Far from the Madding Crowd
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 Sergeant
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 before 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 desperately. “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 received 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 brimmed with
deep feeling as he replied in a steady voice, the steadiness 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 pretend 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 something. 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 wondered
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
between 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
sufficient 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.
CHAPTER XXX
HOT CHEEKS AND TEARFUL EYES
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 excitement
which were little less than chronic with her now. The farewell words of
Troy, who had accompanied her to the very door, still lingered 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 kissed 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 presentation
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
dismissed 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 decision, 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 mildly
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 kitchen, 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 servitors 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.”