HOME AGAIN--A TRICKSTER

That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan's
garden-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.
Liddy was asking questions about the city of Bath, and her companion
was answering 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 violence, 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
absence the blind of the room containing Bathsheba was pulled down.
Boldwood 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
simultaneously 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 alight.

"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, hastened 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 wanted
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
attachment 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
married 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 ending 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 prepare 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 narrowness, and love, though added emotion, is
subtracted capacity.  Boldwood exemplified this to an abnormal
degree: he knew nothing of Fanny Robin'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 happiness?"

"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 every
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 twitching
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 undone.
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.

Boldwood loosened his hand, saying, "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, mechanically,
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,
contemptuously.

"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
interference 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.

That same evening at dusk Gabriel was leaning over Coggan's garden-gate, taking an up-and-down survey before retiring to rest." A carriage approached and from within came the voices of two women -- Bathsheba and Liddy. "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." A half-hour later Boldwood walked to Bathsheba's, but Liddy, acting rather strangely, did not admit him. He left at once, feeling that he had not been forgiven. Walking through the village, he saw the carrier's van draw up and Troy's scarlet figure emerge. Troy had once before stayed at the carrier's house. Boldwood, making a sudden decision, hurried home and then quickly returned to meet Troy. As the sergeant came up the hill, Boldwood accosted him, introducing himself and telling Troy that he knew why Fanny had run away. When Troy declared that he was too poor to marry Fanny, Boldwood offered to settle a sum on her. Troy was still reluctant. Boldwood lost his calm and accused Troy of having ruined his chances with Bathsheba. Troy questioned this. Again Boldwood proffered money, assuring Troy that Bathsheba was only toying with him. Troy accepted fifty pounds. Boldwood promised him five hundred more pounds the day he married Fanny. Although Troy said that he thought Fanny too menial for him to marry, he accepted the offer. Bathsheba approached, not seeing Boldwood, and Troy went to meet her. The astounded Boldwood overheard their loving conversation and Bathsheba's assurance that she had sent the servants away. Troy sent her home, telling her that he would join her as soon as he fetched his carpetbag. Then, arrogantly, he invited Boldwood to accompany him. The devastated farmer lunged at Troy, then realized that he was helpless: Troy was in the bargaining position. Boldwood now pleaded Bathsheba's cause, begging Troy to preserve her honor by marrying her and amazing Troy with the intensity of his infatuation. Troy accepted the remaining twenty-one pounds Boldwood had brought with him. Although Bathsheba was not to know of the financial arrangement, he wished Boldwood to come along to inform her of the marriage plan. At the door, Troy asked that Boldwood wait outside. After a moment, he thrust a newspaper through the door and held a candle for Boldwood to read of the marriage of Troy and Bathsheba in Bath. With derisive laughter and a moral lecture on Boldwood's being willing to believe the worst, Troy threw the money out toward the road and locked the door. "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."

Hardy does some very deft weaving of the plot threads in this chapter. He has built suspense and now must satisfy curiosity. Bathsheba has made her choice. In the process, the cruel, taunting Troy and the pitiful, baffled Boldwood are contrasted masterfully. We know from the violent reactions  that more trouble must follow. Boldwood is so devastated that we know he will not be able to renounce Bathsheba. And Fanny's fate is still unresolved.


AT AN UPPER WINDOW

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 beginning
to be enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused before
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 survey.  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 somewhere."
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 stillness
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 began 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 forehead 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 noticing 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 edges 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 immobility 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.

Very early the next morning, Gabriel and Coggan were in the fields. They heard an upper casement window being opened. Troy leaned out. "She has married him!" said Coggan. As Gabriel failed to reply, Coggan, glancing at the averted face, said, "Good heavens above us, Oak, how white your face is; you look like a corpse!" The two men stood near the stile, "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." He mused over the reasons for all the mystery. Had Bathsheba somehow been entrapped? As the men turned toward the house, Troy hailed them. Coggan replied and, after some urging, so did Oak. Troy commented on the gloom of the house, suggesting modernization. Gabriel defended it for its traditions. Troy preferred comfort. After this discussion, Troy suddenly asked Coggan whether there was any insanity in Boldwood's family. Coggan seemed vaguely to remember an old, disturbed uncle. Troy dismissed this information and announced his intention of being out in the fields after a few days. Then he threw them a half-crown so that they might drink to his health. Gabriel was angry, but Coggan caught the coin and urged Gabriel to restrain himself, for he was certain that Troy would buy his discharge from the army and become master of the farm. "Therefore 'tis well to say 'Friend' outwardly, though you say 'Troublehouse' within." Boldwood appeared, reminding Coggan of Troy's inquiry. "Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his own grief in noticing Boldwood's. . . . 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."

Observe how quickly Troy takes over the reins. The reactions of Coggan and Oak are typical: Gabriel needs time for self-control, but Coggan seeks to serve his own interests by serving his new master. The stern pose of Boldwood after his earlier outbursts seems to indicate that he is trying to suppress his true feelings. Hardy's keen observation of many types of people manifests itself in the small but telling gestures, poses, and expressions of all the characters.


WEALTH IN JEOPARDY--THE REVEL

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 Upper
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 another 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 monochrome, 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 into
consideration, it was likely to be followed by one of the lengthened
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 tambourine,
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 emptied
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
quivering 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 Bathsheba,
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, taking
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 observed in the
musical circles of Weatherbury and its vicinity that this melody, at
the end of three-quarters of an hour of thunderous footing, still
possesses more stimulative properties for the heel and toe than the
majority of other dances at their first opening.  "The Soldier's Joy"
has, too, an additional charm, in being so admirably adapted 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,
thinking 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 celebrating
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 mistress, and not
until now have we been able to give any public flourish 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 treble-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
distended, like a boxing-glove.  It was a large toad humbly
travelling across 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 placed 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, promenaded 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 feature: 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 wearer's neck.

This was enough to re-establish him in his original opinion.  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 barley.  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 simple
calculation:--

      5 x 30 = 150 quarters = 500 L.
      3 x 40 = 120 quarters = 250 L.
                            -------
                    Total . . 750 L.

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 broken 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 assemblage 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 portion 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 waistcoat.  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 Susan 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 entertainment.  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 circumstances.  Having from their
youth up been entirely unaccustomed to any liquor stronger than cider
or mild ale, it was no wonder that they had succumbed, one and all,
with extraordinary uniformity, 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 disturbing women at
this time of night ought--"

Gabriel took the key, without waiting to hear the conclusion 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 secured.  Three wheat-stacks
remained open, and there were no more cloths.  Oak looked under the
staddles and found a fork.  He mounted 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 untied sheaves.

So far all was well.  By this hurried contrivance Bathsheba'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.

Late August brought storm threats, and Oak worried for the eight exposed hayricks. Troy had designated the evening for the harvest supper and as Gabriel approached the barn, he heard music. The place was decorated with garlands, and fiddlers played for the dancing. The musicians asked Bathsheba to choose a tune. When she said it made no difference, they suggested "The Soldier's joy." Flattered, Troy led the dance with her. He announced that he had left the army but would remain a soldier in spirit. Gabriel tried to warn Troy about the hay, but Troy brushed him aside, saying there would be no rain. Besides, this was the wedding feast. Everyone would be served an extra-strong drink, he said. Bathsheba protested that the men had had enough. Troy overruled her and dismissed the women. Furiously, Bathsheba left. For politeness's sake, Oak stayed a while. As he left, Troy cursed him for refusing a second round of grog. On the way home, Oak accidentally "kicked something which felt and sounded soft, leathery, and distended, like a boxing-glove." It was a toad. "Finding it uninjured, he placed it again among the grass." He knew this to be a warning of foul weather. Indoors, he found another warning: A garden slug had taken refuge in his home. He sat and thought for a while, finally deciding to rely on the instincts of the sheep. He found them "crowded close together. . . . all grouped in such a way that their tails, without a single exception, were toward that half of the horizon from which the storm threatened." Gabriel, now certain there would be a storm, mentally calculated the potential loss of five wheat ricks and three of barley to be seven hundred and fifty pounds. Returning to the barn to get help to save Bathsheba such a great loss, he saw a peculiar spectacle. The entire male assemblage was sprawled grotesquely in every imaginable position. The central figure was the scarlet-coated sergeant. Oak realized he would have to work alone. He fetched the key to the granary from Tall's house; rushing back, he found sailcloth and tools. He covered all but two wheat ricks with the cloth, then thatched the barley.

Hardy's depiction of the portents of the approaching storm is yet another example of his closeness to nature. The contrasting pictures of the men before and after the revel are like a pair of companion canvases. Hardy uses his favorite motif of a red-clothed figure at the apex of the composition. In turn, these word paintings contrast with that of the struggling, solitary figure of Oak. Gabriel cannot be thought of as merely thrifty and practical: "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."'


THE STORM--THE TWO TOGETHER

A light flapped over the scene, as if reflected from phosphorescent
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 visible
lightning.  Gabriel saw a candle shining in Bathsheba's bedroom,
and soon a shadow swept to and fro upon the blind.

Then there came a third flash.  Manoeuvres of a most extraordinary
kind were going on in the vast firmamental hollows overhead.  The
lightning now was the colour of silver, and gleamed in the heavens
like a mailed army. Rumbles became rattles.  Gabriel 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 visible 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 foreground 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 indifferently
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 zenith, 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 important and urgent labour
could not be carried on without such risk?  He resolved to stick to
the stack.  However, he took a precaution.  Under the staddles was a
long tethering chain, used to prevent the escape of errant horses.
This he carried up the ladder, 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 extemporized 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 afraid to come out.
Fancy finding you here at such an hour!  Surely 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 lightning 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 brazen glare of shining majolica--every
knot in every straw was visible.  On the slope in front of him
appeared two human shapes, black as jet.  The rick lost its
sheen--the shapes vanished.  Gabriel 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 reversed 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 again 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 shoulder, 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 juxtaposition 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 mentioned 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 erect, 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 darkness 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 multitudes 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 showed a marble
face high against the black sky of the opposite quarter.  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 surprised 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 breaking 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 speaking, 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 woman 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--indeed, 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 cadence.
"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 reverie
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.

A series of flashes and rumblings signaled the closeness of the storm. After the second peal of thunder, a candle was lit in Bathsheba's room. The fourth flash of lightning struck Oak's ricking-rod, and he paused momentarily to improvise a lightning rod. The fifth flash brought Bathsheba into the fields. Once she learned that Troy was asleep, she tried to help stow the sheaves. When a flash frightened her, Gabriel steadied her. Another "dance of death" split trees, and the pair realized they had had a narrow escape. Gabriel told Bathsheba to leave, but she replied, "You are kinder than I deserve! I will stay and help you." When Gabriel would not explain the absence of the other men, Bathsheba said slowly, "I know it all -- all. . . . They are . . . in a drunken sleep, and my husband among them." Bathsheba followed Gabriel to the barn and looked through the chinks: "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." As Oak returned to his work, Bathsheba abruptly confessed the reason for her trip to Bath. She had intended to break off with Troy, but jealousy of a possible rival and her own distraction had led her to marry him instead. The pair continued working in silence until Gabriel sent Bathsheba away because of her fatigue. He worked on, finally "disturbed . . . 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."

This chapter deserves careful reading for its appeal to the senses. The structure, punctuated by flashes of lightning, shows nature in anger, illuminating character, and calling for self-realization and truthfulness.


RAIN--ONE SOLITARY MEETS ANOTHER

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 vigorously.
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 fantastically 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 desperately 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 exclaimed, "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, whistling.  The others shambled after
with a conscience-stricken air: the whole procession was not unlike
Flaxman's group of the suitors 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 companion.

"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.  "Nothing
hurts me.  My constitution is an iron one."

"I've been working hard to get our ricks covered, and was barely 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 forgetting 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 himself 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."

"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
promised 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,
resuming 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 between us two here."

"It was now five o'clock, and the dawn was promising to break in hues of drab and ash." The wind grew stronger and uncovered some wheat ricks, and Gabriel weighted them down with fence rails. He continued to cover the barley while the rain beat down heavily. He remembered that eight months earlier he had fought a fire in this same spot, for love of the same woman. Two hours later, as Oak was wearily finished, wavering figures emerged from the barn. A scarlet one headed for the house. Not one of them remembered the ricks. On his way home, Gabriel met Boldwood, who remarked that Gabriel looked ill and asked the trouble. Oak explained that he had been working on the ricks, and Boldwood admitted having forgotten his. Once such an oversight would have been impossible for him. "Oak was just thinking that whatever he himself might have suffered . . . here was a man who had suffered more." Boldwood preoccupied with what people thought, said that Bathsheba had not jilted him, that she had never promised him anything. He lamented his fate, his expression wild. Then he roused himself and resumed his reserve, saying, "Well good morning; I can trust you not to mention to others what has passed between us two here."

Bathsheba and her three admirers again appear in the same chapter -- Troy whistling and carefree; Boldwood suffering from deep emotional tension; and Gabriel remaining loyal to Bathsheba and the land and sympathizing with Boldwood.


COMING HOME--A CRY

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
marketing 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 discharge 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 inseparable 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
everybody.  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 against 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 summer--"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 waterworks;
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
cutting, 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 enveloped
them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the
extreme 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 alight.

"Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!" said Troy,
peremptorily 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 lodging 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 milestone 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 searchingly
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 forward at a wild pace.  No more was said.

Bathsheba was riding up steep Yalbury Hill in the gig, with Troy walking alongside. He was no longer in uniform. They were discussing his gambling losses, which he blamed on a wet racetrack. Bathsheba tearfully predicted the eventual forfeit of the farm if he continued his present rate of loss. He grumbled displeasure at her "chicken-hearted" wifely ways. A woman appeared at the brow of the hill and, while Troy's back was to her, asked him whether he knew the closing time of the workhouse gates. Her voice startled him, but he did not turn. When she heard him reply, "she uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down." Troy ordered Bathsheba to leave. Alone with the woman, Troy asked her why she had not written. She said that she had been afraid to. Troy gave her the little money he had with him, explaining that his wife kept him short. He told the woman to stay at the workhouse, Casterbridge Union-house, until Monday, when he would meet her on Gray's Bridge, give her as much money as he could obtain, and find lodgings for her. When Troy caught up with Bathsheba, he admitted that he knew the woman, but not 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 forward at a wild pace. No more was said."

We suspect at once that "the woman" is Fanny Robin -- in fact, Troy lets the name slip. Otherwise Hardy maintains the term "the woman." Troy's concern for her is real. Fanny is another victim of his inability, or his refusal, to live by anything but impulse. Impulse dictated his marriage to Bathsheba, which now is obviously crumbling. His childish nature is further revealed by his complete disregard for the financial ruin that his gambling losses will eventually bring about.


ON CASTERBRIDGE HIGHWAY

For a considerable time the woman walked on.  Her steps became
feebler, and she strained her eyes to look afar upon the naked road,
now indistinct 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 woman turned her eyes.

"If I could only get there!" she said.  "Meet him the day after
to-morrow: 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 interval,
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 faintest 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 un-bound, 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
substitutes 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
branched 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 another 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 away; 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
desperately 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 expected
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 resting-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 dragged 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-beguilement 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 woman, 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 limitation, 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
surveyed 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 dismissed 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 softness
and it was warmth.  She opened her eyes, and the substance touched
her face.  A dog was licking her cheek.

He was a huge, heavy, and quiet creature, standing darkly against 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
nomenclature.  Being thus assignable to no breed, he was the ideal
embodiment of canine greatness--a generalization from what was common
to all.  Night, in its sad, solemn, and benevolent aspect, apart from
its stealthy 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 earlier
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 seemed to
misunderstand: he trotted on.  Then, finding she could not follow, he
came back and whined.

The ultimate and saddest singularity of woman's effort and invention
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
mincing steps moved forward beside him, half her weight being thrown
upon the animal.  Sometimes she sank as she had sunk from walking
erect, from the crutches, from the rails.  The dog, who now
thoroughly understood 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 listened 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 bottom
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
under 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 abbey;
and it was discovered that the view from the front, over the
Casterbridge chimneys, was one of the most magnificent in the
county. 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 sorrowfully to
the slow wind.  In the wall was a gate, and by the gate a bellpull
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 returned
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.

The woman continued on her slow way, stopping to rest from time to time and praying for strength. She counted the milestones to encourage herself to proceed. A carriage passing in the darkness lighted her face, "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." At a lone copsewood she paused. Groping, she selected two Y-shaped sticks and used them as crutches. These helped her to the last milestone, where she swayed, fell, lay for a while, then crawled and fell again. A dog licked the woman's cheek. "In her reclining position she looked up to him just as . . . she had, when standing, looked up to a man." The animal, as homeless as she, withdrew a step, then returned, sensing her need. Using him as a prop, the woman slowly moved ahead. They reached a shabby building, so overgrown with ivy that it had become one of the attractions of the town. The woman managed to pull the bell before falling down. A man emerged and went for help to get her into the building. The woman revived enough to ask for the dog. "'I stoned him away,' said the man. The little procession then moved forward -- the man in front bearing the light, two bony women next, supporting between them the small and supple one. Thus they entered the house and disappeared."

Some critics find this chapter less effective than most -- citing, for example, the interrupting discourse on the manufacturer of a Swiss prosthetic device, which is compared to the woman's improvisation of a crutch. The agonies of Fanny's journey have been called melodramatic. Animal lovers protest the use of the dog, although it seems that Hardy's point was that at times animals have more humanity than people. Hardy's succinct descriptions remain effective, as in the description of the ivy-covered almshouse to which the force of "Nature, as if offended, lent a hand."