Far from the Madding Crowd
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 possibility
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 reality 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 Weatherbury
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 politic wish to remain
unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of shame at the
possibility that his attractive young wife, who already 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 little 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 speaking.”
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 offend 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, doing what you
can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable 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
turnpike 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
between 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 Weatherbury, 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 consists 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 innkeeper
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 being 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 Bathsheba’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 another 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 horizontally.
Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sipping 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
carefully 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 within 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 Farmer
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 idea 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
paying 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 Pennyways, 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 information 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 over 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
imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind.