Far from the Madding Crowd
Boldwood, 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 negotiations, 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
bantam 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 condition had thus far improved, he lived in no better style than
before, occupying 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 persistently 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 destroy. 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 having 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 waiting 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 severe
schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathsheba much more
considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings of others, and
he trusted 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 infatuation and disappointment. It would be
possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature, and to
suggest a friendly businesslike compact between 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 without losing much of the first in the process.
Bathsheba’s return from a two months’ visit to her old aunt at Norcombe
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
occurred 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 continued,
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,
perhaps.”
“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
appeared to warrant—that his darling had thought of re-marriage.
“No—she doesn’t promise it exactly. I merely judge on my own account.”
“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 again
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
Boldwood 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 definite 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 notion 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.
CHAPTER L
THE SHEEP FAIR—TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE’S HAND
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,
consisting 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 feeding 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 previously
chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. The
shepherd 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 valuable
and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and on this
account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood’s shepherd and Cain Ball,
accompanied 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 lighted 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
serpentine ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession, they
entered 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 barking, 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 shepherd 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
under each horn. Before and behind came other varieties, perfect