Far from the Madding Crowd
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 fatal
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 collection 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 quality 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 instance.
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 afford 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 reconsideration
of the sentence. It was not “numerously signed” by the inhabitants 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 existence, 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 considered the facts latterly
unearthed, and the result was that evidence 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
solicitous 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
Gabriel 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 little
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 several of
the villagers strolled along the road to Casterbridge and awaited 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!”
CHAPTER LVI
BEAUTY IN LONELINESS—AFTER ALL
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 confidences, 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 latterly she had
assumed to be altogether dead within her. The little attenuated voices
of the children brought to her ear in distinct utterance 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, unconcerned 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.
“Are you going in?” said Bathsheba; and there came from within the
church as from a prompter—
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
“I was,” said Gabriel. “I am one of the bass singers, you know. 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 trying to
wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without his noticing
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