguises and defences which the wariness of her character when she
was cool too frequently threw over them. Few men could have resisted
the arch yet dignified entreaty of the beautiful face, thrown a little
back and sideways in the well known attitude that expresses more than
the words it accompanies, and which seems to have been designed for
these special occasions. Had the woman not been his wife, Troy would
have succumbed instantly; as it was, he thought he would not deceive
her longer.
　　　“The money is not wanted for racing debts at all,” he said.
　　　“What is it for?” she asked. “You worry me a great deal by
these mysterious responsibilities, Frank.”
　　　Troy hesitated. He did not now love her enough to allow himself
to be carried too far by her ways. Yet it was necessary to be civil.
“You wrong me by such a suspicious manner,” he said. “Such strait-
waistcoating as you treat me to is not becoming in you at so early a
date.”
　　　“I think that I have a right to grumble a little if I pay,” she said,
with features between a smile and a pout.
　　　“Exactly; and, the former being done, suppose we proceed to
the latter. Bathsheba, fun is all very well, but don't go too far, or
you may have cause to regret something.”
　　　She reddened. “I do that already,” she said, quickly.
　　　“What do you regret?”
　　　“That my romance has come to an end.”
　　　“All romances end at marriage.”
　　　“I wish you wouldn't talk like that. You grieve me to my soul
by being smart at my expense.”
　　　“You are dull enough at mine. I believe you hate me.”
　　　“Not you--only your faults. I do hate them.”
　　　“'Twould be much more becoming if you set yourself to cure
them. Come, let's strike a balance with the twenty pounds, and be
friends.”
　　　She gave a sigh of resignation. “I have about that sum here
for household expenses. If you must have it, take it.”
　　　“Very good. Thank you. I expect I shall have gone away before
you are in to breakfast to-morrow.”
　　　“And must you go? Ah! there was a time, Frank, when it would
have taken a good many promises to other people to drag you away from
me. You used to call me darling, then. But it doesn't matter to you
how my days are passed now.”
　　　“I must go, in spite of sentiment.” Troy, as he spoke, look-
ed at his watch, and, apparently actuated by non lucendo principles,
opened the case at the back, revealing, snugly stowed within it, a
small coil of hair.
　　　Bathsheba's eyes had been accidentally lifted at that moment,
and she saw the action and saw the hair. She flushed in pain and sur-
prise, and some words escaped her before she had thought whether or
not it was wise to utter them. “A woman's curl of hair!” she said.
“Oh, Frank, whose is that?”
　　　Troy had instantly closed his watch. He carelessly replied, as
one who cloaked some feelings that the sight had stirred. “Why, yours,
of course. Whose should it be? I had quite forgotten that I had it.”
　　　“What a dreadful fib, Frank!”
　　　“I tell you I had forgotten it!” he said, loudly.
　　　“I don't mean that--it was yellow hair.”
　　　“Nonsense.”
　　　“That's insulting me. I know it was yellow. Now whose was it?
I want to know.”
　　　“Very well--I'll tell you, so make no more ado. It is the hair
of a young woman I was going to marry before I knew you.”
　　　“You ought to tell me her name, then.”
　　　“I cannot do that.”
　　　“Is she married yet?”
　　　“No.”
　　　“Is she alive?”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“Is she pretty?”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“It is wonderful how she can be, poor thing, under such an
awful affliction!”
　　　“Affliction--what affliction?” he inquired, quickly.
　　　“Having hair of that dreadful colour.”
　　　“Oh--ho--I like that!” said Troy, recovering himself. “Why,
her hair has been admired by everybody who has seen her since she has
worn it loose, which has not been long. It is beautiful hair. People
used to turn their heads to look at it, poor girl!”
　　　“Pooh! that's nothing--that's nothing!” she exclaimed, in inci-
pient accents of pique. “If I cared for your love as much as I used to
I could say people had turned to look at mine.”
　　　“Bathsheba, don't be so fitful and jealous. You knew what married
life would be like, and shouldn't have entered it if you feared these
contingencies.”
　　　Troy had by this time driven her to bitterness: her heart was big
in her throat, and the ducts to her eyes were painfully full. Ashamed
as she was to show emotion, at last she burst out:--
　　　“This is all I get for loving you so well! Ah! when I married you
your life was dearer to me than my own. I would have died for you--how
truly I can say that I would have died for you! And now you sneer at my
foolishness in marrying you. O! is it kind to me to throw my mistake in my
face? Whatever opinion you may have of my wisdom, you should not tell
me of it so mercilessly, now that I am in your power.”
　　　“I can't help how things fall out,” said Troy; “upon my heart,
women will be the death of me!”
　　　　　　“Well you shouldn't keep people's hair. You'll burn it, won't
you, Frank?”
　　　Frank went on as if he had not heard her. “There are considerations
even before my consideration for you; reparations to be made--ties you
know nothing of. If you repent of marrying, so do I.”
　　　Trembling now, she put her hand upon his arm, saying, in mingled
tones of wretchedness and coaxing, “I only repent it if you don't love me
better than any woman in the world! I don't otherwise, Frank. You don't re-
pent because you already love somebody better than you love me, do you?”
　　　“I don't know. Why do you say that?”
　　　“You won't burn that curl. You like the woman who owns that pretty
hair--yes; it is pretty--more beautiful than my miserable black mane! Well,
it is no use; I can't help being ugly. You must like her best, if you will!”
　　　“Until to-day, when I took it from a drawer, I have never looked upon
that bit of hair for several months--that I am ready to swear.”
　　　“But just now you said 'ties'; and then--that woman we met?”
　　　“'Twas the meeting with her that reminded me of the hair.”
　　　“Is it hers, then?”
　　　“Yes. There, now that you have wormed it out of me, I hope you are
content.”
　　　“And what are the ties?”
　　　“Oh! that meant nothing--a mere jest.”
　　　“A mere jest!” she said, in mournful astonishment. “Can you jest
when I am so wretchedly in earnest? Tell me the truth, Frank. I am not a
fool, you know, although I am a woman, and have my woman's moments. Come!
treat me fairly,” she said, looking honestly and fearlessly into his face.
“I don't want much; bare justice--that's all! Ah! once I felt I could be
content with nothing less than the highest homage from the husband I should
choose. Now, anything short of cruelty will content me. Yes! the independent
and spirited Bathsheba is come to this!”
　　　“For Heaven's sake don't be so desperate!” Troy said, snappishly,
rising as he did so, and leaving the room.
　　　Directly he had gone, Bathsheba burst into great sobs--dry-eyed sobs,
which cut as they came, without any softening by tears. But she determined
to repress all evidences of feeling. She was conquered; but she would never
own it as long as she lived. Her pride was indeed brought low by despairing
discoveries of her spoliation by marriage with a less pure nature than her
own. She chafed to and fro in rebelliousness, like a caged leopard; her
whole soul was in arms, and the blood fired her face. Until she had met Troy,
Bathsheba had been proud of her position as a woman; it had been a glory to
her to know that her lips had been touched by no man's on earth--that her
waist had never been encircled by a lover's arm. She hated herself now. In
those earlier days she had always nourished a secret contempt for girls who
were the slaves of the first good-looking young fellow who should choose to
salute them. She had never taken kindly to the idea of marriage in the ab-
stract as did the majority of women she saw about her. In the turmoil of her
anxiety for her lover she had agreed to marry him; but the perception that
had accompanied her happiest hours on this account was rather that of self-
sacrifice than of promotion and honour. Although she scarcely knew the divin-
ity's name, Diana was the goddess whom Bathsheba instinctively adored. That
she had never, by look, word, or sign, encouraged a man to approach her--that
she had felt herself sufficient to herself, and had in the independence of
her girlish heart fancied there was a certain degradation in renouncing the
simplicity of a maiden existence to become the humbler half of an indifferent
matrimonial whole--were facts now bitterly remembered. Oh, if she had never
stooped to folly of this kind, respectable as it was, and could only stand a-
gain, as she had stood on the hill at Norcombe, and dare Troy or any other man
to pollute a hair of her head by his interference!
　　　The next morning she rose earlier than usual, and had the horse saddled
for her ride round the farm in the customary way. When she came in at half-past
eight--their usual hour for breakfasting--she was informed that her husband
had risen, taken his breakfast, and driven off to Casterbridge with the gig
and Poppet.
　　　After breakfast she was cool and collected--quite herself in fact--and
she rambled to the gate, intending to walk to another quarter of the farm,
which she still personally superintended as well as her duties in the house
would permit, continually, however, finding herself preceded in forethought by
Gabriel Oak, for whom she began to entertain the genuine friendship of a sis-
ter. Of course, she sometimes thought of him in the light of an old lover, and
had momentary imaginings of what life with him as a husband would have been
like; also of life with Boldwood under the same conditions. But Bathsheba,
though she could feel, was not much given to futile dreaming, and her musings
under this head were short and entirely confined to the times when Troy's ne-
glect was more than ordinarily evident.
　　　She saw coming up the road a man like Mr. Boldwood. It was Mr. Boldwood.
Bathsheba blushed painfully, and watched. The farmer stopped when still a long
way off, and held up his hand to Gabriel Oak, who was in a footpath across the
field. The two men then approached each other and seemed to engage in earnest
conversation.
　　　Thus they continued for a long time. Joseph Poorgrass now passed near
them, wheeling a barrow of apples up the hill to Bathsheba's residence. Bold-
wood and Gabriel called to him, spoke to him for a few minutes, and then all
three parted, Joseph immediately coming up the hill with his barrow.
　　　Bathsheba, who had seen this pantomime with some surprise, experienced
great relief when Boldwood turned back again. “Well, what's the message, Jo-
seph?” she said.
　　　He set down his barrow, and, putting upon himself the refined aspect
that a conversation with a lady required, spoke to Bathsheba over the gate.
　　　“You'll never see Fanny Robin no more--use nor principal--ma'am.”
　　　“Why?”
　　　“Because she's dead in the Union.”
　　　“Fanny dead--never!”
　　　“Yes, ma'am.”
　　　“What did she die from?”
　　　“I don't know for certain; but I should be inclined to think it was
from general neshness of constitution. She was such a limber maid that 'a
could stand no hardship, even when I knowed her, and 'a went like a candle-
snoff, so 'tis said. She was took bad in the morning, and, being quite feeble
and worn out, she died in the evening. She belongs by law to our parish; and
Mr. Boldwood is going to send a waggon at three this afternoon to fetch her
home here and bury her.”
　　　“Indeed I shall not let Mr. Boldwood do any such thing--I shall do
it! Fanny was my uncle's servant, and, although I only knew her for a couple
of days, she belongs to me. How very, very sad this is!--the idea of Fanny
being in a workhouse.” Bathsheba had begun to know what suffering was, and
she spoke with real feeling.... “Send across to Mr. Boldwood's, and say that
Mrs. Troy will take upon herself the duty of fetching an old servant of the
family.... We ought not to put her in a waggon; we'll get a hearse.”
　　　“There will hardly be time, ma'am, will there?”
　　　“Perhaps not,” she said, musingly. “When did you say we must be at
the door--three o'clock?”
　　　“Three o'clock this afternoon, ma'am, so to speak it.”
　　　“Very well--you go with it. A pretty waggon is better than an ugly
hearse, after all. Joseph, have the new spring waggon with the blue body
and red wheels, and wash it very clean. And, Joseph--”
　　　“Yes, ma'am.”
　　　“Carry with you some evergreens and flowers to put upon her coffin
--indeed, gather a great many, and completely bury her in them. Get some
boughs of laurustinus, and variegated box, and yew, and boy's-love; ay, and
some bunches of chrysanthemum. And let old Pleasant draw her, because she
knew him so well.”
　　　“I will, ma'am. I ought to have said that the Union, in the form of
four labouring men, will meet me when I gets to our churchyard gate, and
take her and bury her according to the rites of the Board of Guardians, as
by law ordained.”
　　　“Dear me--Casterbridge Union--and is Fanny come to this?” said Bath-
sheba, musing. “I wish I had known of it sooner. I thought she was far a-
way. How long has she lived there?”
　　　“On'y been there a day or two.”
　　　“Oh!--then she has not been staying there as a regular inmate?”
　　　“No. She first went to live in a garrison-town t'other side o' Wes-
sex, and since then she's been picking up a living at seampstering in Mel-
chester for several months, at the house of a very respectable widow-woman
who takes in work of that sort. She only got handy the Union-house on Sunday
morning 'a b'lieve, and 'tis supposed here and there that she had traipsed
every step of the way from Melchester. Why she left her place, I can't say,
for I don't know; and as to a lie, why, I wouldn't tell it. That's the short
of the story, ma'am.”
　　　“Ah-h!”
　　　No gem ever flashed from a rosy ray to a white one more rapidly than
changed the young wife's countenance whilst this word came from her in a
long-drawn breath. “Did she walk along our turnpike-road?” she said, in
a suddenly restless and eager voice.
　　　“I believe she did.... Ma'am, shall I call Liddy? You bain't well,
ma'am, surely? You look like a lily--so pale and fainty!”
　　　“No; don't call her; it is nothing. When did she pass Weatherbury?”
　　　“Last Saturday night.”
　　　“That will do, Joseph; now you may go.”
　　　“Certainly, ma'am.”
　　　“Joseph, come hither a moment. What was the colour of Fanny Robin's
hair?”
　　　“Really, mistress, now that 'tis put to me so judge-and-jury like,
I can't call to mind, if ye'll believe me!”
　　　“Never mind; go on and do what I told you. Stop--well no, go on.”
　　　She turned herself away from him, that he might no longer notice the
mood which had set its sign so visibly upon her, and went indoors with a
distressing sense of faintness and a beating brow. About an hour after,
she heard the noise of the waggon and went out, still with a painful con-
sciousness of her bewildered and troubled look. Joseph, dressed in his best
suit of clothes, was putting in the horse to start. The shrubs and flowers
were all piled in the waggon, as she had directed; Bathsheba hardly saw them
now.
　　　“Died of what? did you say, Joseph?”
　　　“I don't know, ma'am.”
　　　“Are you quite sure?”
　　　“Yes, ma'am, quite sure.”
　　　“Sure of what?”
　　　“I'm sure that all I know is that she arrived in the morning and
died in the evening without further parley. What Oak and Mr. Boldwood told
me was only these few words. 'Little Fanny Robin is dead, Joseph,' Gabriel
said, looking in my face in his steady old way. I was very sorry, and I
said, 'Ah!--and how did she come to die?' 'Well, she's dead in Casterbridge
Union,' he said, 'and perhaps 'tisn't much matter about how she came to
die. She reached the Union early Sunday morning, and died in the afternoon
--that's clear enough.' Then I asked what she'd been doing lately, and Mr.
Boldwood turned round to me then, and left off spitting a thistle with the
end of his stick. He told me about her having lived by seampstering in Mel-
chester, as I mentioned to you, and that she walked therefrom at the end of
last week, passing near here Saturday night in the dusk. They then said I
had better just name a hint of her death to you, and away they went. Her
death might have been brought on by biding in the night wind, you know, ma'am;
for people used to say she'd go off in a decline: she used to cough a good
deal in winter time. However, 'tisn't much odds to us about that now, for
'tis all over.”
　　　“Have you heard a different story at all?” She looked at him so in-
tently that Joseph's eyes quailed.
　　　“Not a word, mistress, I assure 'ee!” he said. “Hardly anybody in
the parish knows the news yet.”
　　　“I wonder why Gabriel didn't bring the message to me himself. He most-
ly makes a point of seeing me upon the most trifling errand.” These words
were merely murmured, and she was looking upon the ground.
　　　“Perhaps he was busy, ma'am,” Joseph suggested. “And sometimes he
seems to suffer from things upon his mind, connected with the time when he
was better off than 'a is now. 'A's rather a curious item, but a very under-
standing shepherd, and learned in books.”
　　　“Did anything seem upon his mind whilst he was speaking to you about
this?”
　　　“I cannot but say that there did, ma'am. He was terrible down, and so
was Farmer Boldwood.”
　　　“Thank you, Joseph. That will do. Go on now, or you'll be late.”
　　　Bathsheba, still unhappy, went indoors again. In the course of the af-
ternoon she said to Liddy, who had been informed of the occurrence, “What
was the colour of poor Fanny Robin's hair? Do you know? I cannot recollect--
I only saw her for a day or two.”
　　　“It was light, ma'am; but she wore it rather short, and packed away
under her cap, so that you would hardly notice it. But I have seen her let
it down when she was going to bed, and it looked beautiful then. Real golden
hair.”
　　　“Her young man was a soldier, was he not?”
　　　“Yes. In the same regiment as Mr. Troy. He says he knew him very well.”
　　　“What, Mr. Troy says so? How came he to say that?”
　　　“One day I just named it to him, and asked him if he knew Fanny's
young man. He said, 'Oh yes, he knew the young man as well as he knew him-
self, and that there wasn't a man in the regiment he liked better.'”
　　　“Ah! Said that, did he?”
　　　“Yes; and he said there was a strong likeness between himself and the
other young man, so that sometimes people mistook them--”
　　　“Liddy, for Heaven's sake stop your talking!” said Bathsheba, with
the nervous petulance that comes from worrying perceptions.








　　　A wall bounded the site of Casterbridge Union-house, except along a
portion of the end. Here a high gable stood prominent, and it was covered
like the front with a mat of ivy. In this gable was no window, chimney, or-
nament, or protuberance of any kind. The single feature appertaining to it,
beyond the expanse of dark green leaves, was a small door.
　　　The situation of the door was peculiar. The sill was three or four
feet above the ground, and for a moment one was at a loss for an explana-
tion of this exceptional altitude, till ruts immediately beneath suggested
that the door was used solely for the passage of articles and persons to
and from the level of a vehicle standing on the outside. Upon the whole,
the door seemed to advertise itself as a species of Traitor's Gate trans-
lated to another sphere. That entry and exit hereby was only at rare inter-
vals became apparent on noting that tufts of grass were allowed to flourish
undisturbed in the chinks of the sill.
　　　As the clock over the South-street Alms-house pointed to five minutes
to three, a blue spring waggon, picked out with red, and containing boughs
and flowers, passed the end of the street, and up towards this side of the
building. Whilst the chimes were yet stammering out a shattered form of
“Malbrook,” Joseph Poorgrass rang the bell, and received directions to
back his waggon against the high door under the gable. The door then open-
ed, and a plain elm coffin was slowly thrust forth, and laid by two men in
fustian along the middle of the vehicle.
　　　One of the men then stepped up beside it, took from his pocket a
lump of chalk, and wrote upon the cover the name and a few other words in
a large scrawling hand. (We believe that they do these things more tenderly
now, and provide a plate.) He covered the whole with a black cloth, thread-
bare, but decent, the tail-board of the waggon was returned to its place,
one of the men handed a certificate of registry to Poorgrass, and both en-
tered the door, closing it behind them. Their connection with her, short
as it had been, was over for ever.
　　　Joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and the evergreens around
the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the waggon contained; he
smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral car crept down the hill,
and along the road to Weatherbury.
　　　The afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to the right towards the
sea as he walked beside the horse, Poorgrass saw strange clouds and scrolls
of mist rolling over the long ridges which girt the landscape in that quar-
ter. They came in yet greater volumes, and indolently crept across the
intervening valleys, and around the withered papery flags of the moor and
river brinks. Then their dank spongy forms closed in upon the sky. It was
a sudden overgrowth of atmospheric fungi which had their roots in the
neighbouring sea, and by the time that horse, man, and corpse entered Yal-
bury Great Wood, these silent workings of an invisible hand had reached
them, and they were completely enveloped, this being the first arrival of
the autumn fogs, and the first fog of the series.
　　　The air was as an eye suddenly struck blind. The waggon and its
load roll-ed no longer on the horizontal division between clearness and
opacity, but were imbedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallor
throughout. There was no perceptible motion in the air, not a visible
drop of water fell u-pon a leaf of the beeches, birches, and firs com-
posing the wood on either side. The trees stood in an attitude of in-
tentness, as if they waited longingly for a wind to come and rock them.
A startling quiet overhung all surrounding things—so completely, that
the crunching of the waggon-wheels was as a great noise, and small rus-
tles, which had never obtained a hear-ing except by night, were dis-
tinctly individualized.
　　　Joseph Poorgrass looked round upon his sad burden as it loomed
faintly through the flowering laurustinus, then at the unfathomable
gloom amid the high trees on each hand, indistinct, shadowless, and spec-
tre-like in their monochrome of grey. He felt anything but cheerful,
and wished he had the company even of a child or dog. Stopping the horse,
he listened. Not a footstep or wheel was audible anywhere around, and
the dead silence was broken only by a heavy particle falling from a tree
through the evergreens and alighting with a smart rap upon the coffin
of poor Fanny. The fog had by this time saturated the trees, and this
was the first dropping of water from the overbrimming leaves. The hollow
echo of its fall reminded the waggoner painfully of the grim Leveller.
Then hard by came down another drop, then two or three. Presently there
was a continual tapping of these heavy drops upon the dead leaves, the
road, and the travellers. The nearer boughs were beaded with the mist
to the greyness of aged men, and the rusty-red leaves of the beeches
were hung with similar drops, like diamonds on auburn hair.
　　　Travellers--for the variety tourist had hardly developed into a
distinct species at this date--sometimes said in passing, when they
cast their eyes up to the sign-bearing tree, that artists were fond of
representing the signboard hanging thus, but that they themselves had
never before noticed so perfect an instance in actual working order.
It was near this tree that the waggon was standing into which Gabriel
Oak crept on his first journey to Weatherbury; but, owing to the dark-
ness, the sign and the inn had been unobserved.
　　　The manners of the inn were of the old-established type. Indeed,
in the minds of its frequenters they existed as unalterable formulae:
e.g.--

　　　Rap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor.
　　　For tobacco, shout.
　　　In calling for the girl in waiting, say, “Maid!”
　　　Ditto for the landlady, “Old Soul!” etc., etc.

　　　It was a relief to Joseph's heart when the friendly signboard
came in view, and, stopping his horse immediately beneath it, he pro-
ceeded to fulfil an intention made a long time before. His spirits were
oozing out of him quite. He turned the horse's head to the green bank,
and entered the hostel for a mug of ale.
　　　Going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floor of which was a
step below the passage, which in its turn was a step below the road
outside, what should Joseph see to gladden his eyes but two copper-
coloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan
and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the two most appreciative throats
in the neighbourhood, within the pale of respectability, were now sit-
ting face to face over a three-legged circular table, having an iron
rim to keep cups and pots from being accidentally elbowed off; they
might have been said to resemble the setting sun and the full moon
shining vis-a-vis across the globe.
　　　“Why, 'tis neighbour Poorgrass!” said Mark Clark. “I'm sure
your face don't praise your mistress's table, Joseph.”
　　　“I've had a very pale companion for the last four miles,” said
Joseph, indulging in a shudder toned down by resignation. “And
to speak the truth, 'twas beginning to tell upon me. I assure ye, I
ha'n't seed the colour of victuals or drink since breakfast time this
morning, and that was no more than a dew-bit afield.”
　　　“Then drink, Joseph, and don't restrain yourself!” said Coggan,
handing him a hooped mug three-quarters full.
　　　Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then for a longer time,
saying, as he lowered the jug, "'Tis pretty drinking--very pretty drinking,
and is more than cheerful on my melancholy errand, so to speak it."
　　　"True, drink is a pleasant delight," said Jan, as one who repeated
a truism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed its passage
over his tongue; and, lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his head gradually
backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soul might not be
diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevant surroundings.
　　　“Well, I must be on again,” said Poorgrass. “Not but that I
should like another nip with ye; but the parish might lose confidence
in me if I was seed here.”
　　　“Where be ye trading o't to to-day, then, Joseph?”
　　　“Back to Weatherbury. I've got poor little Fanny Robin in my
waggon outside, and I must be at the churchyard gates at a quarter to
five with her.”
　　　“Ay--I've heard of it. And so she's nailed up in parish boards
after all, and nobody to pay the bell shilling and the grave half-crown.”
　　　“The parish pays the grave half-crown, but not the bell shill-
ing, because the bell's a luxery: but 'a can hardly do without the
grave, poor body. However, I expect our mistress will pay all.”
　　　“A pretty maid as ever I see! But what's yer hurry, Joseph? The
pore woman's dead, and you can't bring her to life, and you may as well
sit down comfortable, and finish another with us.”
　　　"I don't mind taking just the least thimbleful ye can dream of
more with ye, sonnies. But only a few minutes, because 'tis as 'tis."
　　　"Of course, you'll have another drop. A man's twice the man
afterwards. You feel so warm and glorious, and you whop and slap
at your work without any trouble, and everything goes on like
sticks a-breaking. Too much liquor is bad, and leads us to that
horned man in the smoky house; but after all, many people haven't
the gift of enjoying a wet, and since we be highly favoured with
a power that way, we should make the most o't."
　　　"True," said Mark Clark. "'Tis a talent the Lord has mercifully
bestowed upon us, and we ought not to neglect it. But, what with
the parsons and clerks and school-people and serious tea-parties,
the merry old ways of good life have gone to the dogs--upon my
carcase, they have!"
　　　“Well, really, I must be onward again now,” said Joseph.
　　　“Now, now, Joseph; nonsense! The poor woman is dead, isn't she,
and what's your hurry?”
　　　“Well, I hope Providence won't be in a way with me for my doings,”
said Joseph, again sitting down. “I've been troubled with weak moments
lately, 'tis true. I've been drinky once this month already, and I did
not go to church a-Sunday, and I dropped a curse or two yesterday; so
I don't want to go too far for my safety. Your next world is your next
world, and not to be squandered offhand.”
　　　“I believe ye to be a chapelmember, Joseph. That I do.”
　　　“Oh, no, no! I don't go so far as that.”
　　　“For my part,” said Coggan, “I'm staunch Church of England.”
　　　“Ay, and faith, so be I,” said Mark Clark.
　　　“I won't say much for myself; I don't wish to,” Coggan continued,
with that tendency to talk on principles which is characteristic of the
barley-corn. “But I've never changed a single doctrine: I've stuck like
a plaster to the old faith I was born in. Yes; there's this to be said
for the Church, a man can belong to the Church and bide in his cheerful
old inn, and never trouble or worry his mind about doctrines at all. But
to be a meetinger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, and
make yerself as frantic as a skit. Not but that chapel members be clever
chaps enough in their way. They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their
own heads, all about their families and shipwrecks in the newspaper.”
　　　“They can--they can,” said Mark Clark, with corroborative feeling;
“but we Churchmen, you see, must have it all printed aforehand, or, dang
it all, we should no more know what to say to a great gaffer like the
Lord than babes unborn.”
　　　“Chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them above than we,” said
Joseph, thoughtfully.
　　　“Yes,” said Coggan. “We know very well that if anybody do go to
heaven, they will. They've worked hard for it, and they deserve to have
it, such as 'tis. I bain't such a fool as to pretend that we who stick to
the Church have the same chance as they, because we know we have not.
But I hate a feller who'll change his old ancient doctrines for the sake of
getting to heaven. I'd as soon turn king's-evidence for the few pounds
you get. Why, neighbours, when every one of my taties were frosted, our
Parson Thirdly were the man who gave me a sack for seed, though he hardly
had one for his own use, and no money to buy 'em. If it hadn't been for
him, I shouldn't hae had a tatie to put in my garden. D'ye think I'd turn
after that? No, I'll stick to my side; and if we be in the wrong, so be
it: I'll fall with the fallen!”
　　　“Well said--very well said,” observed Joseph.--“However, folks,
I must be moving now: upon my life I must. Pa'son Thirdly will be waiting
at the church gates, and there's the woman a-biding outside in the waggon.”
　　　“Joseph Poorgrass, don't be so miserable! Pa'son Thirdly won't mind.
He's a generous man; he's found me in tracts for years, and I've consumed
a good many in the course of a long and shady life; but he's never been
the man to cry out at the expense. Sit down.”
　　　The longer Joseph Poorgrass remained, the less his spirit was troubl-
ed by the duties which devolved upon him this afternoon. The minutes
glided by uncounted, until the evening shades began perceptibly to deepen,
and the eyes of the three were but sparkling points on the surface of
darkness. Coggan's repeater struck six from his pocket in the usual still
small tones.
　　　At that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry, and the door o-
pened to admit the figure of Gabriel Oak, followed by the maid of the inn
bearing a candle. He stared sternly at the one lengthy and two round faces
of the sitters, which confronted him with the expressions of a fiddle and
a couple of warming-pans. Joseph Poorgrass blinked, and shrank several
inches into the background.
　　　“Upon my soul, I'm ashamed of you; 'tis disgraceful, Joseph, dis-
graceful!” said Gabriel, indignantly. “Coggan, you call yourself a man,
and don't know better than this.”
　　　Coggan looked up indefinitely at Oak, one or other of his eyes oc-
casionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it were not a mem-
ber, but a dozy individual with a distinct personality.
　　　"Don't take on so, shepherd!" said Mark Clark, looking reproachfully
at the candle, which appeared to possess special features of interest
for his eyes.
　　　"Nobody can hurt a dead woman," at length said Coggan, with the
precision of a machine. "All that could be done for her is done--she's
beyond us: and why should a man put himself in a tearing hurry for lifeless
clay that can neither feel nor see, and don't know what you do with her
at all? If she'd been alive, I would have been the first to help her. If she
now wanted victuals and drink, I'd pay for it, money down. But she's dead,
and no speed of ours will bring her to life. The woman's past us--time
spent upon her is throwed away: why should we hurry to do what's not
required? Drink, shepherd, and be friends, for to-morrow we may be like
her."
　　　"We may," added Mark Clark, emphatically, at once drinking himself, to
run no further risk of losing his chance by the event alluded to, Jan mean-
while merging his additional thoughts of to-morrow in a song:--

　　　　　　To-mor-row, to-mor-row!
　　　And while peace and plen-ty I find at my board,
　　　With a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row,
　　　With my friends will I share what to-day may af-ford,
　　　And let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row.
　　　　　　To-mor-row, to-mor--

　　　“Do hold thy horning, Jan!” said Oak; and turning upon Poorgrass,
“as for you, Joseph, who do your wicked deeds in such confoundedly holy
ways, you are as drunk as you can stand.”
　　　“No, Shepherd Oak, no! Listen to reason, shepherd. All that's the mat-
ter with me is the affliction called a multiplying eye, and that's how it is
I look double to you--I mean, you look double to me.”
　　　“A multiplying eye is a very bad thing,” said Mark Clark.
　　　“It always comes on when I have been in a public-house a little time,”
said Joseph Poorgrass, meekly. “Yes; I see two of every sort, as if I were
some holy man living in the times of King Noah and entering into the ark....
Y-y-y-yes,” he added, becoming much affected by the picture of himself
as a person thrown away, and shedding tears; “I feel too good for England:
I ought to have lived in Genesis by rights, like the other men of sacrifice,
and then I shouldn't have b-b-been called a d-d-drunkard in such a way!”
　　　“I wish you'd show yourself a man of spirit, and not sit whining there!”
　　　"Show myself a man of spirit? ... Ah, well! let me take the name of
drunkard humbly--let me be a man of contrite knees--let it be! I know that
I always do say 'Please God' afore I do anything, from my getting up to my
going down of the same, and I be willing to take as much disgrace as there
is in that holy act. Hah, yes! ... But not a man of spirit? Have I ever allowed
the toe of pride to be lifted against my hinder parts without groaning manful-
ly that I question the right to do so? I inquire that query boldly?"
　　　 “We can't say that you have, Hero Poorgrass,” admitted Jan.
　　　“Never have I allowed such treatment to pass unquestioned! Yet the
shepherd says in the face of that rich testimony that I be not a man of
spirit! Well, let it pass by, and death is a kind friend!”
　　　Gabriel, seeing that neither of the three was in a fit state to take
charge of the waggon for the remainder of the journey, made no reply, but,
closing the door again upon them, went across to where the vehicle stood,
now getting indistinct in the fog and gloom of this mildewy time. He pulled the
horse's head from the large patch of turf it had eaten bare, readjusted the
boughs over the coffin, and drove along through the unwholesome night.
It had gradually become rumoured in the village that the body to be brought
and buried that day was all that was left of the unfortunate Fanny Robin who
had followed the Eleventh from Casterbridge through Melchester and on-
wards. But, thanks to Boldwood's reticence and Oak's generosity, the lover
she had followed had never been individualized as Troy. Gabriel hoped that
the whole truth of the matter might not be published till at any rate the
girl had been in her grave for a few days, when the interposing barriers of
earth and time, and a sense that the events had been somewhat shut into
oblivion, would deaden the sting that revelation and invidious remark would
have for Bathsheba just now.
　　　By the time that Gabriel reached the old manor-house, her residence,
which lay in his way to the church, it was quite dark. A man came from the
gate and said through the fog, which hung between them like blown flour--
　　　“Is that Poorgrass with the corpse?”
　　　Gabriel recognized the voice as that of the parson.
　　　“The corpse is here, sir,” said Gabriel.
　　　“I have just been to inquire of Mrs. Troy if she could tell me the rea-
son of the delay. I am afraid it is too late now for the funeral to be per-
formed with proper decency. Have you the registrar's certificate?”
　　　“No,” said Gabriel. “I expect Poorgrass has that; and he's at the
Buck's Head. I forgot to ask him for it.”
　　　“Then that settles the matter. We'll put off the funeral till to-morrow
morning. The body may be brought on to the church, or it may be left here
at the farm and fetched by the bearers in the morning. They waited more
than an hour, and have now gone home.”
　　　Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter a most objectionable plan,
notwithstanding that Fanny had been an inmate of the farm-house for sev-
eral years in the lifetime of Bathsheba's uncle. Visions of several unhappy
contingencies which might arise from this delay flitted before him. But his
will was not law, and he went indoors to inquire of his mistress what were her
wishes on the subject. He found her in an unusual mood: her eyes as she look-
ed up to him were suspicious and perplexed as with some antecedent thought.
Troy had not yet returned. At first Bathsheba assented with a mien of indif-
ference to his proposition that they should go on to the church at once with
their burden; but immediately afterwards, following Gabriel to the gate, she
swerved to the extreme of solicitousness on Fanny's account, and desired that
the girl might be brought into the house. Oak argued upon the convenience of
leaving her in the waggon, just as she lay now, with her flowers and green
leaves about her, merely wheeling the vehicle into the coach-house till the
morning, but to no purpose. "It is unkind and unchristian," she said, "to leave
the poor thing in a coach-house all night."
　　　"Very well, then," said the parson. "And I will arrange that the funeral
shall take place early to-morrow. Perhaps Mrs. Troy is right in feeling that
we cannot treat a dead fellow-creature too thoughtfully. We must remember
that though she may have erred grievously in leaving her home, she is still
our sister: and it is to be believed that God's uncovenanted mercies are ex-
tended towards her, and that she is a member of the flock of Christ."
　　　The parson's words spread into the heavy air with a sad yet unper-
turbed cadence, and Gabriel shed an honest tear. Bathsheba seemed un-
moved. Mr. Thirdly then left them, and Gabriel lighted a lantern. Fetching
three other men to assist him, they bore the unconscious truant indoors,
placing the coffin on two benches in the middle of a little sitting-room next
the hall, as Bathsheba directed.
　　　Every one except Gabriel Oak then left the room. He still indecisively
lingered beside the body. He was deeply troubled at the wretchedly ironical
aspect that circumstances were putting on with regard to Troy's wife, and at
his own powerlessness to counteract them. In spite of his careful maneuver-
ing all this day, the very worst event that could in any way have happened in
connection with the burial had happened now. Oak imagined a terrible disco-
very resulting from this afternoon's work that might cast over Bathsheba's
life a shade which the interposition of many lapsing years might but indif-
ferently lighten, and which nothing at all might altogether remove.
　　　Suddenly, as in a last attempt to save Bathsheba from, at any rate, im-
mediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked before, at the chalk writ-
ing upon the coffin-lid. The scrawl was this simple one, "FANNY ROBIN AND
CHILD." Gabriel took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the two latter
words, leaving visible the inscription "FANNY ROBIN" only. He then left the
room, and went out quietly by the front door.








　　　“Do you want me any longer ma'am?” inquired Liddy, at a later hour
the same evening, standing by the door with a chamber candlestick in her
hand and addressing Bathsheba, who sat cheerless and alone in the large
parlour beside
the first fire of the season.
　　　“No more to-night, Liddy.”
　　　“I'll sit up for master if you like, ma'am. I am not at all afraid of Fan-
ny, if I may sit in my own room and have a candle. She was such a
childlike, nesh young thing that her spirit couldn't appear to anybody if it
tried, I'm quite sure.”
　　　“Oh no, no! You go to bed. I'll sit up for him myself till twelve
o'clock, and if he has not arrived by that time, I shall give him up and
go to bed too.”
　　　“It is half-past ten now.”
　　　“Oh! is it?”
　　　“Why don't you sit upstairs, ma'am?”
　　　“Why don't I?” said Bathsheba, desultorily. “It isn't worth while--
there's a fire here, Liddy.” She suddenly exclaimed in an impulsive and ex-
cited whisper, “Have you heard anything strange said of Fanny?” The
words had no sooner escaped her than an expression of unutterable regret
crossed her face, and she burst into tears.
　　　“No--not a word!” said Liddy, looking at the weeping woman with
astonishment. “What is it makes you cry so, ma'am; has anything hurt
you?” She came to Bathsheba's side with a face full of sympathy.
　　　“No, Liddy--I don't want you any more. I can hardly say why I
have taken to crying lately: I never used to cry. Good-night.”
　　　Liddy then left the parlour and closed the door.
　　　Bathsheba was lonely and miserable now; not lonelier actually than
she had been before her marriage; but her loneliness then was to that of
the present time as the solitude of a mountain is to the solitude of a
cave. And within the last day or two had come these disquieting thoughts
about her husband's past. Her wayward sentiment that evening concerning
Fanny's temporary resting-place had been the result of a strange compli-
cation of impulses in Bathsheba's bosom. Perhaps it would be more accu-
rately described as a determined rebellion against her prejudices, a re-
vulsion from a lower instinct of uncharitableness, which would have with-
held all sympathy from the dead woman, because in life she had preceded
Bathsheba in the attentions of a man whom Bathsheba had by no means
ceased from loving, though her love was sick to death just now with the
gravity of a further misgiving.
　　　In five or ten minutes there was another tap at the door. Liddy
reappeared, and coming in a little way stood hesitating, until at length
she said, “Maryann has just heard something very strange, but I know
it isn't true. And we shall be sure to know the rights of it in a day
or two.”
　　　“What is it?”
　　　“Oh, nothing connected with you or us, ma'am. It is about Fanny.
That same thing you have heard.”
　　　“I have heard nothing.”
　　　“I mean that a wicked story is got to Weatherbury within this last
hour--that--” Liddy came close to her mistress and whispered the remain-
der of the sentence slowly into her ear, inclining her head as she spoke
in the direction of the room where Fanny lay.
　　　Bathsheba trembled from head to foot.
　　　“I don't believe it!” she said, excitedly. “And there's only one name
written on the coffin-cover.”
　　　“Nor I, ma'am. And a good many others don't; for we should surely
have been told more about it if it had been true--don't you think so,
ma'am?”
　　　“We might or we might not.”
　　　Bathsheba turned and looked into the fire, that Liddy might not
see her face. Finding that her mistress was going to say no more, Liddy
glided out, closed the door softly, and went to bed.
　　　Bathsheba's face, as she continued looking into the fire that eve-
ning, might have excited solicitousness on her account even among those
who loved her least. The sadness of Fanny Robin's fate did not make
Bathsheba's glorious, although she was the Esther to this poor Vashti,
and their fates might be supposed to stand in some respects as contrasts
to each other. When Liddy came into the room a second time the beautiful
eyes which met hers had worn a listless, weary look. When she went out
after telling the story they had expressed wretchedness in full activ-
ity. Her simple country nature, fed on old-fashioned principles, was
troubled by that which would have troubled a woman of the world very
little, both Fanny and her child, if she had one, being dead.
　　　Bathsheba had grounds for conjecturing a connection between her
own history and the dimly suspected tragedy of Fanny's end which Oak
and Boldwood never for a moment credited her with possessing. The meet-
ing with the lonely woman on the previous Saturday night had been unwit-
nessed and unspoken of. Oak may have had the best of intentions in with-
holding for as many days as possible the details of what had happened to
Fanny; but had he known that Bathsheba's perceptions had already been ex-
ercised in the matter, he would have done nothing to lengthen the minutes
of suspense she was now undergoing, when the certainty which must termi-
nate it would be the worst fact suspected after all.
　　　She suddenly felt a longing desire to speak to some one stronger
than herself, and so get strength to sustain her surmised position with
dignity and her lurking doubts with stoicism. Where could she find such
a friend? nowhere in the house. She was by far the coolest of the women
under her roof. Patience and suspension of judgement for a few hours were
what she wanted to learn, and there was nobody to teach her. Might she
but go to Gabriel Oak!--but that could not be. What a way Oak had, she
thought, of enduring things. Boldwood, who seemed so much deeper and
higher and stronger in feeling than Gabriel, had not yet learnt, any more
than she herself, the simple lesson which Oak showed a mastery of by every
turn and look he gave--that among the multitude of interests by which he
was surrounded, those which affected his personal well-being were not the
most absorbing and important in his eyes. Oak meditatively looked upon
the horizon of circumstances without any special regard to his own stand-
point in the midst. That was how she would wish to be. But then Oak was
not racked by incertitude upon the inmost matter of his bosom, as she was
at this moment. Oak knew all about Fanny that he wished to know--she felt
convinced of that. If she were to go to him now at once and say no more
than these few words, “What is the truth of the story?” he would feel
bound in honour to tell her. It would be an inexpressible relief. No fur-
ther speech would need to be uttered. He knew her so well that no eccen-
tricity of behaviour in her would alarm him.
　　　She flung a cloak round her, went to the door and opened it. Every
blade, every twig was still. The air was yet thick with moisture, though
somewhat less dense than during the afternoon, and a steady smack of
drops upon the fallen leaves under the boughs was almost musical in its
soothing regularity. It seemed better to be out of the house than within
it, and Bathsheba closed the door, and walked slowly down the lane till
she came opposite to Gabriel's cottage, where he now lived alone, having
left Coggan's house through being pinched for room. There was a light in
one window only, and that was downstairs. The shutters were not closed,
nor was any blind or curtain drawn over the window, neither robbery nor
observation being a contingency which could do much injury to the occupant
of the domicile. Yes, it was Gabriel himself who was sitting up: he was
reading. From her standing-place in the road she could see him plainly,
sitting quite still, his light curly head upon his hand, and only occasion-
ally looking up to snuff the candle which stood beside him. At length he
looked at the clock, seemed surprised at the lateness of the hour, closed
his book, and arose. He was going to bed, she knew, and if she tapped it
must be done at once.
　　　Alas for her resolve! She felt she could not do it. Not for worlds
now could she give a hint about her misery to him, much less ask him plain-
ly for information on the cause of Fanny's death. She must suspect, and
guess, and chafe, and bear it all alone.
　　　Like a homeless wanderer she lingered by the bank, as if lulled and
fascinated by the atmosphere of content which seemed to spread from that
little dwelling, and was so sadly lacking in her own. Gabriel appeared in
an upper room, placed his light in the window-bench, and then--knelt down
to pray. The contrast of the picture with her rebellious and agitated ex-
istence at this same time was too much for her to bear to look upon longer.
It was not for her to make a truce with trouble by any such means. She must
tread her giddy distracting measure to its last note, as she had begun it.
With a swollen heart she went again up the lane, and entered her own door.
　　　More fevered now by a reaction from the first feelings which Oak's
example had raised in her, she paused in the hall, looking at the door of
the room wherein Fanny lay. She locked her fingers, threw back her head,
and strained her hot hands rigidly across her forehead, saying, with a hys-
terical sob, “Would to God you would speak and tell me your secret, Fanny!
... Oh, I hope, hope it is not true that there are two of you!... If I could
only look in upon you for one little minute, I should know all!”
　　　A few moments passed, and she added, slowly, “And I will.”
　　　Bathsheba in after times could never gauge the mood which carried her
through the actions following this murmured resolution on this memorable
evening of her life. She went to the lumber-closet for a screw-driver. At
the end of a short though undefined time she found herself in the small
room, quivering with emotion, a mist before her eyes, and an excruciating
pulsation in her brain, standing beside the uncovered coffin of the girl
whose conjectured end had so entirely engrossed her, and saying to herself
in a husky voice as she gazed within--
　　　“It was best to know the worst, and I know it now!”
　　　She was conscious of having brought about this situation by a series
of actions done as by one in an extravagant dream; of following that idea
as to method, which had burst upon her in the hall with glaring obviousness,
by gliding to the top of the stairs, assuring herself by listening to the
heavy breathing of her maids that they were asleep, gliding down again, turn-
ing the handle of the door within which the young girl lay, and deliberately
setting herself to do what, if she had anticipated any such undertaking at
night and alone, would have horrified her, but which, when done, was not so
dreadful as was the conclusive proof of her husband's conduct which came
with knowing beyond doubt the last chapter of Fanny's story.
　　　Bathsheba's head sank upon her bosom, and the breath which had been
bated in suspense, curiosity, and interest, was exhaled now in the form of
a whispered wail: “Oh-h-h!” she said, and the silent room added length to
her moan.
　　　Her tears fell fast beside the unconscious pair in the coffin: tears
of a complicated origin, of a nature indescribable, almost indefinable ex-
cept as other than those of simple sorrow. Assuredly their wonted fires
must have lived in Fanny's ashes when events were so shaped as to chariot
her hither in this natural, unobtrusive, yet effectual manner. The one feat
alone--that of dying--by which a mean condition could be resolved into a
grand one, Fanny had achieved. And to that had destiny subjoined this re-
encounter to-night, which had, in Bathsheba's wild imagining, turned her
companion's failure to success, her humiliation to triumph, her luckless-
ness to ascendency; it had thrown over herself a garish light of mockery,
and set upon all things about her an ironical smile.
　　　Fanny's face was framed in by that yellow hair of hers; and there was
no longer much room for doubt as to the origin of the curl owned by Troy.
In Bathsheba's heated fancy the innocent white countenance expressed a dim
triumphant consciousness of the pain she was retaliating for her pain with
all the merciless rigour of the Mosaic law: “Burning for burning; wound
for wound: strife for strife.”
　　　Bathsheba indulged in contemplations of escape from her position by
immediate death, which, thought she, though it was an inconvenient and aw-
ful way, had limits to its inconvenience and awfulness that could not be
overpassed; whilst the shames of life were measureless. Yet even this scheme
of extinction by death was but tamely copying her rival's method without
the reasons which had glorified it in her rival's case. She glided rapidly
up and down the room, as was mostly her habit when excited, her hands hang-
ing clasped in front of her, as she thought and in part expressed in brok-
en words: “O, I hate her, yet I don't mean that I hate her, for it is
grievous and wicked; and yet I hate her a little! Yes, my flesh insists u-
pon hating her, whether my spirit is willing or no!... If she had only liv-
ed, I could have been angry and cruel towards her with some justification;
but to be vindictive towards a poor dead woman recoils upon myself. O God,
have mercy! I am miserable at all this!”
　　　Bathsheba became at this moment so terrified at her own state of mind
that she looked around for some sort of refuge from herself. The vision of
Oak kneeling down that night recurred to her, and with the imitative in-
stinct which animates women she seized upon the idea, resolved to kneel,
and, if possible, pray. Gabriel had prayed; so would she.
　　　She knelt beside the coffin, covered her face with her hands, and for
a time the room was silent as a tomb. Whether from a purely mechanical, or
from any other cause, when Bathsheba arose it was with a quieted spirit,
and a regret for the antagonistic instincts which had seized upon her just
before.
　　　In her desire to make atonement she took flowers from a vase by the
window, and began laying them around the dead girl's head. Bathsheba knew no
other way of showing kindness to persons departed than by giving them flow-
ers. She knew not how long she remained engaged thus. She forgot time, life,
where she was, what she was doing. A slamming together of the coach-house
doors in the yard brought her to herself again. An instant after, the front
door opened and closed, steps crossed the hall, and her husband appeared at
the entrance to the room, looking in upon her.
　　　He beheld it all by degrees, stared in stupefaction at the scene, as
if he thought it an illusion raised by some fiendish incantation. Bathsheba,
pallid as a corpse on end, gazed back at him in the same wild way.
　　　So little are instinctive guesses the fruit of a legitimate induction that,
at this moment, as he stood with the door in his hand, Troy never once
thought of Fanny in connection with what he saw. His first confused idea
was that somebody in the house had died.
　　　“Well--what?” said Troy, blankly.
　　　“I must go! I must go!” said Bathsheba, to herself more than to him.
She came with a dilated eye towards the door, to push past him.
　　　“What's the matter, in God's name? who's dead?” said Troy.
　　　“I cannot say; let me go out. I want air!” she continued.
　　　“But no; stay, I insist!” He seized her hand, and then volition seem-
ed to leave her, and she went off into a state of passivity. He, still hold-
ing her, came up the room, and thus, hand in hand, Troy and Bathsheba ap-
proached the coffin's side.
　　　The candle was standing on a bureau close by them, and the light slant-
ed down, distinctly enkindling the cold features of both mother and babe.
Troy looked in, dropped his wife's hand, knowledge of it all came over him in
a lurid sheen, and he stood still.
　　　So still he remained that he could be imagined to have left in him no
motive power whatever. The clashes of feeling in all directions confounded
one another, produced a neutrality, and there was motion in none.
　　　“Do you know her?” said Bathsheba, in a small enclosed echo, as from
the interior of a cell.
　　　“I do,” said Troy.
　　　“Is it she?”
　　　“It is.”
　　　He had originally stood perfectly erect. And now, in the well-nigh con-
gealed immobility of his frame could be discerned an incipient movement, as
in the darkest night may be discerned light after a while. He was gradually
sinking forwards. The lines of his features softened, and dismay modulated
to illimitable sadness. Bathsheba was regarding him from the other side,
still with parted lips and distracted eyes. Capacity for intense feeling is
proportionate to the general intensity of the nature, and perhaps in all
Fanny's sufferings, much greater relatively to her strength, there never
was a time she suffered in an absolute sense what Bathsheba suffered now.
　　　What Troy did was to sink upon his knees with an indefinable union
of remorse and reverence upon his face, and, bending over Fanny Robin, gent-
ly kissed her, as one would kiss an infant asleep to avoid awakening it.
　　　At the sight and sound of that, to her, unendurable act, Bathsheba
sprang towards him. All the strong feelings which had been scattered over
her existence since she knew what feeling was, seemed gathered together
into one pulsation now. The revulsion from her indignant mood a little
earlier, when she had meditated upon compromised honour, forestalment, e-
clipse in maternity by another, was violent and entire. All that was for-
gotten in the simple and still strong attachment of wife to husband. She
had sighed for her self-completeness then, and now she cried aloud a-
gainst the severance of the union she had deplored. She flung her arms
round Troy's neck, exclaiming wildly from the deepest deep of her heart--
　　　“Don't--don't kiss them! O, Frank, I can't bear it--I can't! I love
you better than she did: kiss me too, Frank--kiss me! You will, Frank, kiss
me too!”
　　　There was something so abnormal and startling in the child-like
pain and simplicity of this appeal from a woman of Bathsheba's cal-
ibre and independence,that Troy, loosening her tightly clasped arms from
his neck, looked at her in bewilderment. It was such an unexpected revela-
tion of all women being alike at heart, even those so different in their
accessories as Fanny and this one beside him, that Troy could hardly seem
to believe her to be his proud wife Bathsheba. Fanny's own spirit seemed
to be animating her frame. But this was the mood of a few instants only.
When the momentary surprise had passed, his expression changed to a sil-
encing imperious gaze.
　　　“I will not kiss you!” he said pushing her away.
　　　Had the wife now but gone no further. Yet, perhaps, under the har-
rowing circumstances, to speak out was the one wrong act which can be
better understood, if not forgiven in her, than the right and politic one,
her rival being now but a corpse. All the feeling she had been betrayed
into showing she drew back to herself again by a strenuous effort of self-
command.
　　　“What have you to say as your reason?” she asked, her bitter voice
being strangely low--quite that of another woman now.
　　　“I have to say that I have been a bad, black-hearted man,” he an-
swered.
　　　“And that this woman is your victim; and I not less than she.”
　　　“Ah! don't taunt me, madam. This woman is more to me, dead as she
is, than ever you were, or are, or can be. If Satan had not tempted me
with that face of yours, and those cursed coquetries, I should have mar-
ried her. I never had another thought till you came in my way. Would to
God that I had; but it is all too late!” He turned to Fanny then. “But
never mind, darling,” he said; “in the sight of Heaven you are my very,
very wife!”
　　　At these words there arose from Bathsheba's lips a long, low cry of
measureless despair and indignation, such a wail of anguish as had never
before been heard within those old-inhabited walls. It was the
of her union with Troy.
　　　“If she's--that,--what--am I?” she added, as a continuation of the
same cry, and sobbing pitifully: and the rarity with her of such abandonment
only made the condition more dire.
　　　“You are nothing to me--nothing,” said Troy, heartlessly. “A cer-
emony before a priest doesn't make a marriage. I am not morally yours.”
　　　A vehement impulse to flee from him, to run from this place, hide,
and escape his words at any price, not stopping short of death itself,
mastered Bathsheba now. She waited not an instant, but turned to the
door and ran out.








　　　Bathsheba went along the dark road, neither knowing nor caring a-
bout the direction or issue of her flight. The first time that she defin-
itely noticed her position was when she reached a gate leading into a
thicket overhung by some large oak and beech trees. On looking into the
place, it occurred to her that she had seen it by daylight on some previ-
ous occasion, and that what appeared like an impassable thicket was in
reality a brake of fern now withering fast. She could think of nothing bet-
ter to do with her palpitating self than to go in here and hide; and enter-
ing, she lighted on a spot sheltered from the damp fog by a reclining
trunk, where she sank down upon a tangled couch of fronds and stems. She
mechanically pulled some armfuls round her to keep off the breezes, and
closed her eyes.
　　　Whether she slept or not that night Bathsheba was not clearly aware.
But it was with a freshened existence and a cooler brain that, a long time
afterwards, she became conscious of some interesting proceedings which
were going on in the trees above her head and around.
　　　A coarse-throated chatter was the first sound.
　　　It was a sparrow just waking.
　　　Next: “Chee-weeze-weeze-weeze!” from another retreat.
　　　It was a finch.
　　　Third: “Tink-tink-tink-tink-a-chink!” from the hedge.
　　　It was a robin.
　　　“Chuck-chuck-chuck!” overhead.
　　　A squirrel.
　　　Then, from the road, “With my ra-ta-ta, and my rum-tum-tum!”
　　　It was a ploughboy. Presently he came opposite, and she believed from
his voice that he was one of the boys on her own farm. He was followed by
a shambling tramp of heavy feet, and looking through the ferns Bathsheba
could just discern in the wan light of daybreak a team of her own horses.
They stopped to drink at a pond on the other side of the way. She watched
them flouncing into the pool, drinking, tossing up their heads, drinking a-
gain, the water dribbling from their lips in silver threads. There was anoth-
er flounce, and they came out of the pond, and turned back again towards
the farm.
　　　She looked further around. Day was just dawning, and beside its cool
air and colours her heated actions and resolves of the night stood out in
lurid contrast. She perceived that in her lap, and clinging to her hair,
were red and yellow leaves which had come down from the tree and settled
silently upon her during her partial sleep. Bathsheba shook her dress to
get rid of them, when multitudes of the same family lying round about her
rose and fluttered away in the breeze thus created, “like ghosts from an
enchanter fleeing.”
　　　There was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the as yet
unrisen sun attracted her eyes thither. From her feet, and between the
beautiful yellowing ferns with their feathery arms, the ground sloped
downwards to a hollow, in which was a species of swamp, dotted with fungi.
A morning mist hung over it now--a fulsome yet magnificent silvery veil,
full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque--the hedge behind it being
in some measure hidden by its hazy luminousness. Up the sides of this
depression grew sheaves of the common rush, and here and there a peculiar
species of flag, the blades of which glistened in the emerging sun, like
scythes. But the general aspect of the swamp was malignant. From its
moist and poisonous coat seemed to be exhaled the essences of evil things
in the earth, and in the waters under the earth. The fungi grew in all
manner of positions from rotting leaves and tree stumps, some exhibiting
to her listless gaze their clammy tops, others their oozing gills. Some
were marked with great splotches, red as arterial blood, others were
saffron yellow, and others tall and attenuated, with stems like macaroni.
Some were leathery and of richest browns. The hollow seemed a nursery of
pestilences small and great, in the immediate neighbourhood of comfort
and health, and Bathsheba arose with a tremor at the thought of having
passed the night on the brink of so dismal a place.
　　　There were now other footsteps to be heard along the road. Bath-
sheba's nerves were still unstrung: she crouched down out of sight again,
and the pedestrian came into view. He was a schoolboy, with a bag slung o-
ver his shoulder containing his dinner, and a book in his hand. He paused
by the gate, and, without looking up, continued murmuring words in tones
quite loud enough to reach her ears.
　　　“'O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord':--that I know out o' book.
'Give us, give us, give us, give us, give us':--that I know. 'Grace that,
grace that, grace that, grace that':--that I know.” Other words followed
to the same effect. The boy was of the dunce class apparently; the book
was a psalter, and this was his way of learning the collect. In the worst
attacks of trouble there appears to be always a superficial film of con-
sciousness which is left disengaged and open to the notice of trifles, and
Bathsheba was faintly amused at the boy's method, till he too passed on.
　　　By this time stupor had given place to anxiety, and anxiety began to
make room for hunger and thirst. A form now appeared upon the rise on the
other side of the swamp, half-hidden by the mist, and came towards Bath-
sheba. The woman--for it was a woman--approached with her face askance,
as if looking earnestly on all sides of her. When she got a little furth-
er round to the left, and drew nearer, Bathsheba could see the newcomer's
profile against the sunny sky, and knew the wavy sweep from forehead to
chin, with neither angle nor decisive line anywhere about it, to be the
familiar contour of Liddy Smallbury.
　　　Bathsheba's heart bounded with gratitude in the thought that she
was not altogether deserted, and she jumped up. “Oh, Liddy!” she said,
or attempted to say; but the words had only been framed by her lips; there
came no sound. She had lost her voice by exposure to the clogged atmo-
sphere all these hours of night.
　　　“Oh, ma'am! I am so glad I have found you,” said the girl, as soon
as she saw Bathsheba.
　　　“You can't come across,” Bathsheba said in a whisper, which she
vainly endeavoured to make loud enough to reach Liddy's ears. Liddy, not
knowing this, stepped down upon the swamp, saying, as she did so, “It
will bear me up, I think.”
　　　Bathsheba never forgot that transient little picture of Liddy cross-
ing the swamp to her there in the morning light. Iridescent bubbles of dank
subterranean breath rose from the sweating sod beside the waiting-maid's
feet as she trod, hissing as they burst and expanded away to join the va-
poury firmament above. Liddy did not sink, as Bathsheba had anticipated.
　　　She landed safely on the other side, and looked up at the beautiful
though pale and weary face of her young mistress.
　　　“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 some-
thing 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 reply-
ing in monosyllables to Liddy's prattle, for her mind ran on one subject,
and one only. She interrupted with--
　　　“I 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 a-
way 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.”
　　　“Oh, 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 at-
tic, and her companion followed.
　　　“Liddy,” she said, with a lighter heart, for youth and hope had be-
gun 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 bed belong-
ing 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.
　　　“Oh 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's 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 Tra-
gedy, 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 books without telling me;
and I said you were not to! How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn't
suit me at all.”
　　　“But if the others do--”
　　　“No, they don't; and I won't read dismal books. Why should I read dis-
mal books, indeed? Bring me Love in a Village, and Maid of the Mill, and Doc-
tor Syntax, and some volumes of the Spectator.”
　　　All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic in a state of bar-
ricade; 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 e-
very movement outside without much purpose, and listening without much inter-
est to every sound.
　　　The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud re-
ceived 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 consecrat-
ed to this ancient diversion from time immemorial, the old stocks convenient-
ly 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 a-
bruptly, 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 a grand carved tombstone,” said Liddy. “The lads went to
see whose it was.”
　　　“Do you know?” Bathsheba asked.
　　　“I don't,” said Liddy.










　　　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 four-and-twenty hours.
His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially from his intent-
ions 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 circumscrib-
ing 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 dimin-
ished his cash only to the extent of a few shillings.
　　　He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he 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 re-
gretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and made inquiries. Reach-
ing 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, and 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 un-
occupied grave—the grave dug the day before for Fanny. The position of this
having been marked, he hastened on to Casterbridge, only pausing and musing
for a while at the hill 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, in-
scribed 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 ab-
solutely unpractised man. He could not bring himself to consider, calcu-
late, 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 twenty-seven 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.”
　　　“I must have it now.”
　　　“If you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready im-
mediately.”
　　　“Very well,” said Troy, impatiently. “Let's see what you have.”
　　　“The best I have in stock is this one,” said the stone-cutter, going
into a shed. “Here's a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with medal-
lions beneath of typical subjects; here's the footstone after the same pat-
tern, and here's the coping to enclose the grave. The polishing alone of the
set cost me eleven pounds—the slabs are the best of their kind, and I can
warrant them to resist rain and frost for a hundred years without flying.”
　　　“And how much?”
　　　“Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sum
you mention.”
　　　“Get it done to-day, and I'll pay the money now.”
　　　The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who wore not
a shred of mourning. Troy then wrote the words which were to form the in-
scription, settled the account and went away. In the afternoon he came back
again, and found that the lettering was almost done. He waited in the yard
till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the cart and starting on its
way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the two men who were to accompany
it to inquire of the sexton for the grave of the person named in the inscrip-
tion.
　　　It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He carried ra-
ther a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily along the
road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited his
burden for a time. Midway on his journey he met, returning in the darkness,
the men and the waggon which had conveyed the tomb. He merely inquired if
the work was done, and, on being assured that it was, passed on again.
　　　Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o'clock and went immed-
iately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early in the morn-
ing. It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened to a great extent
from the view of passers along the road—a spot which until lately had been
abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of alder, but now it was cleared and
made orderly for interments, by reason of the rapid filling of the ground
elsewhere.
　　　Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white 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 min-
utes. 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 inscrip-
tion. He hung his lantern on the lowest bough of the yew-tree, and took
from his basket flower-roots of several varieties. There were bundles of
snow-drop, 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-me-not, 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 id-
iosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed at such junctures as
the present the inelasticity of the Englishman, together with that blind-
ness to the line where sentiment verges on mawkishness, characteristic of
the French.
　　　It 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 out. Troy 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.








　　　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 continu-
ed 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
church-wardens 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 e-
nough 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 cor-
relatives 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 dis-
tortion which is less the characteristic of British than of Continental
grotesques of the 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. Pres-
ently 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 u-
pon 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 down-fall 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 over-looked. Sometimes this obscure corner received no inhabitant
for the space of two or three years, and then it was usually but a pau-
per, a poacher, or other sinner of undignified sins.
　　　The persistent torrent from the gurgoyle’s jaws directed all its
vengeance into the grave. The rich tawny mould was stirred into motion,
and boiled like chocolate. The water accumulated and washed deeper down,
and the roar of the pool thus formed spread into the night as the head
and chief among other noises of the kind created by the deluging rain.
The flowers so carefully planted by Fanny’s repentant lover began to
move and writhe in their bed. The winter-violets turned slowly upside
down, and became a mere mat of mud. Soon the snowdrop and other bulbs
danced in the boiling mass like ingredients in a cauldron. Plants of the
tufted species were loosened, rose to the surface, and floated off.
　　　Troy did not awake from his comfortless sleep till it was broad
day. Not having been in bed for two nights his shoulders felt stiff,
his feet tender, and his head heavy. He remembered his position, arose,
shivered, took the spade, and again went out.
　　　The rain had quite ceased, and the sun was shining through the
green, brown, and yellow leaves, now sparkling and varnished by the
raindrops to the brightness of similar effects in the landscapes of
Ruysdael and Hobbema, and full of all those infinite beauties that a-
rise from the union of water and colour with high lights. The air was
rendered so transparent by the heavy fall of rain that the autumn hues
of the middle distance were as rich as those near at hand, and the re-
mote fields intercepted by the angle of the tower appeared in the same
plane as the tower itself.
　　　He entered the gravel path which would take him behind the tower.
The path, instead of being stony as it had been the night before, was
browned over with a thin coating of mud. At one place in the path he
saw a tuft of stringy roots washed white and clean as a bundle of ten-
dons. He picked it up—surely it could not be one of the primroses he
had planted? He saw a bulb, another, and another as he advanced. Beyond
doubt they were the crocuses. With a face of perplexed dismay Troy turn-
ed the corner and then beheld the wreck the stream had made.
　　　The pool upon the grave had soaked away into the ground, and in
its place was a hollow. The disturbed earth was washed over the grass
and pathway in the guise of the brown mud he had already seen, and it
spotted the marble tombstone with the same stains. Nearly all the flow-
ers were washed clean out of the ground, and they lay, roots upwards, on
the spots whither they had been splashed by the stream.
　　　Troy’s brow became heavily contracted. He set his teeth closely,
and his compressed lips moved as those of one in great pain. This sing-
ular accident, by a strange confluence of emotions in him, was felt as
the sharpest sting of all. Troy’s face was very expressive, and any ob-
server who had seen him now would hardly have believed him to be a man
who had laughed, and sung, and poured love-trifles into a woman’s ear.
To curse his miserable lot was at first his impulse, but even that low-
est stage of rebellion needed an activity whose absence was necessarily
antecedent to the existence of the morbid misery which wrung him. The
sight, coming as it did, superimposed upon the other dark scenery of the
previous days, formed a sort of climax to the whole panorama, and it was
more than he could endure. Sanguine by nature, Troy had a power of elud-
ing grief by simply adjourning it. He could put off the consideration of
any particular spectre till the matter had become old and softened by
time. The planting of flowers on Fanny’s grave had been perhaps but a
species of elusion of the primary grief, and now it was as if his inten-
tion had been known and circumvented.
　　　Almost for the first time in his life, Troy, as he stood by this
dismantled grave, wished himself another man. It is seldom that a per-
son with much animal spirit does not feel that the fact of his life be-
ing his own is the one qualification which singles it out as a more hope-
ful life than that of others who may actually resemble him in every par-
ticular. Troy had felt, in his transient way, hundreds of times, that he
could not envy other people their condition, because the possession of
that condition would have necessitated a different personality, when he
desired no other than his own. He had not minded the peculiarities of
his birth, the vicissitudes of his life, the meteor-like uncertainty of
all that related to him, because these appertained to the hero of his
story, without whom there would have been no story at all for him; and
it seemed to be only in the nature of things that matters would right
themselves at some proper date and wind up well. This very morning the
illusion completed its disappearance, and, as it were, all of a sudden,
Troy hated himself. The suddenness was probably more apparent than real.
A coral reef which just comes short of the ocean surface is no more to
the horizon than if it had never been begun, and the mere finishing stroke
is what often appears to create an event which has long been potentially
an accomplished thing.
　　　He stood and meditated--a miserable man. Whither should he go?
“He that is accursed, let him be accursed still,” was the pitiless an-
athema written in this spoliated effort of his new-born solicitousness.
A man who has spent his primal strength in journeying in one direction
has not much spirit left for reversing his course. Troy had, since yest-
erday, faintly reversed his; but the merest opposition had disheartened
him. To turn about would have been hard enough under the greatest provi-
dential encouragement; but to find that Providence, far from helping him
into a new course, or showing any wish that he might adopt one, actually
jeered his first trembling and critical attempt in that kind, was more
than nature could bear.
　　　He slowly withdrew from the grave. He did not attempt to fill up
the hole, replace the flowers, or do anything at all. He simply threw
up his cards and forswore his game for that time and always. Going out
of the churchyard silently and unobserved--none of the villagers having
yet risen--he passed down some fields at the back, and emerged just as
secretly upon the high road. Shortly afterwards he had gone from the vil-
lage.
　　　Meanwhile, Bathsheba remained a voluntary prisoner in the attic.
The door was kept locked, except during the entries and exits of Liddy,
for whom a bed had been arranged in a small adjoining room. The light
of Troy's lantern in the churchyard was noticed about ten o'clock by the
maid-servant, who casually glanced from the window in that direction
whilst taking her supper, and she called Bathsheba's attention to it.
They looked curiously at the phenomenon for a time, until Liddy was sent
to bed.
　　　Bathsheba did not sleep very heavily that night. When her attend-
ant was unconscious and softly breathing in the next room, the mistress
of the house was still looking out of the window at the faint gleam
spreading from among the trees--not in a steady shine, but blinking like
a revolving coast-light, though this appearance failed to suggest to her
that a person was passing and repassing in front of it. Bathsheba sat
here till it began to rain, and the light vanished, when she withdrew to
lie restlessly in her bed and re-enact in a worn mind the lurid scene of
yesternight.
　　　Almost before the first faint sign of dawn appeared she arose a-
gain, and opened the window to obtain a full breathing of the new morn-
ing air, the panes being now wet with trembling tears left by the night
rain, each one rounded with a pale lustre caught from primrose-hued
slashes through a cloud low down in the awakening sky. From the trees
came the sound of steady dripping upon the drifted leaves under them,
and from the direction of the church she could hear another noise--pecu-
liar, and not intermittent like the rest, the purl of water falling into
a pool.
　　　Liddy knocked at eight o'clock, and Bathsheba unlocked the door.
　　　“What a heavy rain we've had in the night, ma'am!” said Liddy,
when her inquiries about breakfast had been made.
　　　“Yes, very heavy.”
　　　“Did you hear the strange noise from the churchyard?”
　　　“I heard one strange noise. I've been thinking it must have been
the water from the tower spouts.”
　　　“Well, that's what the shepherd was saying, ma'am. He's now gone
on to see.”
　　　“Oh! Gabriel has been here this morning!”
　　　“Only just looked in in passing--quite in his old way, which I
thought he had left off lately. But the tower spouts used to spatter on
the stones, and we are puzzled, for this was like the boiling of a pot.”
　　　Not being able to read, think, or work, Bathsheba asked Liddy to
stay and breakfast with her. The tongue of the more childish woman still
ran upon recent events. “Are you going across to the church, ma'am?”
she asked.
　　　“Not that I know of,” said Bathsheba.
　　　“I thought you might like to go and see where they have put Fanny.
The trees hide the place from your window.”
　　　Bathsheba had all sorts of dreads about meeting her husband.
“Has Mr. Troy been in to-night?” she said.
　　　“No, ma'am; I think he's gone to Budmouth.”
　　　Budmouth! The sound of the word carried with it a much diminished
perspective of him and his deeds; there were thirteen miles interval be-
twixt them now. She hated questioning Liddy about her husband's movements,
and indeed had hitherto sedulously avoided doing so; but now all the
house knew that there had been some dreadful disagreement between them,
and it was futile to attempt disguise. Bathsheba had reached a stage at
which people cease to have any appreciative regard for public opinion.
　　　“What makes you think he has gone there?” she said.
　　　“Laban Tall saw him on the Budmouth road this morning before break-
fast.”
　　　Bathsheba was momentarily relieved of that wayward heaviness of the
past twenty-four hours which had quenched the vitality of youth in her
without substituting the philosophy of maturer years, and she resolved to
go out and walk a little way. So when breakfast was over, she put on her
bonnet, and took a direction towards the church. It was nine o'clock,
and the men having returned to work again from their first meal, she was
not likely to meet many of them in the road. Knowing that Fanny had been
laid in the reprobates' quarter of the graveyard, called in the parish
“behind church,” which was invisible from the road, it was impossible
to resist the impulse to enter and look upon a spot which, from name-
less feelings, she at the same time dreaded to see. She had been unable
to overcome an impression that some connection existed between her rival
and the light through the trees.
　　　Bathsheba skirted the buttress, and beheld the hole and the tomb,
its delicately veined surface splashed and stained just as Troy had seen
it and left it two hours earlier. On the other side of the scene stood Gab-
riel. His eyes, too, were fixed on the tomb, and her arrival having been noise-
less, she had not as yet attracted his attention. Bathsheba did not at
once perceive that the grand tomb and the disturbed grave were Fanny's,
and she looked on both sides and around for some humbler mound, earthed
up and clodded in the usual way. Then her eye followed Oak's, and she
read the words with which the inscription opened:--

　　　　　　　　　Erected by Francis Troy
　　　　　　　　　In Beloved Memory of
　　　　　　　　　　 Fanny Robin

　　　Oak saw her, and his first act was to gaze inquiringly and learn
how she received this knowledge of the authorship of the work, which to
himself had caused considerable astonishment. But such discoveries did
not much affect her now. Emotional convulsions seemed to have become the
commonplaces of her history, and she bade him good morning, and asked him
to fill in the hole with the spade which was standing by. Whilst Oak was
doing as she desired, Bathsheba collected the flowers, and began plant-
ing them with that sympathetic manipulation of roots and leaves which is
so conspicuous in a woman's gardening, and which flowers seem to under-
stand and thrive upon. She requested Oak to get the churchwardens to
turn the leadwork at the mouth of the gurgoyle that hung gaping down u-
pon them, that by this means the stream might be directed sideways, and
a repetition of the accident prevented. Finally, with the superfluous
magnanimity of a woman whose narrower instincts have brought down bitter-
ness upon her instead of love, she wiped the mud spots from the tomb as
if she rather liked its words than otherwise, and went again home.








　　　Troy wandered along towards the south. A composite feeling, made
up of disgust with the, to him, humdrum tediousness of a farmer's life,
gloomy images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a general
averseness to his wife's society, impelled him to seek a home in any
place on earth save Weatherbury. The sad accessories of Fanny's end con-
fronted him as vivid pictures which threatened to be indelible, and made
life in Bathsheba's house intolerable. At three in the afternoon he
found himself at the foot of a slope more than a mile in length, which
ran to the ridge of a range of hills lying parallel with the shore, and
forming a monotonous barrier between the basin of cultivated country in-
land and the wilder scenery of the coast. Up the hill stretched a road
nearly straight and perfectly white, the two sides approaching each o-
ther in a gradual taper till they met the sky at the top about two miles
off. Throughout the length of this narrow and irksome inclined plane
not a sign of life was visible on this garish afternoon. Troy toiled up
the road with a languor and depression greater than any he had experi-
enced for many a day and year before. The air was warm and muggy, and
the top seemed to recede as he approached.
　　　At last he reached the summit, and a wide and novel prospect burst
upon him with an effect almost like that of the Pacific upon Balboa's
gaze. The broad steely sea, marked only by faint lines, which had a sem-
blance of being etched thereon to a degree not deep enough to disturb
its general evenness, stretched the whole width of his front and round
to the right, where, near the town and port of Budmouth, the sun bristl-
ed down upon it, and banished all colour, to substitute in its place a
clear oily polish. Nothing moved in sky, land, or sea, except a frill of
milkwhite foam along the nearer angles of the shore, shreds of which
licked the contiguous stones like tongues.
　　　He descended and came to a small basin of sea enclosed by the
cliffs. Troy's nature freshened within him; he thought he would rest
and bathe here before going farther. He undressed and plunged in. Inside
the cove the water was uninteresting to a swimmer, being smooth as a
pond, and to get a little of the ocean swell, Troy presently swam be-
tween the two projecting spurs of rock which formed the pillars of Her-
cules to this miniature Mediterranean. Unfortunately for Troy a current
unknown to him existed outside, which, unimportant to craft of any bur-
den, was awkward for a swimmer who might be taken in it unawares. Troy
found himself carried to the left and then round in a swoop out to sea.
　　　He now recollected the place and its sinister character. Many ba-
thers had there prayed for a dry death from time to time, and, like Gon-
zalo also, had been unanswered; and Troy began to deem it possible that
he might be added to their number. Not a boat of any kind was at present
within sight, but far in the distance Budmouth lay upon the sea, as it
were quietly regarding his efforts, and beside the town the harbour
showed its position by a dim meshwork of ropes and spars. After well-
nigh exhausting himself in attempts to get back to the mouth of the
cove, in his weakness swimming several inches deeper than was his wont,
keeping up his breathing entirely by his nostrils, turning upon his back
a dozen times over, swimming en papillon, and so on, Troy resolved as a
last resource to tread water at a slight incline, and so endeavour to
reach the shore at any point, merely giving himself a gentle impetus i-
nwards whilst carried on in the general direction of the tide. This,
necessarily a slow process, he found to be not altogether so difficult,
and though there was no choice of a landing-place—the objects on shore
passing by him in a sad and slow procession—he perceptibly approached
the extremity of a spit of land yet further to the right, now well de-
fined against the sunny portion of the horizon. While the swimmer's
eyes were fixed upon the spit as his only means of salvation on this
side of the Unknown, a moving object broke the outline of the extremity,
and immediately a ship's boat appeared manned with several sailor lads,
her bows towards the sea.
　　　All Troy's vigour spasmodically revived to prolong the struggle
yet a little further. Swimming with his right arm, he held up his left
to hail them, splashing upon the waves, and shouting with all his might.
From the position of the setting sun his white form was distinctly vis-
ible upon the now deep-hued bosom of the sea to the east of the boat,
and the men saw him at once. Backing their oars and putting the boat a-
bout, they pulled towards him with a will, and in five or six minutes
from the time of his first halloo, two of the sailors hauled him in o-
ver the stern.
　　　They formed part of a brig's crew, and had come ashore for sand.
Lending him what little clothing they could spare among them as a slight
protection against the rapidly cooling air, they agreed to land him in
the morning; and without further delay, for it was growing late, they
made again towards the roadstead where their vessel lay.
　　　And now night drooped slowly upon the wide watery levels in front;
and at no great distance from them, where the shoreline curved round,
and formed a long riband of shade upon the horizon, a series of points
of yellow light began to start into existence, denoting the spot to be
the site of Budmouth, where the lamps were being lighted along the par-
ade. The cluck of their oars was the only sound of any distinctness upon
the sea, and as they laboured amid the thickening shades the lamp-lights
grew larger, each appearing to send a flaming sword deep down into the
waves before it, until there arose, among other dim shapes of the kind,
the form of the vessel for which they were bound.








　　　Bathsheba underwent the enlargement of her husband's absence
from hours to days with a slight feeling of surprise, and a slight feeling
of relief; yet neither sensation rose at any time far above the level
commonly designated as indifference. She belonged to him: the certain-
ties of that position were so well defined, and the reasonable probabil-
ities of its issue so bounded that she could not speculate on contin-
gencies. Taking no further interest in herself as a splendid woman, she
acquired the indifferent feelings of an outsider in contemplating her
probable fate as a singular wretch; for Bathsheba drew herself and her
future in colours that no reality could exceed for darkness. Her origi-
nal vigorous pride of youth had sickened, and with it had declined all
her anxieties about coming years, since anxiety recognizes a better and
a worse alternative, and Bathsheba had made up her mind that alterna-
tives on any noteworthy scale had ceased for her. Soon, or later--and
that not very late--her husband would be home again. And then the days
of their tenancy of the Upper Farm would be numbered. There had origin-
ally been shown by the agent to the estate some distrust of Bathsheba's
tenure as James Everdene's successor, on the score of her sex, and her
youth, and her beauty; but the peculiar nature of her uncle's will, his
own frequent testimony before his death to her cleverness in such a pur-
suit, and her vigorous marshalling of the numerous flocks and herds
which came suddenly into her hands before negotiations were concluded,
had won confidence in her powers, and no further objections had been
raised. She had latterly been in great doubt as to what the legal ef-
fects of her marriage would be upon her position; but no notice had
been taken as yet of her change of name, and only one point was clear
--that in the event of her own or her husband's inability to meet the
agent at the forthcoming January rent-day, very little consideration
would be shown, and, for that matter, very little would be deserved.
Once out of the farm, the approach of poverty would be sure.
　　　Hence Bathsheba lived in a perception that her purposes were bro-
ken off. She was not a woman who could hope on without good materials
for the process, differing thus from the less far-sighted and energe-
tic, though more petted ones of the sex, with whom hope goes on as a
sort of clockwork which the merest food and shelter are sufficient to
wind up; and perceiving clearly that her mistake had been a fatal one,
she accepted her position, and waited coldly for the end.
　　　The first Saturday after Troy's departure she went to Caster-
bridge alone, a journey she had not before taken since her marriage.
On this Saturday Bathsheba was passing slowly on foot through the crowd
of rural business-men gathered as usual in front of the market-house,
who were as usual gazed upon by the burghers with feelings that those
healthy lives were dearly paid for by exclusion from possible alder-
manship, when a man, who had apparently been following her, said some
words to another on her left hand. Bathsheba's ears were keen as those
of any wild animal, and she distinctly heard what the speaker said,
though her back was towards him.
　　　“I am looking for Mrs. Troy. Is that she there?”
　　　“Yes; that's the young lady, I believe,” said the the person
addressed.
　　　“I have some awkward news to break to her. Her husband is
drowned.”
　　　As if endowed with the spirit of prophecy, Bathsheba gasped out,
“No, it is not true; it cannot be true!” Then she said and heard no
more. The ice of self-command which had latterly gathered over her
was broken, and the currents burst forth again, and overwhelmed her.
A darkness came into her eyes, and she fell.
　　　But not to the ground. A gloomy man, who had been observing her
from under the portico of the old corn-exchange when she passed
through the group without, stepped quickly to her side at the moment
of her exclamation, and caught her in his arms as she sank down.
　　　“What is it?” said Boldwood, looking up at the bringer of the
big news, as he supported her.
　　　“Her husband was drowned this week while bathing in Lulwind
Cove. A coastguardsman found his clothes, and brought them into Bud-
mouth yesterday.”
　　　Thereupon a strange fire lighted up Boldwood's eye, and his
face flushed with the suppressed excitement of an unutterable thought.
Everybody's glance was now centred upon him and the unconscious Bat-
hsheba. He lifted her bodily off the ground, and smoothed down the
folds of her dress as a child might have taken a storm-beaten bird
and arranged its ruffled plumes, and bore her along the pavement to
the King's Arms Inn. Here he passed with her under the archway into
a private room; and by the time he had deposited--so lothly--the pre-
cious burden upon a sofa, Bathsheba had opened her eyes. Remembering
all that had occurred, she murmured, “I want to go home!”
　　　Boldwood left the room. He stood for a moment in the passage to
recover his senses. The experience had been too much for his conscious-
ness to keep up with, and now that he had grasped it it had gone a-
gain. For those few heavenly, golden moments she had been in his arms.
What did it matter about her not knowing it? She had been close to
his breast; he had been close to hers.
　　　He started onward again, and sending a woman to her, went out
to ascertain all the facts of the case. These appeared to be limited
to what he had already heard. He then ordered her horse to be put
into the gig, and when all was ready returned to inform her. He found
that, though still pale and unwell, she had in the meantime sent for
the Budmouth man who brought the tidings, and learnt from him all
there was to know.
　　　Being hardly in a condition to drive home as she had driven to
town, Boldwood, with every delicacy of manner and feeling, offered to
get her a driver, or to give her a seat in his phaeton, which was more
comfortable than her own conveyance. These proposals Bathsheba gent-
ly declined, and the farmer at once departed.
　　　About half-an-hour later she invigorated herself by an effort,
and took her seat and the reins as usual--in external appearance much
as if nothing had happened. She went out of the town by a tortuous back
street, and drove slowly along, unconscious of the road and the scene.
The first shades of evening were showing themselves when Bathsheba
reached home, where, silently alighting and leaving the horse in the
hands of the boy, she proceeded at once upstairs. Liddy met her on the
landing. The news had preceded Bathsheba to Weatherbury by half-an-
hour, and Liddy looked inquiringly into her mistress's face. Bathsheba
had nothing to say.
　　　She entered her bedroom and sat by the window, and thought and
thought till night enveloped her, and the extreme lines only of her
shape were visible. Somebody came to the door, knocked, and opened it.
　　　“Well, what is it, Liddy?” she said.
　　　“I was thinking there must be something got for you to wear,”
said Liddy, with hesitation.
　　　“What do you mean?”
　　　“Mourning.”
　　　“No, no, no,” said Bathsheba, hurriedly.
　　　“But I suppose there must be something done for poor--”
　　　“Not at present, I think. It is not necessary.”
　　　“Why not, ma'am?”
　　　“Because he's still alive.”
　　　“How do you know that?” said Liddy, amazed.
　　　“I don't know it. But wouldn't it have been different, or shouldn't
I have heard more, or wouldn't they have found him, Liddy? --or--I
don't know how it is, but death would have been different from how
this is. I am perfectly convinced that he is still alive!”
　　　Bathsheba remained firm in this opinion till Monday, when two
circumstances conjoined to shake it. The first was a short paragraph
in the local newspaper, which, beyond making by a methodizing pen for-
midable presumptive evidence of Troy's death by drowning, contained
the important testimony of a young Mr. Barker, M.D., of Budmouth, who
spoke to being an eyewitness of the accident, in a letter to the edi-
tor. In this he stated that he was passing over the cliff on the re-
moter side of the cove just as the sun was setting. At that time he
saw a bather carried along in the current outside the mouth of the
cove, and guessed in an instant that there was but a poor chance for
him unless he should be possessed of unusual muscular powers. He
drifted behind a projection of the coast, and Mr. Barker followed a-
long the shore in the same direction. But by the time that he could
reach an elevation sufficiently great to command a view of the sea
beyond, dusk had set in, and nothing further was to be seen.
　　　The other circumstance was the arrival of his clothes, when it
became necessary for her to examine and identify them--though this
had virtually been done long before by those who inspected the let-
ters in his pockets. It was so evident to her in the midst of her a-
gitation that Troy had undressed in the full conviction of dressing
again almost immediately, that the notion that anything but death
could have prevented him was a perverse one to entertain.
　　　Then Bathsheba said to herself that others were assured in
their opinion; strange that she should not be. A strange reflection
occurred to her, causing her face to flush. Suppose that Troy had
followed Fanny into another world. Had he done this intentionally,
yet contrived to make his death appear like an accident? Neverthe-
less, this thought of how the apparent might differ from the real
--made vivid by her bygone jealousy of Fanny, and the remorse he
had shown that night--did not blind her to the perception of a like-
lier difference, less tragic, but to herself far more disastrous.
　　　When alone late that evening beside a small fire, and much
calmed down, Bathsheba took Troy's watch into her hand, which had
been restored to her with the rest of the articles belonging to him.
She opened the case as he had opened it before her a week ago.
There was the little coil of pale hair which had been as the fuze
to this great explosion.
　　　“He was hers and she was his; they should be gone together,”
she said. “I am nothing to either of them, and why should I keep
her hair?” She took it in her hand, and held it over the fire.
“No--I'll not burn it--I'll keep it in memory of her, poor thing!”
she added, snatching back her hand.








　　　The later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves lay
thick upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods. Bathsheba,
having previously been living in a state of suspended feeling which was
not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude which was not precisely
peacefulness. While she had known him to be alive she could have thought
of his death with equanimity; but now that it might be she had lost him,
she regretted that he was not hers still. She kept the farm going, raked
in her profits without caring keenly about them, and expended money on
ventures because she had done so in bygone days, which, though not long
gone by, seemed infinitely removed from her present. She looked back u-
pon that past over a great gulf, as if she were now a dead person, having
the faculty of meditation still left in her, by means of which, like the
mouldering gentlefolk of the poet's story, she could sit and ponder what
a gift life used to be.
　　　However, one excellent result of her general apathy was the long-
delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having virtually exercised
that function for a long time already, the change, beyond the substantial
increase of wages it brought, was little more than a nominal one address-
ed to the outside world.
　　　Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much of his wheat and all his
barley of that season had been spoilt by the rain. It sprouted, grew into
intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in armfuls. The
strange neglect which had produced this ruin and waste became the subject
of whispered talk among all the people round; and it was elicited from one
of Boldwood's men that forgetfulness had nothing to do with it, for he had
been reminded of the danger to his corn as many times and as persistently
as inferiors dared to do. The sight of the pigs turning in disgust from
the rotten ears seemed to arouse Boldwood, and he one evening sent for
Oak. Whether it was suggested by Bathsheba's recent act of promotion or
not, the farmer proposed at the interview that Gabriel should undertake
the superintendence of the Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba's, because
of the necessity Boldwood felt for such aid, and the impossibility of
discovering a more trustworthy man. Gabriel's malignant star was assur-
edly setting fast.
　　　Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal--for Oak was obliged to
consult her--at first languidly objected. She considered that the two
farms together were too extensive for the observation of one man. Bold-
wood, who was apparently determined by personal rather than commercial
reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with a horse for his sole
use, when the plan would present no difficulty, the two farms lying side
by side. Boldwood did not directly communicate with her during these nego-
tiations, only speaking to Oak, who was the go-between throughout. All was
harmoniously arranged at last, and we now see Oak mounted on a strong cob,
and daily trotting the length and breadth of about two thousand acres in
a cheerful spirit of surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him--
the actual mistress of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting
in their respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion.
　　　Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in
the parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest fast.
　　　“Whatever d'ye think,” said Susan Tall, “Gable Oak is coming it
quite the dand. He now wears shining boots with hardly a hob in 'em, two
or three times a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and 'a hardly knows the
name of smockfrock. When I see people strut enough to be cut up into ban-
tam cocks, I stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!”
　　　It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed wage by
Bathsheba independent of the fluctuations of agricultural profits, had made
an engagement with Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a share of the
receipts--a small share certainly, yet it was money of a higher quality
than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way that wages were not.
Some were beginning to consider Oak a “near” man, for though his condi-
tion had thus far improved, he lived in no better style than before, oc-
cupying the same cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending his stockings,
and sometimes even making his bed with his own hands. But as Oak was not
only provokingly indifferent to public opinion, but a man who clung persi-
stently to old habits and usages, simply because they were old, there was
room for doubt as to his motives.
　　　A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose unreasoning
devotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madness which
neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could weaken or des-
troy. This fevered hope had grown up again like a grain of mustard-seed
during the quiet which followed the hasty conjecture that Troy was drowned.
He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned the contemplation of it in
earnest, lest facts should reveal the wildness of the dream. Bathsheba hav-
ing at last been persuaded to wear mourning, her appearance as she entered
the church in that guise was in itself a weekly addition to his faith that
a time was coming--very far off perhaps, yet surely nearing--when his wait-
ing on events should have its reward. How long he might have to wait he had
not yet closely considered. What he would try to recognize was that the se-
vere schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathsheba much more con-
siderate than she had formerly been of the feelings of others, and he trust-
ed that, should she be willing at any time in the future to marry any man
at all, that man would be himself. There was a substratum of good feeling
in her: her self-reproach for the injury she had thoughtlessly done him
might be depended upon now to a much greater extent than before her infat-
uation and disappointment. It would be possible to approach her by the cha-
nnel of her good nature, and to suggest a friendly businesslike compact be-
tween them for fulfilment at some future day, keeping the passionate side
of his desire entirely out of her sight. Such was Boldwood's hope.
　　　To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionally
charming just now. Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; the original
phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright for human nature's
daily food, and she had been able to enter this second poetical phase with-
out losing much of the first in the process.
　　　Bathsheba's return from a two months' visit to her old aunt at Nor-
combe afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for inquiring
directly after her--now possibly in the ninth month of her widowhood--and
endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mind regarding him. This oc-
curred in the middle of the haymaking, and Boldwood 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 so
frankly to her.
　　　“I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence,” he con-
tinued, in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbour could
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, per-
haps.”
　　　“She do, sir. I've been with her all through her troubles, and was
with her at the time of Mr. Troy's going and all. And if she were to marry
again I expect I should bide with her.”
　　　“She promises that you shall--quite natural,” said the strategic
lover, throbbing throughout him at the presumption which Liddy's words ap-
peared to warrant--that his darling had thought of re-marriage.
　　　“No--she doesn't promise it exactly. I merely judge on my own ac-
count.”
　　　“Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to the possibility of
marrying again, you conclude--”
　　　“She never do allude to it, sir,” said Liddy, thinking how very
stupid Mr. Boldwood was getting.
　　　“Of course not,” he returned hastily, his hope falling again.
“You needn't take quite such long reaches with your rake, Lydia--short
and quick ones are best. Well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistress a-
gain now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up her freedom.”
　　　“My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that
she supposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from last
year, if she cared to risk Mr. Troy's coming back and claiming her.”
　　　“Ah, six years from the present time. Said that she might. She
might marry at once in every reasonable person's opinion, whatever the
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
here a minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says. I am now going on a
little farther. Good-afternoon.”
　　　He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this one
time in his life done anything which could be called underhand. Poor Bold-
wood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he was uneasy
with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and, what was worse,
mean. But he had, after all, lighted upon one fact by way of repayment.
It was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact, and though not without
its sadness it was pertinent and real. In little more than six years from
this time Bathsheba might certainly marry him. There was something defi-
nite in that hope, for admitting that there might have been no deep thought
in her words to Liddy about marriage, they showed at least her creed on
the matter.
　　　This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind. Six years
were a long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for
so long been obliged to endure! Jacob had served twice seven years for
Rachel: what were six for such a woman as this? He tried to like the no-
tion of waiting for her better than that of winning her at once. Boldwood
felt his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was possible
she had never yet known its full volume, and this patience in delay
would afford him an opportunity of giving sweet proof on the point. He
would annihilate the six years of his life as if they were minutes--so
little did he value his time on earth beside her love. He would let her
see, all those six years of intangible ethereal courtship, how little
care he had for anything but as it bore upon the consummation.
　　　Meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week in
which Greenhill Fair was held. This fair was frequently attended by the
folk of Weatherbury.







　　　Greenhill was the Nijni Novgorod of South Wessex; and the busiest,
merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of the
sheep fair. This yearly gathering was upon the summit of a hill which
retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient earthwork, con-
sisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval form encircling
the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here and there. To each
of the two chief openings on opposite sides a winding road ascended,
and the level green space of ten or fifteen acres enclosed by the bank
was the site of the fair. A few permanent erections dotted the spot, but
the majority of visitors patronized canvas alone for resting and feed-
ing under during the time of their sojourn here.
　　　Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances
started from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair,
driving their charges a few miles each day--not more than ten or twelve
--and resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previous-
ly chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. The shep-
herd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit for the
week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook, which he
used as the staff of his pilgrimage. Several of the sheep would get
worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the road. To meet
these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to accompany the
flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into which the weakly
ones were taken for the remainder of the journey.
　　　The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance from
the hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case. But
the large united flocks of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a valu-
able and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and on this
account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood's shepherd and Cain Ball, ac-
companied them along the way, through the decayed old town of Kingsbere,
and upward to the plateau,--old George the dog of course behind them.
　　　When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and light-
ed the dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of dust were to be seen
floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect
around in all directions. These gradually converged upon the base of
the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the ser-
pentine ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession, they en-
tered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after multitude,
horned and hornless--blue flocks and red flocks, buff flocks and brown
flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks, according to the fancy of
the colourist and custom of the farm. Men were shouting, dogs were bark-
ing, with greatest animation, but the thronging travellers in so long a
journey had grown nearly indifferent to such terrors, though they still
bleated piteously at the unwontedness of their experiences, a tall shep-
herd rising here and there in the midst of them, like a gigantic idol
amid a crowd of prostrate devotees.　　　
　　　The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs and
the old Wessex horned breeds; to the latter class Bathsheba's and Farmer
Boldwood's mainly belonged. These filed in about nine o'clock, their
vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in
geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling un-
der each horn. Before and behind came other varieties, perfect leo-
pards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only lacking
the spots. There were also a few of the Oxfordshire breed, whose wool
was beginning to curl like a child's flaxen hair, though surpassed in
this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in turn less
curly than the Cotswolds. But the most picturesque by far was a small
flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there this year. Their pied
faces and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool hanging round
their swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony of the flocks in
that quarter.
　　　All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered and
were penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging to
each flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it. Alleys
for pedestrians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with
buyers and sellers from far and near.
　　　In another part of the hill an altogether different scene began
to force itself upon the eye towards midday. A circular tent, of ex-
ceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here. As the
day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the shep-
herd's responsibilities; and they turned their attention to this tent
and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed concentrated
on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going on.
　　　“The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin's Ride to York
and the Death of Black Bess,” replied the man promptly, without turn-
ing his eyes or leaving off tying.
　　　As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly
stimulating harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Black
Bess standing in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living
proof, if proof were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances
from the stage over which the people were to enter. These were so
convinced by such genuine appeals to heart and understanding both
that they soon began to crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being
visible Jan Coggan and Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday keeping here
to-day.
　　　“That's the great ruffen pushing me!” screamed a woman in
front of Jan over her shoulder at him when the rush was at its fierc-
est.
　　　“How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?”
said Coggan, in a deprecating tone, turning his head towards the a-
foresaid folk as far as he could without turning his body, which was
jammed as in a vice.
　　　There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent
forth their echoing notes. The crowd was again ecstasied, and gave
another lurch in which Coggan and Poorgrass were again thrust by
those behind upon the women in front.
　　　“Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such ruf-
fens!” exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed like a
reed shaken by the wind.
　　　“Now,” said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the pub-
lic at large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades, “did
ye ever hear such onreasonable woman as that? Upon my carcase, neigh-
bours, if I could only get out of this cheese-wring, the damn women
might eat the show for me!”
　　　“Don't ye lose yer temper, Jan!” implored Joseph Poorgrass,
in a whisper. “They might get their men to murder us, for I think by
the shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form of womankind.”
　　　Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified
to please a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder,
Poorgrass being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for
admission, which he had got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become
so reeking hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the wo-
man in spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with chalk-
ed face and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily dropped it
again from a fear that some trick had been played to burn her fingers.
So they all entered, and the cloth of the tent, to the eyes of an ob-
server on the outside, became bulged into innumerable pimples such as
we observe on a sack of potatoes, caused by the various human heads,
backs, and elbows at high pressure within.
　　　At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents.
One of these, alloted to the male performers, was partitioned into
halves by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on the
grass, pulling on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we instantly
recognise as Sergeant Troy.
　　　Troy's appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for.
The brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads was about to start
on a voyage, though somewhat short of hands. Troy read the articles and
joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the bay to
Lulwind cove; as he had half expected, his clothes were gone. He ulti-
mately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a precar-
ious living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword Exercise,
Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give him a dis-
taste for this kind of life. There was a certain animal form of refine-
ment in his nature; and however pleasant a strange condition might be
whilst privations were easily warded off, it was disadvantageously coarse
when money was short. There was ever present, too, the idea that he
could claim a home and its comforts did he but chose to return to Eng-
land and Weatherbury Farm. Whether Bathsheba thought him dead was a fre-
quent subject of curious conjecture. To England he did return at last;
but the fact of drawing nearer to Weatherbury abstracted its fascina-
tions, and his intention to enter his old groove at the place became
modified. It was with gloom he considered on landing at Liverpool that
if he were to go home his reception would be of a kind very unpleasant
to contemplate; for what Troy had in the way of emotion was an occasi-
onal fitful sentiment which sometimes caused him as much inconvenience
as emotion of a strong and healthy kind. Bathsheba was not a woman to
be made a fool of, or a woman to suffer in silence; and how could he en-
dure existence with a spirited wife to whom at first entering he would
be beholden for food and lodging? Moreover, it was not at all unlikely
that his wife would fail at her farming, if she had not already done so;
and he would then become liable for her maintenance: and what a life
such a future of poverty with her would be, the spectre of Fanny con-
stantly between them, harrowing his temper and embittering her words!
Thus, for reasons touching on distaste, regret, and shame commingled,
he put off his return from day to day, and would have decided to put it
off altogether if he could have found anywhere else the ready-made esta-
blishment which existed for him there.
　　　At this time--the July preceding the September in which we find
at Greenhill Fair--he fell in with a travelling circus which was per-
forming in the outskirts of a northern town. Troy introduced himself
to the manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe, hitting a sus-
pended apple with a pistol-bullet fired from the animal's back when in
full gallop, and other feats. For his merits in these--all more or less
based upon his experiences as a dragoon-guardsman--Troy was taken into
the company, and the play of Turpin was prepared with a view to his
personation of the chief character. Troy was not greatly elated by the
appreciative spirit in which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought
the engagement might afford him a few weeks for consideration. It was
thus carelessly, and without having formed any definite plan for the
future, that Troy found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the
company on this day.
　　　And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pav-
ilion the following incident had taken place. Bathsheba--who was driv-
en to the fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass--had, like every one
else, read or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great Cos-
mopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of Turpin,
and she was not yet too old and careworn to be without a little curio-
sity to see him. This particular show was by far the largest and
grandest in the fair, a horde of little shows grouping themselves un-
der its shade like chickens around a hen. The crowd had passed in,
and Boldwood, who had been watching all the day for an opportunity of
speaking to her, seeing her comparatively isolated, came up to her side.
　　　“I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?” he said,
nervously.
　　　“Oh yes, thank you,” said Bathsheba, colour springing up in
the centre of her cheeks. “I was fortunate enough to sell them all
just as we got upon the hill, so we hadn't to pen at all.”
　　　“And now you are entirely at leisure?”
　　　“Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two hours'
time: otherwise I should be going home. He was looking at this large
tent and the announcement. Have you ever seen the play of ‘Turpin's
Ride to York'? Turpin was a real man, was he not?”
　　　“Oh yes, perfectly true--all of it. Indeed, I think I've heard
Jan Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King, Turpin's friend,
quite well.”
　　　“Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his
relations, we must remember. I hope they can all be believed.”
　　　“Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You have
never seen it played, I suppose?”
　　　“Never. I was not allowed to go into these places when I was
young. Hark! What's that prancing? How they shout!”
　　　“Black Bess just started off, I suppose. Am I right in suppos-
ing you would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy? Please excuse
my mistake, if it is one; but if you would like to, I'll get a seat
for you with pleasure.” Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, “I
myself shall not stay to see it: I've seen it before.”
　　　Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only
withheld her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone.
She had been hoping that Oak might appear, whose assistance in such
cases was always accepted as an inalienable right, but Oak was no-
where to be seen; and hence it was that she said, “Then if you will
just look in first, to see if there's room, I think I will go in for
a minute or two.”
　　　And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the tent
with Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a “reserved” seat,
again withdrew.
　　　This feature consisted of one raised bench in a very conspic-
uous part of the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a
piece of carpet, and Bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion,
that she was the single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of
the crowded spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the
borders of the arena, where they got twice as good a view of the per-
formance for half the money. Hence as many eyes were turned upon
her, enthroned alone in this place of honour, against a scarlet back-
ground, as upon the ponies and clown who were engaged in preliminary
exploits in the centre, Turpin not having yet appeared. Once there,
Bathsheba was forced to make the best of it and remain: she sat down,
spreading her skirts with some dignity over the unoccupied space on
each side of her, and giving a new and feminine aspect to the pavil-
ion. In a few minutes she noticed the fat red nape of Coggan's neck
among those standing just below her, and Joseph Poorgrass's saintly
profile a little further on.
　　　The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. The strange lum-
inous semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified
into Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through
holes and divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust across
the dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they a-
lighted on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like little
lamps suspended there.
　　　Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a
reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before
him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament. He started back
in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually concealed
his personality, he instantly felt that she would be sure to recognize
his voice. He had several times during the day thought of the possi-
bility of some Weatherbury person or other appearing and recognizing
him; but he had taken the risk carelessly. If they see me, let them,
he had said. But here was Bathsheba in her own person; and the real-
ity of the scene was so much intenser than any of his prefigurings
that he felt he had not half enough considered the point.
　　　She looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about Wea-
therbury people was changed. He had not expected her to exercise
this power over him in the twinkling of an eye. Should he go on, and
care nothing? He could not bring himself to do that. Beyond a poli-
tic wish to remain unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense
of shame at the possibility that his attractive young wife, who al-
ready despised him, should despise him more by discovering him in so
mean a condition after so long a time. He actually blushed at the
thought, and was vexed beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike
towards Weatherbury should have led him to dally about the country
in this way.
　　　But Troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his
wit's end. He hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his own lit-
tle dressing space from that of the manager and proprietor, who now
appeared as the individual called Tom King as far down as his waist,
and as the aforesaid respectable manager thence to his toes.
　　　“Here's the devil to pay!” said Troy.
　　　“How's that?”
　　　“Why, there's a blackguard creditor in the tent I don't want
to see, who'll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I open my
mouth. What's to be done?”
　　　“You must appear now, I think.”
　　　“I can't.”
　　　“But the play must proceed.”
　　　“Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can't
speak his part, but that he'll perform it just the same without speak-
ing.”
　　　The proprietor shook his head.
　　　“Anyhow, play or no play, I won't open my mouth,” said Troy,
firmly.
　　　“Very well, then let me see. I tell you how we'll manage,”
said the other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to of-
fend his leading man just at this time. “I won't tell 'em anything
about your keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, do-
ing what you can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomita-
ble nods in the heroic places, you know. They'll never find out that
the speeches are omitted.”
　　　This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin's speeches were not many
or long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and
accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time Black Bess leapt
into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators. At the turn-
pike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by the
officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled nightcap denies
that any horseman has passed, Coggan uttered a broad-chested “Well
done!” which could be heard all over the fair above the bleating, and
Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast be-
tween our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in the
form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be
let through. At the death of Tom King, he could not refrain from seizing
Coggan by the hand, and whispering, with tears in his eyes, “Of course
he's not really shot, Jan--only seemingly!” And when the last sad scene
came on, and the body of the gallant and faithful Bess had to be carried
out on a shutter by twelve volunteers from among the spectators, nothing
could restrain Poorgrass from lending a hand, exclaiming, as he asked
Jan to join him, “'Twill be something to tell of at Warren's in future
years, Jan, and hand down to our children.” For many a year in Weather-
bury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who had had experiences in his
time, that he touched with his own hand the hoof of Bess as she lay upon
the board upon his shoulder. If, as some thinkers hold, immortality con-
sists in being enshrined in others' memories, then did Black Bess become
immortal that day if she never had done so before.
　　　Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for
the character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though he
had felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis effected by
judiciously “lining” his face with a wire rendered him safe from the
eyes of Bathsheba and her men. Nevertheless, he was relieved when it
was got through.
　　　There was a second performance in the evening, and the tent was
lighted up. Troy had taken his part very quietly this time, venturing to
introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just concluding it when,
whilst standing at the edge of the circle contiguous to the first row of
spectators, he observed within a yard of him the eye of a man darted
keenly into his side features. Troy hastily shifted his position, after
having recognized in the scrutineer the knavish bailiff Pennyways, his
wife's sworn enemy, who still hung about the outskirts of Weatherbury.
　　　At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances.
That he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet there
was room for a doubt. Then the great objection he had felt to allowing
news of his proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the event of his
return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present occupation
would discredit him still further in his wife's eyes, returned in full
force. Moreover, should he resolve not to return at all, a tale of his
being alive and being in the neighbourhood would be awkward; and he was
anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife's temporal affairs before
deciding which to do.
　　　In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre. It occurred
to him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible,
would be a very wise act. He had put on a thick beard borrowed from the
establishment, and in this he wandered about the fair-field. It was now
almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts and gigs
ready to go home.
　　　The largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an inn-
keeper from a neighbouring town. This was considered an unexceptionable
place for obtaining the necessary food and rest: Host Trencher (as he
was jauntily called by the local newspaper) being a substantial man of
high repute for catering through all the country round. The tent was
divided into first and second-class compartments, and at the end of the
first-class division was a yet further enclosure for the most exclusive,
fenced off from the body of the tent by a luncheon-bar, behind which
the host himself stood bustling about in white apron and shirt-sleeves,
and looking as if he had never lived anywhere but under canvas all his
life. In these penetralia were chairs and a table, which, on candles be-
ing lighted, made quite a cozy and luxurious show, with an urn, plated
tea and coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes.
　　　Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was
frying pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a penny
a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within. He could see
nothing of Pennyways, but he soon discerned Bathsheba through an opening
into the reserved space at the further end. Troy thereupon retreated,
went round the tent into the darkness, and listened. He could hear Bath-
sheba's voice immediately inside the canvas; she was conversing with a
man. A warmth overspread his face: surely she was not so unprincipled
as to flirt in a fair! He wondered if, then, she reckoned upon his death
as an absolute certainty. To get at the root of the matter, Troy took a
penknife from his pocket and softly made two little cuts crosswise in
the cloth, which, by folding back the corners left a hole the size of
a wafer. Close to this he placed his face, withdrawing it again in a
movement of surprise; for his eye had been within twelve inches of the
top of Bathsheba's head. It was too near to be convenient. He made ano-
ther hole a little to one side and lower down, in a shaded place beside
her chair, from which it was easy and safe to survey her by looking hor-
izontally.
　　　Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sip-
ping a cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male
voice was Boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her,
Bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the canvas
that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was, in fact,
as good as in Troy's arms; and he was obliged to keep his breast care-
fully backward that she might not feel its warmth through the cloth as
he gazed in.
　　　Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again with-
in him as they had been stirred earlier in the day. She was handsome as
ever, and she was his. It was some minutes before he could counteract
his sudden wish to go in, and claim her. Then he thought how the proud
girl who had always looked down upon him even whilst it was to love him,
would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling player. Were he to
make himself known, that chapter of his life must at all risks be kept
for ever from her and from the Weatherbury people, or his name would be
a byword throughout the parish. He would be nicknamed “Turpin” as
long as he lived. Assuredly before he could claim her these few past
months of his existence must be entirely blotted out.
　　　“Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma'am?” said Far-
mer Boldwood.
　　　“Thank you,” said Bathsheba. “But I must be going at once. It
was great neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late. I
should have gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him. I had no i-
dea of coming in here; but there's nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea,
though I should never have got one if you hadn't helped me.”
　　　Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched
each varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her
little ear. She took out her purse and was insisting to Boldwood on pay-
ing for her tea for herself, when at this moment Pennyways entered the
tent. Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability endangered
at once. He was about to leave his hole of espial, attempt to follow Pen-
nyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had recognized him, when he was
arrested by the conversation, and found he was too late.
　　　“Excuse me, ma'am,” said Pennyways; “I've some private inform-
ation for your ear alone.”
　　　“I cannot hear it now,” she said, coldly. That Bathsheba could
not endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to
her with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at the
expense of persons maligned.
　　　“I'll write it down,” said Pennyways, confidently. He stooped o-
ver the table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon
the paper, in a round hand--
　　　“Your husband is here. I've seen him. Who's the fool now?”
　　　This he folded small, and handed towards her. Bathsheba would not
read it; she would not even put out her hand to take it. Pennyways, then,
with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning away, left her.
　　　From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had not
been able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment's doubt that
the note referred to him. Nothing that he could think of could be done
to check the exposure. “Curse my luck!” he whispered, and added impre-
cations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind. Meanwhile Bold-
wood said, taking up the note from her lap--
　　　“Don't you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy? If not, I'll destroy it.”
　　　“Oh, well,” said Bathsheba, carelessly, “perhaps it is unjust
not to read it; but I can guess what it is about. He wants me to recom-
mend him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected
with my work-people. He's always doing that.”
　　　Bathsheba held the note in her right hand. Boldwood handed towards
her a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order to take a slice, she
put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding the purse,
and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to the canvas. The mo-
ment had come for saving his game, and Troy impulsively felt that he would
play the card. For yet another time he looked at the fair hand, and saw
the pink finger-tips, and the blue veins of the wrist, encircled by a
bracelet of coral chippings which she wore: how familiar it all was to
him! Then, with the lightning action in which he was such an adept, he
noiselessly slipped his hand under the bottom of the tent-cloth, which
was far from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a little way, keeping
his eye to the hole, snatched the note from her fingers, dropped the can-
vas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank and ditch, smiling at the
scream of astonishment which burst from her. Troy then slid down on the
outside of the rampart, hastened round in the bottom of the entrenchment
to a distance of a hundred yards, ascended again, and crossed boldly in a
slow walk towards the front entrance of the tent. His object was now to
get to Pennyways, and prevent a repetition of the announcement until such
time as he should choose.
　　　Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there ga-
thered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishing to make him-
self prominent by inquiring for him. One or two men were speaking of a
daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young lady by lifting the
canvas of the tent beside her. It was supposed that the rogue had imagined
a slip of paper which she held in her hand to be a bank note, for he had
seized it, and made off with it, leaving her purse behind. His chagrin
and disappointment at discovering its worthlessness would be a good joke,
it was said. However, the occurrence seemed to have become known to few,
for it had not interrupted a fiddler, who had lately begun playing by the
door of the tent, nor the four bowed old men with grim countenances and
walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing “Major Malley's Reel” to the
tune. Behind these stood Pennyways. Troy glided up to him, beckoned, and
whispered a few words; and with a mutual glance of concurrence the two men
went into the night together.








　　　The arrangement for getting back again to Weatherbury had been that
Oak should take the place of Poorgrass in Bathsheba's conveyance and drive
her home, it being discovered late in the afternoon that Joseph was suf-
fering from his old complaint, a multiplying eye, and was, therefore, hard-
ly trustworthy as coachman and protector to a woman. But Oak had found
himself so occupied, and was full of so many cares relative to those por-
tions of Boldwood's flocks that were not disposed of, that Bathsheba,
without telling Oak or anybody, resolved to drive home herself, as she
had many times done from Casterbridge Market, and trust to her good angel
for performing the journey unmolested. But having fallen in with Farmer
Boldwood accidentally (on her part at least) at the refreshment-tent,
she found it impossible to refuse his offer to ride on horseback beside
her as escort. It had grown twilight before she was aware, but Boldwood
assured her that there was no cause for uneasiness, as the moon would be
up in half-an-hour.
　　　Immediately after the incident in the tent, she had risen to go--
now absolutely alarmed and really grateful for her old lover's protect-
ion--though regretting Gabriel's absence, whose company she would have
much preferred, as being more proper as well as more pleasant, since he
was her own managing-man and servant. This, however, could not be help-
ed; she would not, on any consideration, treat Boldwood harshly, having
once already ill-used him, and the moon having risen, and the gig being
ready, she drove across the hilltop in the wending way's which led down-
wards--to oblivious obscurity, as it seemed, for the moon and the hill
it flooded with light were in appearance on a level, the rest of the
world lying as a vast shady concave between them. Boldwood mounted his
horse, and followed in close attendance behind. Thus they descended into
the lowlands, and the sounds of those left on the hill came like voices
from the sky, and the lights were as those of a camp in heaven. They
soon passed the merry stragglers in the immediate vicinity of the hill,
traversed Kingsbere, and got upon the high road.
　　　The keen instincts of Bathsheba had perceived that the farmer's
staunch devotion to herself was still undiminished, and she sympathized
deeply. The sight had quite depressed her this evening; had reminded her
of her folly; she wished anew, as she had wished many months ago, for
some means of making reparation for her fault. Hence her pity for the
man who so persistently loved on to his own injury and permanent gloom
had betrayed Bathsheba into an injudicious considerateness of manner,
which appeared almost like tenderness, and gave new vigour to the ex-
quisite dream of a Jacob's seven years service in poor Boldwood's mind.
　　　He soon found an excuse for advancing from his position in the
rear, and rode close by her side. They had gone two or three miles in
the moonlight, speaking desultorily across the wheel of her gig con-
cerning the fair, farming, Oak's usefulness to them both, and other in-
different subjects, when Boldwood said suddenly and simply--
　　　“Mrs. Troy, you will marry again some day?”
　　　This point-blank query unmistakably confused her, and it was not
till a minute or more had elapsed that she said, “I have not serious-
ly thought of any such subject.”
　　　“I quite understand that. Yet your late husband has been dead
nearly one year, and--”
　　　“You forget that his death was never absolutely proved, and may
not have taken place; so that I may not be really a widow,” she said,
catching at the straw of escape that the fact afforded.
　　　“Not absolutely proved, perhaps, but it was proved circumstant-
ially. A man saw him drowning, too. No reasonable person has any doubt
of his death; nor have you, ma'am, I should imagine.”
　　　“I have none now, or I should have acted differently,” she
said, gently. “I certainly, at first, had a strange unaccountable
feeling that he could not have perished, but I have been able to ex-
plain that in several ways since. But though I am fully persuaded that
I shall see him no more, I am far from thinking of marriage with an-
other. I should be very contemptible to indulge in such a thought.”
　　　They were silent now awhile, and having struck into an unfre-
quented track across a common, the creaks of Boldwood's saddle and her
gig springs were all the sounds to be heard. Boldwood ended the pause.
　　　“Do you remember when I carried you fainting in my arms into
the King's Arms, in Casterbridge? Every dog has his day: that was mine.”
　　　“I know--I know it all,” she said, hurriedly.
　　　“I, for one, shall never cease regretting that events so fell
out as to deny you to me.”
　　　“I, too, am very sorry,” she said, and then checked herself.
“I mean, you know, I am sorry you thought I--”
　　　“I have always this dreary pleasure in thinking over those past
times with you--that I was something to you before he was anything,
and that you belonged almost to me. But, of course, that's nothing.
You never liked me.”
　　　“I did; and respected you, too.”
　　　“Do you now?”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“Which?”
　　　“How do you mean which?”
　　　“Do you like me, or do you respect me?”
　　　“I don't know--at least, I cannot tell you. It is difficult for
a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by
men to express theirs. My treatment of you was thoughtless, inexcus-
able, wicked! I shall eternally regret it. If there had been anything
I could have done to make amends I would most gladly have done it--
there was nothing on earth I so longed to do as to repair the error.
But that was not possible.”
　　　“Don't blame yourself--you were not so far in the wrong as you
suppose. Bathsheba, suppose you had real complete proof that you are
what, in fact, you are--a widow--would you repair the old wrong to me
by marrying me?”
　　　“I cannot say. I shouldn't yet, at any rate.”
　　　“But you might at some future time of your life?”
　　　“Oh yes, I might at some time.”
　　　“Well, then, do you know that without further proof of any
kind you may marry again in about six years from the present--subject
to nobody's objection or blame?”
　　　“Oh yes,” she said, quickly. “I know all that. But don't talk of it
--seven or six years--where may we all be by that time?”
　　　“They will soon glide by, and it will seem an astonishingly short
time to look back upon when they are past--much less than to
look forward to now.”
　　　“Yes, yes; I have found that in my own experience.”
　　　“Now listen once more,” Boldwood pleaded. “If I wait that time,
will you marry me? You own that you owe me amends--let that be your
way of making them.”
　　　“But, Mr. Boldwood--six years--”
　　　“Do you want to be the wife of any other man?”
　　　“No indeed! I mean, that I don't like to talk about this matter
now. Perhaps it is not proper, and I ought not to allow it. Let us drop
it. My husband may be living, as I said.”
　　　“Of course, I'll drop the subject if you wish. But propriety has
nothing to do with reasons. I am a middle-aged man, willing to protect you
for the remainder of our lives. On your side, at least, there is no pas-
sion or blamable haste--on mine, perhaps, there is. But I can't help see-
ing that if you choose from a feeling of pity, and, as you say, a wish to
make amends, to make a bargain with me for a far-ahead time--an agreement
which will set all things right and make me happy, late though it may be
--there is no fault to be found with you as a woman. Hadn't I the first
place beside you? Haven't you been almost mine once already? Surely you
can say to me as much as this, you will have me back again should circum-
stances permit? Now, pray speak! O Bathsheba, promise--it is only a little
promise--that if you marry again, you will marry me!”
　　　His tone was so excited that she almost feared him at this moment,
even whilst she sympathized. It was a simple physical fear--the weak of
the strong; there was no emotional aversion or inner repugnance. She said,
with some distress in her voice, for she remembered vividly his outburst
on the Yalbury Road, and shrank from a repetition of his anger:--
　　　“I will never marry another man whilst you wish me to be your wife,
whatever comes--but to say more--you have taken me so by surprise--”
　　　“But let it stand in these simple words--that in six years' time
you will be my wife? Unexpected accidents we'll not mention, because those,
of course, must be given way to. Now, this time I know you will keep your
word.”
　　　“That's why I hesitate to give it.”
　　　“But do give it! Remember the past, and be kind.”
　　　She breathed; and then said mournfully: “Oh what shall I do? I don't
love you, and I much fear that I never shall love you as much as a woman
ought to love a husband. If you, sir, know that, and I can yet give you
happiness by a mere promise to marry at the end of six years, if my hus-
band should not come back, it is a great honour to me. And if you value
such an act of friendship from a woman who doesn't esteem herself as she
did, and has little love left, why I--I will--”
　　　“Promise!”
　　　“--Consider, if I cannot promise soon.”
　　　“But soon is perhaps never?”
　　　“Oh no, it is not! I mean soon. Christmas, we'll say.”
　　　“Christmas!” He said nothing further till he added: “Well, I'll
say no more to you about it till that time.”
　　　Bathsheba was in a very peculiar state of mind, which showed how en-
tirely the soul is the slave of the body, the ethereal spirit dependent for
its quality upon the tangible flesh and blood. It is hardly too much to say
that she felt coerced by a force stronger than her own will, not only into
the act of promising upon this singularly remote and vague matter, but into
the emotion of fancying that she ought to promise. When the weeks interven-
ing between the night of this conversation and Christmas day began percept-
ibly to diminish, her anxiety and perplexity increased.
　　　One day she was led by an accident into an oddly confidential dialogue
with Gabriel about her difficulty. It afforded her a little relief--of a dull
and cheerless kind. They were auditing accounts, and something occurred in
the course of their labours which led Oak to say, speaking of Boldwood,
“He'll never forget you, ma'am, never.”
　　　Then out came her trouble before she was aware; and she told him how
she had again got into the toils; what Boldwood had asked her, and how he was
expecting her assent. “The most mournful reason of all for my agreeing to
it,” she said sadly, “and the true reason why I think to do so for good or
for evil, is this--it is a thing I have not breathed to a living soul as yet
--I believe that if I don't give my word, he'll go out of his mind.”
　　　“Really, do ye?” said Gabriel, gravely.
　　　“I believe this,” she continued, with reckless frankness; “and Hea-
ven knows I say it in a spirit the very reverse of vain, for I am grieved and
troubled to my soul about it--I believe I hold that man's future in my hand.
His career depends entirely upon my treatment of him. O Gabriel, I tremble at
my responsibility, for it is terrible!”
　　　“Well, I think this much, ma'am, as I told you years ago,” said Oak,
“that his life is a total blank whenever he isn't hoping for 'ee; but I can't
suppose--I hope that nothing so dreadful hangs on to it as you fancy. His nat-
ural manner has always been dark and strange, you know. But since the case is
so sad and odd-like, why don't ye give the conditional promise? I think I
would.”
　　　“But is it right? Some rash acts of my past life have taught me that a
watched woman must have very much circumspection to retain only a very little
credit, and I do want and long to be discreet in this! And six years--why we
may all be in our graves by that time, even if Mr. Troy does not come back a-
gain, which he may not impossibly do! Such thoughts give a sort of absurdity
to the scheme. Now, isn't it preposterous, Gabriel? However he came to dream
of it, I cannot think. But is it wrong? You know--you are older than I.”
　　　“Eight years older, ma'am.”
　　　“Yes, eight years--and is it wrong?”
　　　“Perhaps it would be an uncommon agreement for a man and woman to
make: I don't see anything really wrong about it,” said Oak, slowly. “In
fact the very thing that makes it doubtful if you ought to marry en under
any condition, that is, your not caring about him--for I may suppose--”
　　　“Yes, you may suppose that love is wanting,” she said shortly.
“Love is an utterly bygone, sorry, worn-out, miserable thing with me--for
him or any one else.”
　　　“Well, your want of love seems to me the one thing that takes away
harm from such an agreement with him. If wild heat had to do wi' it, making
ye long to over-come the awkwardness about your husband's vanishing, it mid
be wrong; but a cold-hearted agreement to oblige a man seems different, some-
how. The real sin, ma'am in my mind, lies in thinking of ever wedding wi' a
man you don't love honest and true.”
　　　“That I'm willing to pay the penalty of,” said Bathsheba, firmly.
“You know, Gabriel, this is what I cannot get off my conscience--that I once
seriously injured him in sheer idleness. If I had never played a trick upon
him, he would never have wanted to marry me. Oh if I could only pay some heavy
damages in money to him for the harm I did, and so get the sin off my soul
that way!... Well, there's the debt, which can only be discharged in one way,
and I believe I am bound to do it if it honestly lies in my power, without any
consideration of my own future at all. When a rake gambles away his expecta-
tions, the fact that it is an inconvenient debt doesn't make him the less li-
able. I've been a rake, and the single point I ask you is, considering that
my own scruples, and the fact that in the eye of the law my husband is only
missing, will keep any man from marrying me until seven years have passed--
am I free to entertain such an idea, even though 'tis a sort of penance--for
it will be that? I hate the act of marriage under such circumstances, and
the class of women I should seem to belong to by doing it!”
　　　“It seems to me that all depends upon whe'r you think, as everybody
else do, that your husband is dead.”
　　　“Yes--I've long ceased to doubt that. I well know what would have
brought him back long before this time if he had lived.”
　　　“Well, then, in a religious sense you will be as free to think o'
marrying again as any real widow of one year's standing. But why don't ye
ask Mr. Thirdly's advice on how to treat Mr. Boldwood?”
　　　“No. When I want a broad-minded opinion for general enlightenment,
distinct from special advice, I never go to a man who deals in the subject
professionally. So I like the parson's opinion on law, the lawyer's on doc-
toring, the doctor's on business, and my business-man's--that is, yours--
on morals.”
　　　“And on love--”
　　　“My own.”
　　　“I'm afraid there's a hitch in that argument,” said Oak, with a grave
smile.
　　　She did not reply at once, and then saying, “Good evening, Mr. Oak,”
went away.
　　　She had spoken frankly, and neither asked nor expected any reply from
Gabriel more satisfactory than that she had obtained. Yet in the centremost
parts of her complicated heart there existed at this minute a little pang of
disappointment, for a reason she would not allow herself to recognize. Oak
had not once wished her free that he might marry her himself--had not once
said, “I could wait for you as well as he.” That was the insect sting. Not
that she would have listened to any such hypothesis. O no--for wasn't
she saying all the time that such thoughts of the future were improper, and
wasn't Gabriel far too poor a man to speak sentiment to her? Yet he might
have just hinted about that old love of his, and asked, in a playful off-
hand way, if he might speak of it. It would have seemed pretty and sweet,
if no more; and then she would have shown how kind and inoffensive a woman's
“No” can sometimes be. But to give such cool advice--the very advice she
had asked for--it ruffled our heroine all the afternoon.








I


　　　Christmas-eve came, and a party that Boldwood was to give in the eve-
ning was the great subject of talk in Weatherbury. It was not that the rar-
ity of Christmas parties in the parish made this one a wonder, but that
Boldwood should be the giver. The announcement had had an abnormal and in-
congruous sound, as if one should hear of croquet-playing in a cathedral
aisle, or that some much-respected judge was going upon the stage. That
the party was intended to be a truly jovial one there was no room for
doubt. A large bough of mistletoe had been brought from the woods that
day, and suspended in the hall of the bachelor's home. Holly and ivy had
followed in armfuls. From six that morning till past noon the huge wood
fire in the kitchen roared and sparkled at its highest, the kettle, the
saucepan, and the three-legged pot appearing in the midst of the flames
like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego; moreover, roasting and basting op-
erations were continually carried on in front of the genial blaze.
　　　As it grew later the fire was made up in the large long hall into
which the staircase descended, and all encumbrances were cleared out for
dancing. The log which was to form the back-brand of the evening fire was
the uncleft trunk of a tree, so unwieldy that it could be neither brought
nor rolled to its place; and accordingly two men were to be observed drag-
ging and heaving it in by chains and levers as the hour of assembly drew
near.
　　　In spite of all this, the spirit of revelry was wanting in the at-
mosphere of the house. Such a thing had never been attempted before by
its owner, and it was now done as by a wrench. Intended gaieties would
insist upon appearing like solemn grandeurs, the organization of the
whole effort was carried out coldly, by hirelings, and a shadow seemed
to move about the rooms, saying that the proceedings were unnatural to
the place and the lone man who lived therein, and hence not good.


II


　　　Bathsheba was at this time in her room, dressing for the event. She
had called for candles, and Liddy entered and placed one on each side of
her mistress's glass.
　　　“Don't go away, Liddy,” said Bathsheba, almost timidly. “I am
foolishly agitated--I cannot tell why. I wish I had not been obliged to
go to this dance; but there's no escaping now. I have not spoken to Mr.
Boldwood since the autumn, when I promised to see him at Christmas on
business, but I had no idea there was to be anything of this kind.”
　　　“But I would go now,” said Liddy, who was going with her; for
Boldwood had been indiscriminate in his invitations.
　　　“Yes, I shall make my appearance, of course,” said Bathsheba.
“But I am the cause of the party, and that upsets me!--Don't tell,
Liddy.”
　　　“Oh no, ma'am. You the cause of it, ma'am?”
　　　“Yes. I am the reason of the party--I. If it had not been for me,
there would never have been one. I can't explain any more--there's no
more to be explained. I wish I had never seen Weatherbury.”
　　　“That's wicked of you--to wish to be worse off than you are.”
　　　“No, Liddy. I have never been free from trouble since I have liv-
ed here, and this party is likely to bring me more. Now, fetch my black
silk dress, and see how it sits upon me.”
　　　“But you will leave off that, surely, ma'am? You have been a wid-
ow-lady fourteen months, and ought to brighten up a little on such a
night as this.”
　　　“Is it necessary? No; I will appear as usual, for if I were to
wear any light dress people would say things about me, and I should seem
to be rejoicing when I am solemn all the time. The party doesn't suit me
a bit; but never mind, stay and help to finish me off.”


III


　　　Boldwood was dressing also at this hour. A tailor from Caster-
bridge was with him, assisting him in the operation of trying on a new
coat that had just been brought home.
　　　Never had Boldwood been so fastidious, unreasonable about the fit,
and generally difficult to please. The tailor walked round and round
him, tugged at the waist, pulled the sleeve, pressed out the collar, and
for the first time in his experience Boldwood was not bored. Times had
been when the farmer had exclaimed against all such niceties as child-
ish, but now no philosophic or hasty rebuke whatever was provoked by
this man for attaching as much importance to a crease in the coat as to
an earthquake in South America. Boldwood at last expressed himself near-
ly satisfied, and paid the bill, the tailor passing out of the door just
as Oak came in to report progress for the day.
　　　“Oh, Oak,” said Boldwood. “I shall of course see you here to-
night. Make yourself merry. I am determined that neither expense nor
trouble shall be spared.”
　　　“I'll try to be here, sir, though perhaps it may not be very ear-
ly,” said Gabriel, quietly. “I am glad indeed to see such a change in
'ee from what it used to be.”
　　　“Yes--I must own it--I am bright to-night: cheerful and more than
cheerful--so much so that I am almost sad again with the sense that all
of it is passing away. And sometimes, when I am excessively hopeful and
blithe, a trouble is looming in the distance: so that I often get to
look upon gloom in me with content, and to fear a happy mood. Still this
may be absurd--I feel that it is absurd. Perhaps my day is dawning at
last.”
　　　“I hope it 'ill be a long and a fair one.”
　　　“Thank you--thank you. Yet perhaps my cheerfulness rests on a
slender hope. And yet I trust my hope. It is faith, not hope. I think
this time I reckon with my host.--Oak, my hands are a little shaky, or
something; I can't tie this neckerchief properly. Perhaps you will tie
it for me. The fact is, I have not been well lately, you know.”
　　　“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”
　　　“Oh, it's nothing. I want it done as well as you can, please. Is
there any late knot in fashion, Oak?”
　　　“I don't know, sir,” said Oak. His tone had sunk to sadness.
　　　Boldwood approached Gabriel, and as Oak tied the neckerchief the
farmer went on feverishly--
　　　“Does a woman keep her promise, Gabriel?”
　　　“If it is not inconvenient to her she may.”
　　　“--Or rather an implied promise.”
　　　“I won't answer for her implying,” said Oak, with faint bitter-
ness. “That's a word as full o' holes as a sieve with them.”
　　　“Oak, don't talk like that. You have got quite cynical lately--
how is it? We seem to have shifted our positions: I have become the
young and hopeful man, and you the old and unbelieving one. However,
does a woman keep a promise, not to marry, but to enter on an engagement
to marry at some time? Now you know women better than I--tell me.”
　　　“I am afeard you honour my understanding too much. However, she
may keep such a promise, if it is made with an honest meaning to repair
a wrong.”
　　　“It has not gone far yet, but I think it will soon--yes, I know
it will,” he said, in an impulsive whisper. “I have pressed her upon
the subject, and she inclines to be kind to me, and to think of me as
a husband at a long future time, and that's enough for me. How can I
expect more? She has a notion that a woman should not marry within se-
ven years of her husband's disappearance--that her own self shouldn't,
I mean--because his body was not found. It may be merely this legal
reason which influences her, or it may be a religious one, but she is
reluctant to talk on the point. Yet she has promised--implied--that
she will ratify an engagement to-night.”
　　　“Seven years,” murmured Oak.
　　　“No, no--it's no such thing!” he said, with impatience. “Five
years, nine months, and a few days. Fifteen months nearly
have passed since he vanished, and is there anything so wonderful in
an engagement of little more than five years?”
　　　“It seems long in a forward view. Don't build too much upon
such promises, sir. Remember, you have once be'n deceived. Her mean-
ing may be good; but there--she's young yet.”
　　　“Deceived? Never!” said Boldwood, vehemently. “She never pro-
mised me at that first time, and hence she did not break her promise!
If she promises me, she'll marry me. Bathsheba is a woman to her word.”


IV


　　　Troy was sitting in a corner of The White Hart tavern at Cast-
erbridge, smoking and drinking a steaming mixture from a glass. A
knock was given at the door, and Pennyways entered.
　　　“Well, have you seen him?” Troy inquired, pointing to a chair.
　　　“Boldwood?”
　　　“No--Lawyer Long.”
　　　“He wadn' at home. I went there first, too.”
　　　“That's a nuisance.”
　　　“'Tis rather, I suppose.”
　　　“Yet I don't see that, because a man appears to be drowned and
was not, he should be liable for anything. I shan't ask any lawyer--
not I.”
　　　“But that's not it, exactly. If a man changes his name and so
forth, and takes steps to deceive the world and his own wife, he's a
cheat, and that in the eye of the law is ayless a rogue, and that is
ayless a lammocken vagabond; and that's a punishable situation.”
　　　“Ha-ha! Well done, Pennyways,” Troy had laughed, but it was
with some anxiety that he said, “Now, what I want to know is this, do
you think there's really anything going on between her and Boldwood? U-
pon my soul, I should never have believed it! How she must detest me!
Have you found out whether she has encouraged him?”
　　　“I haen't been able to learn. There's a deal of feeling on his
side seemingly, but I don't answer for her. I didn't know a word about
any such thing till yesterday, and all I heard then was that she was
gwine to the party at his house to-night. This is the first time she
has ever gone there, they say. And they say that she've not so much as
spoke to him since they were at Greenhill Fair: but what can folk be-
lieve o't? However, she's not fond of him--quite offish and quite care-
less, I know.”
　　　“I'm not so sure of that.... She's a handsome woman, Pennyways,
is she not? Own that you never saw a finer or more splendid creature
in your life. Upon my honour, when I set eyes upon her that day I won-
dered what I could have been made of to be able to leave her by herself
so long. And then I was hampered with that bothering show, which I'm
free of at last, thank the stars.” He smoked on awhile, and then added,
“How did she look when you passed by yesterday?”
　　　“Oh, she took no great heed of me, ye may well fancy; but she
looked well enough, far's I know. Just flashed her haughty eyes upon
my poor scram body, and then let them go past me to what was yond, much
as if I'd been no more than a leafless tree. She had just got off her
mare to look at the last wring-down of cider for the year; she had been
riding, and so her colours were up and her breath rather quick, so that
her bosom plimmed and fell--plimmed and fell--every time plain to my
eye. Ay, and there were the fellers round her wringing down the cheese
and bustling about and saying, ‘Ware o' the pommy, ma'am: 'twill spoil
yer gown.' ‘Never mind me,' says she. Then Gabe brought her some of
the new cider, and she must needs go drinking it through a strawmote,
and not in a nateral way at all. ‘Liddy,' says she, ‘bring indoors a
few gallons, and I'll make some cider-wine.' Sergeant, I was no more
to her than a morsel of scroff in the fuel-house!”
　　　“I must go and find her out at once--O yes, I see that--I must
go. Oak is head man still, isn't he?”
　　　“Yes, 'a b'lieve. And at Little Weatherbury Farm too. He manag-
es everything.”
　　　“'Twill puzzle him to manage her, or any other man of his com-
pass!”
　　　“I don't know about that. She can't do without him, and knowing
it well he's pretty independent. And she've a few soft corners to her
mind, though I've never been able to get into one, the devil's in't!”
　　　“Ah, baily, she's a notch above you, and you must own it: a high-
er class of animal--a finer tissue. However, stick to me, and neither
this haughty goddess, dashing piece of womanhood, Juno-wife of mine
(Juno was a goddess, you know), nor anybody else shall hurt you. But
all this wants looking into, I perceive. What with one thing and ano-
ther, I see that my work is well cut out for me.”


V


　　　“How do I look to-night, Liddy?” said Bathsheba, giving a fin-
al adjustment to her dress before leaving the glass.
　　　“I never saw you look so well before. Yes--I'll tell you when
you looked like it--that night, a year and a half ago, when you came
in so wildlike, and scolded us for making remarks about you and Mr.
Troy.”
　　　“Everybody will think that I am setting myself to captivate Mr.
Boldwood, I suppose,” she murmured. “At least they'll say so. Can't
my hair be brushed down a little flatter? I dread going--yet I dread
the risk of wounding him by staying away.”
　　　“Anyhow, ma'am, you can't well be dressed plainer than you are,
unless you go in sackcloth at once. 'Tis your excitement is what makes
you look so noticeable to-night.”
　　　“I don't know what's the matter, I feel wretched at one time,
and buoyant at another. I wish I could have continued quite alone as
I have been for the last year or so, with no hopes and no fears, and
no pleasure and no grief.”
　　　“Now just suppose Mr. Boldwood should ask you--only just suppose
it--to run away with him, what would you do, ma'am?”
　　　“Liddy--none of that,” said Bathsheba, gravely. “Mind, I won't
hear joking on any such matter. Do you hear?”
　　　“I beg pardon, ma'am. But knowing what rum things we women be,
I just said--however, I won't speak of it again.”
　　　“No marrying for me yet for many a year; if ever, 'twill be
for reasons very, very different from those you think, or others will
believe! Now get my cloak, for it is time to go.”


VI


　　　“Oak,” said Boldwood, “before you go I want to mention what
has been passing in my mind lately--that little arrangement we made
about your share in the farm I mean. That share is small, too small,
considering how little I attend to business now, and how much time and
thought you give to it. Well, since the world is brightening for me,
I want to show my sense of it by increasing your proportion in the
partnership. I'll make a memorandum of the arrangement which struck
me as likely to be convenient, for I haven't time to talk about it
now; and then we'll discuss it at our leisure. My intention is ulti-
mately to retire from the management altogether, and until you can
take all the expenditure upon your shoulders, I'll be a sleeping par-
tner in the stock. Then, if I marry her--and I hope--I feel I shall,
why--”
　　　“Pray don't speak of it, sir,” said Oak, hastily. “We don't know
what may happen. So many upsets may befall 'ee. There's many a
slip, as they say--and I would advise you--I know you'll pardon me
this once--not to be too sure.”
　　　“I know, I know. But the feeling I have about increasing your
share is on account of what I know of you. Oak, I have learnt a lit-
tle about your secret: your interest in her is more than that of bail-
iff for an employer. But you have behaved like a man, and I, as a
sort of successful rival--successful partly through your goodness of
heart--should like definitely to show my sense of your friendship un-
der what must have been a great pain to you.”
　　　“O that's not necessary, thank 'ee,” said Oak, hurriedly.
“I must get used to such as that; other men have, and so shall I.”
　　　Oak then left him. He was uneasy on Boldwood's account, for he
saw anew that this constant passion of the farmer made him not the
man he once had been.
　　　As Boldwood continued awhile in his room alone--ready and dress-
ed to receive his company--the mood of anxiety about his appearance
seemed to pass away, and to be succeeded by a deep solemnity. He
looked out of the window, and regarded the dim outline of the trees
upon the sky, and the twilight deepening to darkness.
　　　Then he went to a locked closet, and took from a locked drawer
therein a small circular case the size of a pillbox, and was about
to put it into his pocket. But he lingered to open the cover and
take a momentary glance inside. It contained a woman's finger-ring,
set all the way round with small diamonds, and from its appearance
had evidently been recently purchased. Boldwood's eyes dwelt upon its
many sparkles a long time, though that its material aspect concerned
him little was plain from his manner and mien, which were those of
a mind following out the presumed thread of that jewel's future his-
tory.
　　　The noise of wheels at the front of the house became audible.
Boldwood closed the box, stowed it away carefully in his pocket, and
went out upon the landing. The old man who was his indoor factotum
came at the same moment to the foot of the stairs.
　　　“They be coming, sir--lots of 'em--a-foot and a-driving!”
　　　“I was coming down this moment. Those wheels I heard--is it
Mrs. Troy?”
　　　“No, sir--'tis not she yet.”
　　　A reserved and sombre expression had returned to Boldwood's
face again, but it poorly cloaked his feelings when he pronounced
Bathsheba's name; and his feverish anxiety continued to show its ex-
istence by a galloping motion of his fingers upon the side of his
thigh as he went down the stairs.


VII


　　　“How does this cover me?” said Troy to Pennyways. “Nobody
would recognize me now, I'm sure.”
　　　He was buttoning on a heavy grey overcoat of Noachian cut, with
cape and high collar, the latter being erect and rigid, like a girdl-
ing wall, and nearly reaching to the verge of a travelling cap which
was pulled down over his ears.
　　　Pennyways snuffed the candle, and then looked up and deliber-
ately inspected Troy.
　　　“You've made up your mind to go then?” he said.
　　　“Made up my mind? Yes; of course I have.”
　　　“Why not write to her? 'Tis a very queer corner that you have
got into, sergeant. You see all these things will come to light if
you go back, and they won't sound well at all. Faith, if I was you
I'd even bide as you be--a single man of the name of Francis. A good
wife is good, but the best wife is not so good as no wife at all. Now
that's my outspoke mind, and I've been called a long-headed feller
here and there.”
　　　“All nonsense!” said Troy, angrily. “There she is with plen-
ty of money, and a house and farm, and horses, and comfort, and here
am I living from hand to mouth--a needy adventurer. Besides, it is no
use talking now; it is too late, and I am glad of it; I've been seen
and recognized here this very afternoon. I should have gone back to
her the day after the fair, if it hadn't been for you talking about
the law, and rubbish about getting a separation; and I don't put it
off any longer. What the deuce put it into my head to run away at all,
I can't think! Humbugging sentiment--that's what it was. But what man
on earth was to know that his wife would be in such a hurry to get
rid of his name!”
　　　“I should have known it. She's bad enough for anything.”
　　　“Pennyways, mind who you are talking to.”
　　　“Well, sergeant, all I say is this, that if I were you I'd go
abroad again where I came from--'tisn't too late to do it now. I
wouldn't stir up the business and get a bad name for the sake of liv-
ing with her--for all that about your play-acting is sure to come out,
you know, although you think otherwise. My eyes and limbs, there'll
be a racket if you go back just now--in the middle of Boldwood's Christ-
masing!”
　　　“H'm, yes. I expect I shall not be a very welcome guest if he
has her there,” said the sergeant, with a slight laugh. “A sort of
Alonzo the Brave; and when I go in the guests will sit in silence
and fear, and all laughter and pleasure will be hushed, and the
lights in the chamber burn blue, and the worms--Ugh, horrible!--Ring
for some more brandy, Pennyways, I felt an awful shudder just then!
Well, what is there besides? A stick--I must have a walking-stick.”
　　　Pennyways now felt himself to be in something of a difficulty,
for should Bathsheba and Troy become reconciled it would be necess-
ary to regain her good opinion if he would secure the patronage of
her husband. “I sometimes think she likes you yet, and is a good wo-
man at bottom,” he said, as a saving sentence. “But there's no tell-
ing to a certainty from a body's outside. Well, you'll do as you like
about going, of course, sergeant, and as for me, I'll do as you tell
me.”
　　　“Now, let me see what the time is,” said Troy, after empty-
ing his glass in one draught as he stood. “Half-past six o'clock.
I shall not hurry along the road, and shall be there then before nine.”








　　　Outside the front of Boldwood's house a group of men stood in the
dark, with their faces towards the door, which occasionally opened and
closed for the passage of some guest or servant, when a golden rod of
light would stripe the ground for the moment and vanish again, leaving
nothing outside but the glowworm shine of the pale lamp amid the ever-
greens over the door.
　　　“He was seen in Casterbridge this afternoon--so the boy said,”
one of them remarked in a whisper. “And I for one believe it. His body
was never found, you know.”
　　　“'Tis a strange story,” said the next. “You may depend upon't
that she knows nothing about it.”
　　　“Not a word.”
　　　“Perhaps he don't mean that she shall,” said another man.
　　　“If he's alive and here in the neighbourhood, he means mischief,”
said the first. “Poor young thing: I do pity her, if 'tis true. He'll
drag her to the dogs.”
　　　“O no; he'll settle down quiet enough,” said one disposed to
take a more hopeful view of the case.
　　　“What a fool she must have been ever to have had anything to do
with the man! She is so self-willed and independent too, that one is
more minded to say it serves her right than pity her.”
　　　“No, no. I don't hold with 'ee there. She was no otherwise than
a girl mind, and how could she tell what the man was made of? If 'tis
really true, 'tis too hard a punishment, and more than she ought to hae.
--Hullo, who's that?” This was to some footsteps that were heard ap-
proaching.
　　　“William Smallbury,” said a dim figure in the shades, coming up
and joining them. “Dark as a hedge, to-night, isn't it? I all but miss-
ed the plank over the river ath'art there in the bottom--never did such
a thing before in my life. Be ye any of Boldwood's workfolk?” He peer-
ed into their faces.
　　　“Yes--all o' us. We met here a few minutes ago.”
　　　“Oh, I hear now--that's Sam Samway: thought I knowed the voice,
too. Going in?”
　　　“Presently. But I say, William,” Samway whispered, “have ye
heard this strange tale?”
　　　“What--that about Sergeant Troy being seen, d'ye mean, souls?”
said Smallbury, also lowering his voice.
　　　“Ay: in Casterbridge.”
　　　“Yes, I have. Laban Tall named a hint of it to me but now--but I
don't think it. Hark, here Laban comes himself, 'a b'lieve.” A foot-
step drew near.
　　　“Laban?”
　　　“Yes, 'tis I,” said Tall.
　　　“Have ye heard any more about that?”
　　　“No,” said Tall, joining the group. “And I'm inclined to think
we'd better keep quiet. If so be 'tis not true, 'twill flurry her, and
do her much harm to repeat it; and if so be 'tis true, 'twill do no
good to forestall her time o' trouble. God send that it mid be a lie,
for though Henery Fray and some of 'em do speak against her, she's never
been anything but fair to me. She's hot and hasty, but she's a brave
girl who'll never tell a lie however much the truth may harm her, and
I've no cause to wish her evil.”
　　　“She never do tell women's little lies, that's true; and 'tis a
thing that can be said of very few. Ay, all the harm she thinks she says
to yer face: there's nothing underhand wi' her.”
　　　They stood silent then, every man busied with his own thoughts,
during which interval sounds of merriment could be heard within. Then the
front door again opened, the rays streamed out, the well-known form of
Boldwood was seen in the rectangular area of light, the door closed, and
Boldwood walked slowly down the path.
　　　“'Tis master,” one of the men whispered, as he neared them.
“We'd better stand quiet--he'll go in again directly. He would think it
unseemly o' us to be loitering here.”
　　　Boldwood came on, and passed by the men without seeing them, they
being under the bushes on the grass. He paused, leant over the gate, and
breathed a long breath. They heard low words come from him.
　　　“I hope to God she'll come, or this night will be nothing but mis-
ery to me! Oh my darling, my darling, why do you keep me in suspense like
this?”
　　　He said this to himself, and they all distinctly heard it. Boldwood
remained silent after that, and the noise from indoors was again just aud-
ible, until, a few minutes later, light wheels could be distinguished com-
ing down the hill. They drew nearer, and ceased at the gate. Boldwood hast-
ened back to the door, and opened it; and the light shone upon Bathsheba
coming up the path.
　　　Boldwood compressed his emotion to mere welcome: the men marked her
light laugh and apology as she met him: he took her into the house; and
the door closed again.
　　　“Gracious heaven, I didn't know it was like that with him!” said
one of the men. “I thought that fancy of his was over long ago.”
　　　“You don't know much of master, if you thought that,” said Samway.
　　　“I wouldn't he should know we heard what 'a said for the world,”
remarked a third.
　　　“I wish we had told of the report at once,” the first uneasily con-
tinued. “More harm may come of this than we know of. Poor Mr. Boldwood,
it will be hard upon en. I wish Troy was in--Well, God forgive me for
such a wish! A scoundrel to play a poor wife such tricks. Nothing has
prospered in Weatherbury since he came here. And now I've no heart to go
in. Let's look into Warren's for a few minutes first, shall us, neighbours?”
　　　Samway, Tall, and Smallbury agreed to go to Warren's, and went out
at the gate, the remaining ones entering the house. The three soon drew
near the malt-house, approaching it from the adjoining orchard, and not
by way of the street. The pane of glass was illuminated as usual. Small-
bury was a little in advance of the rest when, pausing, he turned suddenly
to his companions and said, “Hist! See there.”
　　　The light from the pane was now perceived to be shining not upon the
ivied wall as usual, but upon some object close to the glass. It was a hu-
man face.
　　　“Let's come closer,” whispered Samway; and they approached on tip-
toe. There was no disbelieving the report any longer. Troy's face was al-
most close to the pane, and he was looking in. Not only was he looking in,
but he appeared to have been arrested by a conversation which was in pro-
gress in the malt-house, the voices of the interlocutors being those of Oak
and the maltster.
　　　“The spree is all in her honour, isn't it--hey?” said the old man.
“Although he made believe 'tis only keeping up o' Christmas?”
　　　“I cannot say,” replied Oak.
　　　“Oh 'tis true enough, faith. I cannot understand Farmer Boldwood
being such a fool at his time of life as to ho and hanker after this woman
in the way 'a do, and she not care a bit about en.”
　　　The men, after recognizing Troy's features, withdrew across the or-
chard as quietly as they had come. The air was big with Bathsheba's for-
tunes to-night: every word everywhere concerned her. When they were quite
out of earshot all by one instinct paused.
　　　“It gave me quite a turn--his face,” said Tall, breathing.
　　　“And so it did me,” said Samway. “What's to be done?”
　　　“I don't see that 'tis any business of ours,” Smallbury murmured
dubiously.
　　　“But it is! 'Tis a thing which is everybody's business,” said
Samway. “We know very well that master's on a wrong tack, and that she's
quite in the dark, and we should let 'em know at once. Laban, you know
her best--you'd better go and ask to speak to her.”
　　　“I bain't fit for any such thing,” said Laban, nervously. “I
should think William ought to do it if anybody. He's oldest.”
　　　“I shall have nothing to do with it,” said Smallbury. “'Tis a
ticklish business altogether. Why, he'll go on to her himself in a few
minutes, ye'll see.”
　　　“We don't know that he will. Come, Laban.”
　　　“Very well, if I must I must, I suppose,” Tall reluctantly an-
swered. “What must I say?”
　　　“Just ask to see master.”
　　　“Oh no; I shan't speak to Mr. Boldwood. If I tell anybody, 'twill
be mistress.”
　　　“Very well,” said Samway.
　　　Laban then went to the door. When he opened it the hum of bustle
rolled out as a wave upon a still strand--the assemblage being immedi-
ately inside the hall--and was deadened to a murmur as he closed it a-
gain. Each man waited intently, and looked around at the dark tree tops
gently rocking against the sky and occasionally shivering in a slight
wind, as if he took interest in the scene, which neither did. One of
them began walking up and down, and then came to where he started from
and stopped again, with a sense that walking was a thing not worth do-
ing now.
　　　“I should think Laban must have seen mistress by this time,”
said Smallbury, breaking the silence. “Perhaps she won't come and speak
to him.”
　　　The door opened. Tall appeared, and joined them.
　　　“Well?” said both.
　　　“I didn't like to ask for her after all,” Laban faltered out.
“They were all in such a stir, trying to put a little spirit into the
party. Somehow the fun seems to hang fire, though everything's there
that a heart can desire, and I couldn't for my soul interfere and throw
damp upon it--if 'twas to save my life, I couldn't!”
　　　“I suppose we had better all go in together,” said Samway,
gloomily. “Perhaps I may have a chance of saying a word to master.”
　　　So the men entered the hall, which was the room selected and ar-
ranged 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 mid-
dle course of staying for about an hour only, and gliding off unobserv-
ed, having from the first made up her mind that she could on no account
dance, sing, or take any active part in the proceedings.
　　　Her allotted hour having been passed in chatting and looking on,
Bathsheba told Liddy not to hurry herself, and went to the small parlour
to prepare for departure, which, like the hall, was decorated with hol-
ly 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 be-
yond 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 percep-
tion that it might have been adopted by blunt flattery to soothe and win
her.
　　　However, it had not much effect now, for she said, in a passion-
less murmur which was in itself a proof of her words: “I have no feel-
ing in the matter at all. And I don't at all know what is right to do
in my difficult 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?”
　　　“Oh, I don't know, pray let me go!” she said, her bosom begin-
ning to rise. “I am afraid what to do! I want to be just to you, and
to be that seems to be wronging myself, and perhaps it is breaking the
commandments. There is 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, in-
deed 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, be-
lieve me, dear, I did not mean to distress you; I was in agony, Bathshe-
ba, 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 know-
ing what I have felt for you, and sometimes I am distressed that all of
it you never will know. Be gracious, and give up a little to me, when I
would give up my life for you!”
　　　The trimmings of her dress, as they quivered against the light,
showed how agitated she was, and at last she burst out crying. “And
you'll not--press me--about anything more--if I say in five or six years?”
she sobbed, when she had power to frame the words.
　　　“Yes, then I'll leave it to time.”
　　　She waited a moment. “Very well. I'll marry you in six years from
this day, if we both live,” she said solemnly.
　　　“And you'll take this as a token from me.”
　　　Boldwood had come close to her side, and now he clasped one of her
hands in both his own, and lifted it to his breast.
　　　“What is it? Oh I cannot wear a ring!” she exclaimed, on seeing
what he held; “besides, I wouldn't have a soul know that it's an en-
gagement! Perhaps it is improper? Besides, we are not engaged in the u-
sual 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 handker-
chief, 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 convers-
ed in whispers, and with clouded looks. Boldwood was standing by the fire-
place, and he, too, though so absorbed in visions arising from her promise
that he scarcely saw anything, seemed at that moment to have observed
their peculiar manner, and their looks askance.
　　　“What is it you are in doubt about, men?” he said.
　　　One of them turned and replied uneasily: “It was something Laban
heard of, that's all, sir.”
　　　“News? Anybody married or engaged, born or dead?” inquired the
farmer, gaily. “Tell it to us, Tall. One would think from your looks and
mysterious ways that it was something very dreadful indeed.”
　　　“Oh no, sir, nobody is dead,” said Tall.
　　　“I wish somebody was,” said Samway, in a whisper.
　　　“What do you say, Samway?” asked Boldwood, somewhat sharply. “If
you have anything to say, speak out; if not, get up another dance.”
　　　“Mrs. Troy has come downstairs,” said Samway to Tall. “If you
want to tell her, you had better do it now.”
　　　“Do you know what they mean?” the farmer asked Bathsheba, across
the room.
　　　“I don't in the least,” said Bathsheba.
　　　There was a smart rapping at the door. One of the men opened it in-
stantly, 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 i-
rony 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 wretchedness at this time
was beyond all fancy or narration. She had sunk down on the lowest stair;
and there she sat, her mouth blue and dry, and her dark eyes fixed vacantly
upon him, as if she wondered whether it were not all a terrible illusion.
　　　Then Troy spoke. “Bathsheba, I come here for you!”
　　　She made no reply.
　　　“Come home with me: come!”
　　　Bathsheba moved her feet a little, but did not rise. Troy went across
to her.
　　“Come, madam, do you hear what I say?” he said, peremptorily.
　　　A strange voice came from the fireplace--a voice sounding far off
and confined, as if from a dungeon. Hardly a soul in the assembly recogniz-
ed the thin tones to be those of Boldwood. Sudden despair had transformed
him.
　　 “Bathsheba, go with your husband!”
　　“Nevertheless, she did not move. The truth was that Bathsheba was be-
yond 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 towards him, when she quick-
ly 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 whe-
ther 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, con-
structed 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 swol-
len, 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 ex-
tension--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.








　　　Boldwood passed into the high road and turned in the direction of
Casterbridge. Here he walked at an even, steady pace over Yalbury Hill, a-
long the dead level beyond, mounted Mellstock Hill, and between eleven and
twelve o'clock crossed the Moor into the town. The streets were nearly des-
erted 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 pass-
ed 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 enabling the
wretched traveller to find a bell-pull.
　　　The small wicket at last opened, and a porter appeared. Boldwood step-
ped forward, and said something in a low tone, when, after a delay, another
man came. Boldwood entered, and the door was closed behind him, and he walk-
ed the world no more.
　　　Long before this time Weatherbury had been thoroughly aroused, and
the wild deed which had terminated Boldwood's merrymaking became known to
all. Of those out of the house Oak was one of the first to hear of the cat-
astrophe, and when he entered the room, which was about five minutes after
Boldwood's exit, the scene was terrible. All the female guests were huddled
aghast against the walls like sheep in a storm, and the men were bewildered
as to what to do. As for Bathsheba, she had changed. She was sitting on the
floor beside the body of Troy, his head pillowed in her lap, where she had
herself lifted it. With one hand she held her handkerchief to his breast
and covered the wound, though scarcely a single drop of blood had flowed,
and with the other she tightly clasped one of his. The household convulsion
had made her herself again. The temporary coma had ceased, and activity had
come with the necessity for it. Deeds of endurance, which seem ordinary in
philosophy, are rare in conduct, and Bathsheba was astonishing all around
her now, for her philosophy was her conduct, and she seldom thought pract-
icable 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 well-known lines remained to tell him it was hers,
all else in the picture having faded quite. “Ride to Casterbridge instant-
ly 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 set-
ting the distorted images in each mind present into proper focus. Oak, al-
most 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 him-
self in the house. What had become of Boldwood? He should have been look-
ed 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 ef-
fect 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 super-
imposed. However, it was too late now to think of sending another messen-
ger, and he rode on, in the excitement of these self-inquiries not dis-
cerning, when about three miles from Casterbridge, a square-figured ped-
estrian passing along under the dark hedge in the same direction as his
own.
　　　The miles necessary to be traversed, and other hindrances incident-
al 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 pass-
ed between the time at which the shot was fired and that of his entering
the house. Oak was additionally detained in Casterbridge through having
to give notice to the authorities of what had happened; and he then
found that Boldwood had also entered the town, and delivered himself up.
　　　In the meantime the surgeon, having hastened into the hall at Bold-
wood'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 in-
formant.
　　　“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 mis-
tress has done it all.”
　　　“Where is she?”
　　　“Upstairs with him, sir. When he was brought home and taken up-
stairs, 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 bet-
ter 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 any-
body 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 up-
stairs together, preceded by Liddy Smallbury. Everything was silent as
the grave when they paused on the landing. Liddy knocked, and Bath-
sheba'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 rig-
id, 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 pass-
ed 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 attend-
ance which had been useless in Troy's case was invaluable in Bathshe-
ba'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 bul-
letins that nothing really dreadful was to be apprehended on her score,
left the house. Liddy kept watch in Bathsheba's chamber, where she
heard her mistress, moaning in whispers through the dull slow hours
of that wretched night: “Oh it is my fault--how can I live! O Heaven,
how can I live!”








　　　We pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day with-
out sunshine, frost, or dew. On Yalbury Hill, about midway between Wea-
therbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over the
crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of the
greater number being frequently stretched afar in a northerly direction.
The groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of javelin-men,
and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one of which con-
tained 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 proceeded towards the town, excepting the Weath-
erbury 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 Cog-
gan, 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, “'Jus-
tice 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 fat-
al 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 derangement which Bathsheba
and Oak, alone of all others and at different times, had momentarily
suspected. In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary col-
lection 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 qual-
ity and manufacture. These things had been bought in Bath and other
towns from time to time, and brought home by stealth. They were all
carefully packed in paper, and each package was labelled “Bathsheba
Boldwood,” a date being subjoined six years in advance in every in-
stance.
　　　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 Casterbridge with tidings of the sentence. He came
in the afternoon, and his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told
the tale sufficiently well. Boldwood, as every one supposed he would
do, had pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death.
　　　The conviction that Boldwood had not been morally responsible
for his later acts now became general. Facts elicited previous to
the trial had pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had
not been of sufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination
into the state of Boldwood's mind. It was astonishing, now that a
presumption of insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances
were remembered to which a condition of mental disease seemed to af-
ford 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 reconsider-
ation of the sentence. It was not “numerously signed” by the in-
habitants of Casterbridge, as is usual in such cases, for Boldwood
had never made many friends over the counter. The shops thought it
very natural that a man who, by importing direct from the producer,
had daringly set aside the first great principle of provincial ex-
istence, 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 con-
sidered the facts latterly unearthed, and the result was that evi-
dence was taken which it was hoped might remove the crime in a moral
point of view, out of the category of wilful murder, and lead it to
be regarded as a sheer outcome of madness.
　　　The upshot of the petition was waited for in Weatherbury with so-
licitous 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 Gabri-
el came from Casterbridge Gaol, whither he had been to wish Boldwood
good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the town. When past the
last house he heard a hammering, and lifting his bowed head he looked
back for a moment. Over the chimneys he could see the upper part of the
gaol entrance, rich and glowing in the afternoon sun, and some moving
figures were there. They were carpenters lifting a post into a vertical
position within the parapet. He withdrew his eyes quickly, and hastened
on.
　　　It was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to
meet him.
　　　“No tidings,” Gabriel said, wearily. “And I'm afraid there's
no hope. I've been with him more than two hours.”
　　　“Do ye think he really was out of his mind when he did it?”
said Smallbury.
　　　“I can't honestly say that I do,” Oak replied. “However, that
we can talk of another time. Has there been any change in mistress this
afternoon?”
　　　“None at all.”
　　　“Is she downstairs?”
　　　“No. And getting on so nicely as she was too. She's but very lit-
tle 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 anybody's pity.”
　　　“Is she altered much?” said Coggan.
　　　“If you haven't seen poor mistress since Christmas, you wouldn't
know her,” said Liddy. “Her eyes are so miserable that she's not the
same woman. Only two years ago she was a romping girl, and now she's
this!”
　　　Laban departed as directed, and at eleven o'clock that night sev-
eral of the villagers strolled along the road to Casterbridge and await-
ed his arrival--among them Oak, and nearly all the rest of Bathsheba's
men. Gabriel's anxiety was great that Boldwood might be saved, even
though in his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had
been qualities in the farmer which Oak loved. At last, when they all
were weary the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance--

　　　　　　First dead, as if on turf it trode,
　　　　　　Then, clattering on the village road
　　　　　　In other pace than forth he yode.

　　　“We shall soon know now, one way or other.” said Coggan, and
they all stepped down from the bank on which they had been standing into
the road, and the rider pranced into the midst of them.
　　　“Is that you, Laban?” said Gabriel.
　　　“Yes--'tis come. He's not to die. 'Tis confinement during Her
Majesty's pleasure.”
　　　“Hurrah!” said Coggan, with a swelling heart. “God's above
the devil yet!








　　　Bathsheba revived with the spring. The utter prostration that
had followed the low fever from which she had suffered diminished
perceptibly when all uncertainty upon every subject had come to an
end.
　　　But she remained alone now for the greater part of her time,
and stayed in the house, or at furthest went into the garden. She
shunned every one, even Liddy, and could be brought to make no con-
fidences, 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, Bathsheba 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--,
　　　　　　　　　　　　Aged 26 years.

　　　Whilst she stood and read and meditated the tones of the organ
began again in the church, and she went with the same light step
round to the porch and listened. The door was closed, and the choir
was learning a new hymn. Bathsheba was stirred by emotions which lat-
terly she had assumed to be altogether dead within her. The little
attenuated voices of the children brought to her ear in distinct ut-
terance the words they sang without thought or comprehension--

　　　Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
　　　Lead Thou me on.

　　　Bathsheba's feeling was always to some extent dependent upon
her whim, as is the case with many other women. Something big came
into her throat and an uprising to her eyes--and she thought that she
would allow the imminent tears to flow if they wished. They did flow
and plenteously, and one fell upon the stone bench beside her. Once
that she had begun to cry for she hardly knew what, she could not
leave off for crowding thoughts she knew too well. She would have
given anything in the world to be, as those children were, unconcern-
ed at the meaning of their words, because too innocent to feel the
necessity for any such expression. All the impassioned scenes of her
brief experience seemed to revive with added emotion at that moment,
and those scenes which had been without emotion during enactment had
emotion then. Yet grief came to her rather as a luxury than as the
scourge of former times.
　　　Owing to Bathsheba's face being buried in her hands she did not
notice a form which came quietly into the porch, and on seeing her,
first moved as if to retreat, then paused and regarded her. Bathsheba
did not raise her head for some time, and when she looked round her
face was wet, and her eyes drowned and dim. “Mr. Oak,” exclaimed
she, disconcerted, “how long have you been here?”
　　　“A few minutes, ma'am,” said Oak, respectfully.

　　　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.
I have sung bass for several months.”
　　　“Indeed: I wasn't aware of that. I'll leave you, then.”

　　　Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile,

sang the children.
　　　“Don't let me drive you away, mistress. I think I won't go in
to-night.”
　　　“Oh no--you don't drive me away.”
　　　Then they stood in a state of some embarrassment, Bathsheba try-
ing to wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without his not-
icing her. At length Oak said, “I've not seen you--I mean spoken to
you--since ever so long, have I?” But he feared to bring distressing
memories back, and interrupted himself with: “Were you going into church?”
　　　“No,” she said. “I came to see the tombstone privately--to see
if they had cut the inscription as I wished. Mr. Oak, you needn't mind
speaking to me, if you wish to, on the matter which is in both our
minds at this moment.”
　　　“And have they done it as you wished?” said Oak.
　　　“Yes. Come and see it, if you have not already.”
　　　So together they went and read the tomb. “Eight months ago!”
Gabriel murmured when he saw the date. “It seems like yesterday to me.”
　　　“And to me as if it were years ago--long years, and I had been
dead between. And now I am going home, Mr. Oak.”
　　　Oak walked after her. “I wanted to name a small matter to you
as soon as I could,” he said, with hesitation. “Merely about busi-
ness, 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 disappoint-
ment. “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 as we are--that it seems unkind almost. I
had fancied that if you leased the other farm as master, you might still
give a helping look across at mine. And now going away!”
　　　“I would have willingly.”
　　　“Yet now that I am more helpless than ever you go away!”
　　　“Yes, that's the ill fortune o' it,” said Gabriel, in a distressed
tone. “And it is because of that very helplessness that I feel bound
to go. Good afternoon, ma'am” he concluded, in evident anxiety to get
away, and at once went out of the churchyard by a path she could follow
on no pretence whatever.
　　　Bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with a new trouble, which be-
ing rather harassing than deadly was calculated to do good by diverting
her from the chronic gloom of her life. She was set thinking a great deal
about Oak and of his wish to shun her; and there occurred to Bathsheba sev-
eral incidents of her latter intercourse with him, which, trivial when sing-
ly viewed, amounted together to a perceptible disinclination for her socie-
ty. 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 memor-
andum 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 offhand style. Poor
Bathsheba began to suffer now from the most torturing sting of all--a sen-
sation that she was despised.
　　　The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these melancholy conject-
ures, and Christmas-day came, completing a year of her legal widowhood, and
two years and a quarter of her life alone. On examining her heart it ap-
peared beyond measure strange that the subject of which the season might
have been supposed suggestive--the event in the hall at Boldwood's--was not
agitating her at all; but instead, an agonizing conviction that everybody
abjured her--for what she could not tell--and that Oak was the ringleader
of the recusants. Coming out of church that day she looked round in hope
that Oak, whose bass voice she had heard rolling out from the gallery over-
head in a most unconcerned manner, might chance to linger in her path in
the old way. There he was, as usual, coming down the path behind her. But
on seeing Bathsheba turn, he looked aside, and as soon as he got beyond the
gate, and there was the barest excuse for a divergence, he made one, and
vanished.
　　　The next morning brought the culminating stroke; she had been expect-
ing it long. It was a formal notice by letter from him that he should not
renew his engagement with her for the following Lady-day.
　　　Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter most bitterly. She
was aggrieved and wounded that the possession of hopeless love from Gabriel,
which she had grown to regard as her inalienable right for life, should
have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in this way. She was bewilder-
ed too by the prospect of having to rely on her own resources again: it seem-
ed to herself that she never could again acquire energy sufficient to go to
market, barter, and sell. Since Troy's death Oak had attended all sales and
fairs for her, transacting her business at the same time with his own. What
should she do now? Her life was becoming a desolation.
　　　So desolate was Bathsheba this evening, that in an absolute hunger for
pity and sympathy, and miserable in that she appeared to have outlived the
only true friendship she had ever owned, she put on her bonnet and cloak
and went down to Oak's house just after sunset, guided on her way by the
pale primrose rays of a crescent moon a few days old.
　　　A lively firelight shone from the window, but nobody was visible in
the room. She tapped nervously, and then thought it doubtful if it were
right for a single woman to call upon a bachelor who lived alone, although
he was her manager, and she might be supposed to call on business without
any real impropriety. Gabriel opened the door, and the moon shone upon his
forehead.
　　　“Mr. Oak,” said Bathsheba, faintly.
　　　“Yes; I am Mr. Oak,” said Gabriel. “Who have I the honour--O how
stupid of me, not to know you, mistress!”
　　　“I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall I Gabriel?” she
said, in pathetic tones.
　　　“Well, no. I suppose--But come in, ma'am. Oh--and I'll get a light,”
Oak replied, with some awkwardness.
　　　“No; not on my account.”
　　　“It is so seldom that I get a lady visitor that I'm afraid I haven't
proper accommodation. Will you sit down, please? Here's a chair, and there's
one, too. I am sorry that my chairs all have wood seats, and are rather
hard, but I--was thinking of getting some new ones.” Oak placed two or
three for her.
　　　“They are quite easy enough for me.”
　　　So down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dancing in their faces,
and upon the old furniture,

　　　all a-sheenen
　　　Wi' long years o' handlen,[3]

that formed Oak's array of household possessions, which sent back a
dancing reflection in reply. It was very odd to these two persons, who knew
each other passing well, that the mere circumstance of their meeting in a
new place and in a new way should make them so awkward and constrained. In
the fields, or at her house, there had never been any embarrassment; but
now that Oak had become the entertainer their lives seemed to be moved back
again to the days when they were strangers.
　　　“You'll think it strange that I have come, but--”
　　　“Oh no; not at all.”
　　　“But I thought--Gabriel, I have been uneasy in the belief that I have
offended you, and that you are going away on that account. It grieved me ve-
ry much and I couldn't help coming.”
　　　“Offended me! As if you could do that, Bathsheba!”
　　　“Haven't I?” she asked, gladly. “But, what are you going away for
else?”
　　　“I am not going to emigrate, you know; I wasn't aware that you would
wish me not to when I told 'ee or I shouldn't ha' thought of doing it,” he
said, simply. “I have arranged for Little Weatherbury Farm and shall have
it in my own hands at Lady-day. You know I've had a share in it for some time.
Still, that wouldn't prevent my attending to your business as before, hadn't
it been that things have been said about us.”
　　　“What?” said Bathsheba, in surprise. “Things said about you and me!
What are they?”
　　　“I cannot tell you.”
　　　“It would be wiser if you were to, I think. You have played the part
of mentor to me many times, and I don't see why you should fear to do it now.”
　　　“It is nothing that you have done, this time. The top and tail o't is
this--that I am sniffing about here, and waiting for poor Boldwood's farm,
with a thought of getting you some day.”
　　　“Getting me! What does that mean?”
　　　“Marrying of 'ee, in plain British. You asked me to tell, so you
mustn't blame me.”
　　　Bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if a cannon had been dis-
charged by her ear, which was what Oak had expected. “Marrying me! I didn't
know it was that you meant,” she said, quietly. “Such a thing as that is
too absurd--too soon--to think of, by far!”
　　　“Yes; of course, it is too absurd. I don't desire any such thing; I
should think that was plain enough by this time. Surely, surely you be the
last person in the world I think of marrying. It is too absurd, as you say.”
　　　“'Too--s-s-soon' were the words I used.”
　　　“I must beg your pardon for correcting you, but you said, 'too ab-
surd,' and so do I.”
　　　“I beg your pardon too!” she returned, with tears in her eyes.
“'Too soon' was what I said. But it doesn't matter a bit--not at all--but
I only meant, 'too soon.' Indeed, I didn't, Mr. Oak, and you must believe
me!”
　　　Gabriel looked her long in the face, but the firelight being faint
there was not much to be seen. “Bathsheba,” he said, tenderly and in sur-
prise, and coming closer: “if I only knew one thing--whether you would al-
low me to love you and win you, and marry you after all--if I only knew that!”
　　　“But you never will know,” she murmured.
　　　“Why?”
　　　“Because you never ask.”
　　　“Oh--Oh!” said Gabriel, with a low laugh of joyousness. “My own
dear--”
　　　“You ought not to have sent me that harsh letter this morning,” she
interrupted. “It shows you didn't care a bit about me, and were ready to
desert me like all the rest of them! It was very cruel of you, considering
I was the first sweetheart that you ever had, and you were the first I ever
had; and I shall not forget it!”
　　　“Now, Bathsheba, was ever anybody so provoking,” he said, laughing.
“You know it was purely that I, as an unmarried man, carrying on a business
for you as a very taking young woman, had a proper hard part to play--more
particular that people knew I had a sort of feeling for 'ee; and I fancied,
from the way we were mentioned together, that it might injure your good name.
Nobody knows the heat and fret I have been caused by it.”
　　　“And was that all?”
　　　“All.”
　　　“Oh, how glad I am I came!” she exclaimed, thankfully, as she rose
from her seat. “I have thought so much more of you since I fancied you did
not want even to see me again. But I must be going now, or I shall be missed.
Why Gabriel,” she said, with a slight laugh, as they went to the door, “it
seems exactly as if I had come courting you--how dreadful!”
　　　“And quite right too,” said Oak. “I've danced at your skittish heels,
my beautiful Bathsheba, for many a long mile, and many a long day; and it is
hard to begrudge me this one visit.”
　　　He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of his
forthcoming tenure of the other farm. They spoke very little of their mutual
feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably unnecessary be-
tween such tried friends. Theirs was that substantial affection which arises
(if any arises at all) when the two who are thrown together begin first by
knowing the rougher sides of each other's character, and not the best till
further on, the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard pro-
saic reality. This good-fellowship--camaraderie--usually occurring through
similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between
the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in
their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its deve-
lopment, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love which is
strong as death--that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods
drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name is evanescent as
steam.








　　　“The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to
have.”　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　
　　　Those had been Bathsheba's words to Oak one evening, some time after
the event of the preceding chapter, and he meditated a full hour by the
clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter.
　　　“A 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 steps
from the surrogate's door, in Casterbridge. On the way home he heard a
heavy tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to be Cog-
gan. They walked together into the village until they came to a little
lane behind the church, leading down to the cottage of Laban Tall, who
had lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and was yet in mortal
terror at church on Sundays when he heard his lone voice among certain
hard words of the Psalms, whither no man ventured to follow him.
　　　“Well, good-night, Coggan,” said Oak, “I'm going down this way.”
　　　“Oh!” said Coggan, surprised; “what's going on to-night then,
make so bold Mr. Oak?”
　　　It seemed rather ungenerous not to tell Coggan, under the circum-
stances, for Coggan had been true as steel all through the time of Gab-
riel's unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, “You can keep a
secret, Coggan?”
　　　“You've proved me, and you know.”
　　　“Yes, I have, and I do know. Well, then, mistress and I mean to
get married to-morrow morning.”
　　　“Heaven's high tower! And yet I've thought of such a thing from
time to time; true, I have. But keeping it so close! Well, there, 'tis
no consarn of mine, and I wish 'ee joy o' her.”
　　　“Thank you, Coggan. But I assure 'ee that this great hush is not
what I wished for at all, or what either of us would have wished if it
hadn't been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seem hard-
ly the thing. Bathsheba has a great wish that all the parish shall not
be in church, looking at her--she's shy-like and nervous about it, in
fact--so I be doing this to humour her.”
　　　“Ay, I see: quite right, too, I suppose I must say. And you be
now going down to the clerk.”
　　　“Yes; you may as well come with me.”
　　　“I am afeard your labour in keeping it close will be throwed a-
way,” said Coggan, as they walked along. “Labe Tall's old woman will
horn it all over parish in half-an-hour.”
　　　“So she will, upon my life; I never thought of that,” said Oak,
pausing. “Yet I must tell him to-night, I suppose, for he's working
so far off, and leaves early.”
　　　“I'll tell 'ee how we could tackle her,” said Coggan. “I'll
knock and ask to speak to Laban outside the door, you standing in the
background. Then he'll come out, and you can tell yer tale. She'll nev-
er guess what I want en for; and I'll make up a few words about the
farm-work, as a blind.”
　　　This scheme was considered feasible; and Coggan advanced boldly,
and rapped at Mrs. Tall's door. Mrs. Tall herself opened it.
　　　“I wanted to have a word with Laban.”
　　　“He's not at home, and won't be this side of eleven o'clock.
He've been forced to go over to Yalbury since shutting out work. I
shall do quite as well.”
　　　“I hardly think you will. Stop a moment;” and Coggan stepped
round the corner of the porch to consult Oak.
　　　“Who's t'other man, then?” said Mrs. Tall.
　　　“Only a friend,” said Coggan.
　　　“Say he's wanted to meet mistress near church-hatch to-morrow
morning at ten,” said Oak, in a whisper. “That he must come without
fail, and wear his best clothes.”
　　　“The clothes will floor us as safe as houses!” said Coggan.
　　　“It can't be helped,” said Oak. “Tell her.”
　　　So Coggan delivered the message. “Mind, het or wet, blow or
snow, he must come,” added Jan. “'Tis very particular, indeed. The
fact is, 'tis to witness her sign some law-work about taking shares
wi' another farmer for a long span o' years. There, that's what 'tis,
and now I've told 'ee, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn't ha' done if I
hadn't loved 'ee so hopeless well.”
　　　Coggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they
called at the vicar's in a manner which excited no curiosity at all.
Then Gabriel went home, and prepared for the morrow.
　　　“Liddy,” said Bathsheba, on going to bed that night, “I want
you to call me at seven o'clock to-morrow, in case I shouldn't wake.”
　　　“But you always do wake afore then, ma'am.”
　　　“Yes, but I have something important to do, which I'll tell you
of when the time comes, and it's best to make sure.”
　　　Bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she by
any contrivance get to sleep again. About six, being quite positive
that her watch had stopped during the night, she could wait no longer.
She went and tapped at Liddy's door, and after some labour awoke her.
　　　“But I thought it was I who had to call you?” said the bewil-
dered Liddy. “And it isn't six yet.”
　　　“Indeed it is; how can you tell such a story, Liddy? I know it
must be ever so much past seven. Come to my room as soon as you can; I
want you to give my hair a good brushing.”
　　　When Liddy came to Bathsheba's room her mistress was already wait-
ing. Liddy could not understand this extraordinary promptness. “What-
ever is going on, ma'am?” she said.
　　　“Well, I'll tell you,” said Bathsheba, with a mischievous smile in her
bright eyes. “Farmer Oak is coming here to dine with me to-day!”
　　　“Farmer Oak--and nobody else?--you two alone?”
　　　“Yes.”
　　　“But is it safe, ma'am, after what's been said?” asked her com-
panion, 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 min-
utes to ten o'clock, Oak came out of his house, and

　　　　　　Went up the hill side
　　　　　　With that sort of stride
　　　　　　A man puts out when walking in search of a bride,

and knocked at Bathsheba's door. Ten minutes later a large and a
smaller umbrella might have been seen moving from the same door, and
through the mist along the road to the church. The distance was not
more than a quarter of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemed it
unnecessary to drive. An observer must have been very close indeed to
discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those of Oak and Bath-
sheba, arm-in-arm for the first time in their lives, Oak in a greatcoat
extending to his knees, and Bathsheba in a cloak that reached her clogs.
Yet, though so plainly dressed, there was a certain rejuvenated appear-
ance about her:--

　　　　　　As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.  [Line 243]

Repose had again incarnadined her cheeks; and having, at Gabriel's
request, arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago on
Norcombe Hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like a girl of that
fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now only three or
four-and-twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful. In the church were Tall,
Liddy, and the parson, and in a remarkably short space of time the deed
was done.
　　　The two sat down very quietly to tea in Bathsheba's parlour in the
evening of the same day, for it had been arranged that Farmer Oak should
go there to live, since he had as yet neither money, house, nor furni-
ture worthy of the name, though he was on a sure way towards them, whilst
Bathsheba was, comparatively, in a plethora of all three.
　　　Just as Bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears were
greeted by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like a tre-
mendous blowing of trumpets, in the front of the house.
　　　“There!” said Oak, laughing, “I knew those fellows were up to
something, by the look on their faces.”
　　　Oak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by Bath-
sheba with a shawl over her head. The rays fell upon a group of male
figures gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw the newly
-married couple in the porch, set up a loud “Hurrah!” and at the same
moment bang again went the cannon in the background, followed by a hid-
eous clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarionet, serpent, hautboy,
tenor-viol, and double-bass--the only remaining relics of the true and
original Weatherbury band--venerable worm-eaten instruments, which had
celebrated in their own persons the victories of Marlborough, under
the fingers of the forefathers of those who played them now. The perfor-
mers came forward, and marched up to the front.
　　　“Those bright boys, Mark Clark and Jan, are at the bottom of all
this,” said Oak. “Come in, souls, and have something to eat and drink
wi' me and my wife.”
　　　“Not to-night,” said Mr. Clark, with evident self-denial. “Thank
ye all the same; but we'll call at a more seemly time. However, we
couldn't think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration
of some sort. If ye could send a drop of som'at down to Warren's, why
so it is. Here's long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and his come-
ly bride!”
　　　“Thank ye; thank ye all,” said Gabriel. “A bit and a drop
shall be sent to Warren's for ye at once. I had a thought that we might
very likely get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was
saying so to my wife but now.”
　　　“Faith,” said Coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his compan-
ions, “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' stand-
ing pipe ‘my wife' in a more used note than 'a did,” said Jacob Small-
bury. “It might have been a little more true to nater if't had been
spoke a little chillier, but that wasn't to be expected just now.”
　　　“That improvement will come wi' time,” said Jan, twirling his
eye.
　　　Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed rea-
dily now), and their friends turned to go.
　　　“Yes; I suppose that's the size o't,” said Joseph Poorgrass with
a cheerful sigh as they moved away; “and I wish him joy o' her; though
I were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in my scripture
manner, which is my second nature, ‘Ephraim is joined to idols: let him
alone.' But since 'tis as 'tis, why, it might have been worse, and I feel
my thanks accordingly.”