THE SHEEP FAIR--TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE'S HAND

Greenhill was the Nijni Novgorod of South Wessex; and the busiest,
merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of
the sheep fair.  This yearly gathering was upon the summit of a
hill which retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient
earthwork, consisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval
form encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here
and there.  To each of the two chief openings on opposite sides a
winding road ascended, and the level green space of ten or fifteen
acres enclosed by the bank was the site of the fair.  A few permanent
erections dotted the spot, but the majority of visitors patronized
canvas alone for resting and feeding under during the time of their
sojourn here.

Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances started
from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair, driving
their charges a few miles each day--not more than ten or twelve--and
resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previously
chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning.  The
shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit
for the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook,
which he used as the staff of his pilgrimage.  Several of the sheep
would get worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the
road.  To meet these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to
accompany the flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into
which the weakly ones were taken for the remainder of the journey.

The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance from the
hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case.  But
the large united flocks of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a
valuable and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and
on this account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood's shepherd and Cain
Ball, accompanied them along the way, through the decayed old town of
Kingsbere, and upward to the plateau,--old George the dog of course
behind them.

When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and lighted
the dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of dust were to be seen
floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect
around in all directions.  These gradually converged upon the base of
the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the
serpentine ways which led to the top.  Thus, in a slow procession,
they entered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after
multitude, horned and hornless--blue flocks and red flocks, buff
flocks and brown flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks,
according to the fancy of the colourist and custom of the farm.
Men were shouting, dogs were barking, with greatest animation, but
the thronging travellers in so long a journey had grown nearly
indifferent to such terrors, though they still bleated piteously at
the unwontedness of their experiences, a tall shepherd rising here
and there in the midst of them, like a gigantic idol amid a crowd
of prostrate devotees.

The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs and the
old Wessex horned breeds; to the latter class Bathsheba's and Farmer
Boldwood's mainly belonged.  These filed in about nine o'clock, their
vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in
geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling
under each horn.  Before and behind came other varieties, perfect
leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only
lacking the spots.  There were also a few of the Oxfordshire breed,
whose wool was beginning to curl like a child's flaxen hair, though
surpassed in this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in
turn less curly than the Cotswolds.  But the most picturesque by far
was a small flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there this year.
Their pied faces and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool
hanging round their swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony
of the flocks in that quarter.

All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered and were
penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging to each
flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it.  Alleys for
pedestrians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with
buyers and sellers from far and near.

In another part of the hill an altogether different scene began
to force itself upon the eye towards midday.  A circular tent, of
exceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here.  As
the day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the
shepherd's responsibilities; and they turned their attention to
this tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed
concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going
on.

"The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin's Ride to York and the
Death of Black Bess," replied the man promptly, without turning his
eyes or leaving off tying.

As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly
stimulating harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Black
Bess standing in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living
proof, if proof were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances
from the stage over which the people were to enter.  These were so
convinced by such genuine appeals to heart and understanding both
that they soon began to crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being
visible Jan Coggan and Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday keeping
here to-day.

"That's the great ruffen pushing me!" screamed a woman in front of
Jan over her shoulder at him when the rush was at its fiercest.

"How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?" said
Coggan, in a deprecating tone, turning his head towards the aforesaid
folk as far as he could without turning his body, which was jammed as
in a vice.

There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent forth
their echoing notes.  The crowd was again ecstasied, and gave another
lurch in which Coggan and Poorgrass were again thrust by those behind
upon the women in front.

"Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such ruffens!"
exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed like a reed shaken
by the wind.

"Now," said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the public at
large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades, "did ye ever
hear such onreasonable woman as that?  Upon my carcase, neighbours,
if I could only get out of this cheese-wring, the damn women might
eat the show for me!"

"Don't ye lose yer temper, Jan!" implored Joseph Poorgrass, in a
whisper.  "They might get their men to murder us, for I think by the
shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form of womankind."

Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified to
please a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder,
Poorgrass being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for
admission, which he had got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become
so reeking hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the
woman in spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with
chalked face and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily
dropped it again from a fear that some trick had been played to burn
her fingers.  So they all entered, and the cloth of the tent, to the
eyes of an observer on the outside, became bulged into innumerable
pimples such as we observe on a sack of potatoes, caused by the
various human heads, backs, and elbows at high pressure within.

At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents.
One of these, alloted to the male performers, was partitioned into
halves by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on
the grass, pulling on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we
instantly recognise as Sergeant Troy.

Troy's appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for.  The
brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads was about to start
on a voyage, though somewhat short of hands.  Troy read the articles
and joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the
bay to Lulwind cove; as he had half expected, his clothes were gone.
He ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made
a precarious living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics,
Sword Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism.  A few months were sufficient
to give him a distaste for this kind of life.  There was a certain
animal form of refinement in his nature; and however pleasant a
strange condition might be whilst privations were easily warded off,
it was disadvantageously coarse when money was short.  There was ever
present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts
did he but chose to return to England and Weatherbury Farm.  Whether
Bathsheba thought him dead was a frequent subject of curious
conjecture.  To England he did return at last; but the fact of
drawing nearer to Weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his
intention to enter his old groove at the place became modified.  It
was with gloom he considered on landing at Liverpool that if he
were to go home his reception would be of a kind very unpleasant
to contemplate; for what Troy had in the way of emotion was an
occasional fitful sentiment which sometimes caused him as much
inconvenience as emotion of a strong and healthy kind.  Bathsheba was
not a woman to be made a fool of, or a woman to suffer in silence;
and how could he endure existence with a spirited wife to whom at
first entering he would be beholden for food and lodging?  Moreover,
it was not at all unlikely that his wife would fail at her farming,
if she had not already done so; and he would then become liable for
her maintenance: and what a life such a future of poverty with her
would be, the spectre of Fanny constantly between them, harrowing
his temper and embittering her words!  Thus, for reasons touching on
distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his return from
day to day, and would have decided to put it off altogether if he
could have found anywhere else the ready-made establishment which
existed for him there.

At this time--the July preceding the September in which we find
at Greenhill Fair--he fell in with a travelling circus which was
performing in the outskirts of a northern town.  Troy introduced
himself to the manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe,
hitting a suspended apple with a pistol-bullet fired from the
animal's back when in full gallop, and other feats.  For his
merits in these--all more or less based upon his experiences as a
dragoon-guardsman--Troy was taken into the company, and the play
of Turpin was prepared with a view to his personation of the chief
character.  Troy was not greatly elated by the appreciative spirit in
which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought the engagement might
afford him a few weeks for consideration.  It was thus carelessly,
and without having formed any definite plan for the future, that Troy
found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the company on this
day.

And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pavilion
the following incident had taken place.  Bathsheba--who was driven
to the fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass--had, like every one
else, read or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great
Cosmopolitan Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of
Turpin, and she was not yet too old and careworn to be without a
little curiosity to see him.  This particular show was by far the
largest and grandest in the fair, a horde of little shows grouping
themselves under its shade like chickens around a hen.  The crowd had
passed in, and Boldwood, who had been watching all the day for an
opportunity of speaking to her, seeing her comparatively isolated,
came up to her side.

"I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?" he said,
nervously.

"Oh yes, thank you," said Bathsheba, colour springing up in the
centre of her cheeks.  "I was fortunate enough to sell them all just
as we got upon the hill, so we hadn't to pen at all."

"And now you are entirely at leisure?"

"Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two hours' time:
otherwise I should be going home.  He was looking at this large tent
and the announcement.  Have you ever seen the play of 'Turpin's Ride
to York'?  Turpin was a real man, was he not?"

"Oh yes, perfectly true--all of it.  Indeed, I think I've heard Jan
Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King, Turpin's friend,
quite well."

"Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his
relations, we must remember.  I hope they can all be believed."

"Yes, yes; we know Coggan.  But Turpin is true enough.  You have
never seen it played, I suppose?"

"Never.  I was not allowed to go into these places when I was young.
Hark!  What's that prancing?  How they shout!"

"Black Bess just started off, I suppose.  Am I right in supposing
you would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy?  Please excuse my
mistake, if it is one; but if you would like to, I'll get a seat for
you with pleasure."  Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, "I
myself shall not stay to see it: I've seen it before."

Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only
withheld her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone.
She had been hoping that Oak might appear, whose assistance in such
cases was always accepted as an inalienable right, but Oak was
nowhere to be seen; and hence it was that she said, "Then if you will
just look in first, to see if there's room, I think I will go in for
a minute or two."

And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the tent with
Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a "reserved" seat, again
withdrew.

This feature consisted of one raised bench in a very conspicuous
part of the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a piece
of carpet, and Bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion, that
she was the single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of
the crowded spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the
borders of the arena, where they got twice as good a view of the
performance for half the money.  Hence as many eyes were turned upon
her, enthroned alone in this place of honour, against a scarlet
background, as upon the ponies and clown who were engaged in
preliminary exploits in the centre, Turpin not having yet appeared.
Once there, Bathsheba was forced to make the best of it and remain:
she sat down, spreading her skirts with some dignity over the
unoccupied space on each side of her, and giving a new and feminine
aspect to the pavilion.  In a few minutes she noticed the fat red
nape of Coggan's neck among those standing just below her, and Joseph
Poorgrass's saintly profile a little further on.

The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade.  The strange luminous
semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into
Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through holes
and divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust
across the dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until
they alighted on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like
little lamps suspended there.

Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a
reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before
him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament.  He started
back in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually
concealed his personality, he instantly felt that she would be sure
to recognize his voice.  He had several times during the day thought
of the possibility of some Weatherbury person or other appearing and
recognizing him; but he had taken the risk carelessly.  If they see
me, let them, he had said.  But here was Bathsheba in her own person;
and the reality of the scene was so much intenser than any of his
prefigurings that he felt he had not half enough considered the
point.

She looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about Weatherbury
people was changed.  He had not expected her to exercise this power
over him in the twinkling of an eye.  Should he go on, and care
nothing?  He could not bring himself to do that.  Beyond a politic
wish to remain unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of
shame at the possibility that his attractive young wife, who already
despised him, should despise him more by discovering him in so mean a
condition after so long a time.  He actually blushed at the thought,
and was vexed beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike towards
Weatherbury should have led him to dally about the country in this
way.

But Troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his wit's end.
He hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his own little dressing
space from that of the manager and proprietor, who now appeared as
the individual called Tom King as far down as his waist, and as the
aforesaid respectable manager thence to his toes.

"Here's the devil to pay!" said Troy.

"How's that?"

"Why, there's a blackguard creditor in the tent I don't want to see,
who'll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I open my mouth.
What's to be done?"

"You must appear now, I think."

"I can't."

"But the play must proceed."

"Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can't speak his
part, but that he'll perform it just the same without speaking."

The proprietor shook his head.

"Anyhow, play or no play, I won't open my mouth," said Troy, firmly.

"Very well, then let me see.  I tell you how we'll manage," said the
other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to offend his
leading man just at this time.  "I won't tell 'em anything about your
keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what
you can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods
in the heroic places, you know.  They'll never find out that the
speeches are omitted."

This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin's speeches were not many or
long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and
accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time Black Bess
leapt into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators.
At the turnpike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at
midnight by the officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his
tasselled nightcap denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan
uttered a broad-chested "Well done!" which could be heard all over
the fair above the bleating, and Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a
nice sense of dramatic contrast between our hero, who coolly leaps
the gate, and halting justice in the form of his enemies, who must
needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be let through.  At the death
of Tom King, he could not refrain from seizing Coggan by the hand,
and whispering, with tears in his eyes, "Of course he's not really
shot, Jan--only seemingly!"  And when the last sad scene came on, and
the body of the gallant and faithful Bess had to be carried out on a
shutter by twelve volunteers from among the spectators, nothing could
restrain Poorgrass from lending a hand, exclaiming, as he asked
Jan to join him, "Twill be something to tell of at Warren's in
future years, Jan, and hand down to our children."  For many a year
in Weatherbury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who had had
experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand the hoof
of Bess as she lay upon the board upon his shoulder.  If, as some
thinkers hold, immortality consists in being enshrined in others'
memories, then did Black Bess become immortal that day if she never
had done so before.

Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for
the character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though
he had felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis
effected by judiciously "lining" his face with a wire rendered him
safe from the eyes of Bathsheba and her men.  Nevertheless, he was
relieved when it was got through.

There was a second performance in the evening, and the tent was
lighted up.  Troy had taken his part very quietly this time,
venturing to introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just
concluding it when, whilst standing at the edge of the circle
contiguous to the first row of spectators, he observed within a
yard of him the eye of a man darted keenly into his side features.
Troy hastily shifted his position, after having recognized in the
scrutineer the knavish bailiff Pennyways, his wife's sworn enemy,
who still hung about the outskirts of Weatherbury.

At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances.
That he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet
there was room for a doubt.  Then the great objection he had felt to
allowing news of his proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the
event of his return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present
occupation would discredit him still further in his wife's eyes,
returned in full force.  Moreover, should he resolve not to return at
all, a tale of his being alive and being in the neighbourhood would
be awkward; and he was anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife's
temporal affairs before deciding which to do.

In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre.  It occurred
to him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible,
would be a very wise act.  He had put on a thick beard borrowed from
the establishment, and in this he wandered about the fair-field.  It
was now almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts
and gigs ready to go home.

The largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an
innkeeper from a neighbouring town.  This was considered an
unexceptionable place for obtaining the necessary food and rest:
Host Trencher (as he was jauntily called by the local newspaper)
being a substantial man of high repute for catering through all the
country round.  The tent was divided into first and second-class
compartments, and at the end of the first-class division was a yet
further enclosure for the most exclusive, fenced off from the body
of the tent by a luncheon-bar, behind which the host himself stood
bustling about in white apron and shirt-sleeves, and looking as if
he had never lived anywhere but under canvas all his life.  In these
penetralia were chairs and a table, which, on candles being lighted,
made quite a cozy and luxurious show, with an urn, plated tea and
coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes.

Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was
frying pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a
penny a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within.  He
could see nothing of Pennyways, but he soon discerned Bathsheba
through an opening into the reserved space at the further end.  Troy
thereupon retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and
listened.  He could hear Bathsheba's voice immediately inside the
canvas; she was conversing with a man.  A warmth overspread his
face: surely she was not so unprincipled as to flirt in a fair!
He wondered if, then, she reckoned upon his death as an absolute
certainty.  To get at the root of the matter, Troy took a penknife
from his pocket and softly made two little cuts crosswise in the
cloth, which, by folding back the corners left a hole the size of a
wafer.  Close to this he placed his face, withdrawing it again in a
movement of surprise; for his eye had been within twelve inches of
the top of Bathsheba's head.  It was too near to be convenient.  He
made another hole a little to one side and lower down, in a shaded
place beside her chair, from which it was easy and safe to survey
her by looking horizontally.

Troy took in the scene completely now.  She was leaning back, sipping
a cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male
voice was Boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her,
Bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the
canvas that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was,
in fact, as good as in Troy's arms; and he was obliged to keep his
breast carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth through
the cloth as he gazed in.

Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again within
him as they had been stirred earlier in the day.  She was handsome
as ever, and she was his.  It was some minutes before he could
counteract his sudden wish to go in, and claim her.  Then he thought
how the proud girl who had always looked down upon him even whilst it
was to love him, would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling
player.  Were he to make himself known, that chapter of his life
must at all risks be kept for ever from her and from the Weatherbury
people, or his name would be a byword throughout the parish.  He
would be nicknamed "Turpin" as long as he lived.  Assuredly before
he could claim her these few past months of his existence must be
entirely blotted out.

"Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma'am?" said Farmer
Boldwood.

"Thank you," said Bathsheba.  "But I must be going at once.  It was
great neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late.  I
should have gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him.  I had no
idea of coming in here; but there's nothing so refreshing as a cup of
tea, though I should never have got one if you hadn't helped me."

Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched each
varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her
little ear.  She took out her purse and was insisting to Boldwood on
paying for her tea for herself, when at this moment Pennyways entered
the tent.  Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability
endangered at once.  He was about to leave his hole of espial,
attempt to follow Pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had
recognized him, when he was arrested by the conversation, and found
he was too late.

"Excuse me, ma'am," said Pennyways; "I've some private information
for your ear alone."

"I cannot hear it now," she said, coldly.  That Bathsheba could not
endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to
her with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at
the expense of persons maligned.

"I'll write it down," said Pennyways, confidently.  He stooped over
the table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon
the paper, in a round hand--

"YOUR HUSBAND IS HERE.  I'VE SEEN HIM.  WHO'S THE FOOL NOW?"

This he folded small, and handed towards her.  Bathsheba would not
read it; she would not even put out her hand to take it.  Pennyways,
then, with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning
away, left her.

From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had not been
able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment's doubt that
the note referred to him.  Nothing that he could think of could be
done to check the exposure.  "Curse my luck!" he whispered, and
added imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind.
Meanwhile Boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap--

"Don't you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy?  If not, I'll destroy it."

"Oh, well," said Bathsheba, carelessly, "perhaps it is unjust not to
read it; but I can guess what it is about.  He wants me to recommend
him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected
with my work-people.  He's always doing that."

Bathsheba held the note in her right hand.  Boldwood handed towards
her a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order to take a slice,
she put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding
the purse, and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to
the canvas.  The moment had come for saving his game, and Troy
impulsively felt that he would play the card.  For yet another time
he looked at the fair hand, and saw the pink finger-tips, and the
blue veins of the wrist, encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings
which she wore: how familiar it all was to him!  Then, with the
lightning action in which he was such an adept, he noiselessly
slipped his hand under the bottom of the tent-cloth, which was far
from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a little way, keeping his
eye to the hole, snatched the note from her fingers, dropped the
canvas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank and ditch, smiling
at the scream of astonishment which burst from her.  Troy then slid
down on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in the bottom of
the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards, ascended again,
and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards the front entrance of
the tent.  His object was now to get to Pennyways, and prevent a
repetition of the announcement until such time as he should choose.

Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there
gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishing to
make himself prominent by inquiring for him.  One or two men were
speaking of a daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young
lady by lifting the canvas of the tent beside her.  It was supposed
that the rogue had imagined a slip of paper which she held in her
hand to be a bank note, for he had seized it, and made off with
it, leaving her purse behind.  His chagrin and disappointment at
discovering its worthlessness would be a good joke, it was said.
However, the occurrence seemed to have become known to few, for it
had not interrupted a fiddler, who had lately begun playing by the
door of the tent, nor the four bowed old men with grim countenances
and walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing "Major Malley's Reel"
to the tune.  Behind these stood Pennyways.  Troy glided up to him,
beckoned, and whispered a few words; and with a mutual glance of
concurrence the two men went into the night together.

Now it's time for the annual sheep fair that takes place a few towns away from Weatherbury. According to the narrator, this fair is a big deal for anyone who raises sheep, which includes Bathsheba. To make the journey, Bathsheba and Boldwood's flocks unite, driven on by Gabriel Oak. When Oak, Bathsheba, and Boldwood get to the fair, they find a huge circular tent in the middle of all the action. It turns out that there's going to be a show in this tent later in the day, and everyone around wants to see it. There is a huge crowd waiting to get tickets, and some of Bathsheba's workers join this crowd, trying to shove their way toward the ticket counter. Meanwhile, the narrator shows us what's going on in some of the small dressing rooms nearby given to the performers in the show. One of the men getting dressed in these rooms is none other than Sergeant Troy. The narrator gives us a quick description of how Troy went with the sailors to America, did a few odd jobs, and then decided to return home to live off of his wife's money once again. On his journey home, though, he joined group of travelling performers in order to make a little extra money, since they needed his skills as a swordsman. Ok, who wants to read a spin-off novel about Troy's escapades in America and as a travelling performer? Meanwhile, we find Farmer Boldwood asking Bathsheba if she's done well selling off her sheep. She says that indeed she has. Boldwood offers to get her a seat, and only after saying that he's not going himself does she agreed to attend. Before the show, Sergeant Troy peeks out through the tent's curtains and sees Bathsheba sitting in the audience. He knew when he started performing that he'd risk running into someone who knew him. But this is just plain bad luck. He knows he'll never hear the end of it if Bathsheba catches him working with a bunch of travelling performers like some loser. Troy lies to his boss by saying that there's someone in the crowd he owes money to, and that he can't go onstage. The boss says the show must go on, though, so Troy negotiates it so that he won't have to speak any of his lines. On top of that, he wears extra stage makeup to hide his identity. With this all figured out, we have a comedic look at Bathsheba's workmen--Poorgrass and Jan Coggan--reacting to the entire play as if it were real. At one point, though, Troy knows that he's been found out. Not by Bathsheba or her workers though, but by Pennyways, the disgruntled man that Bathsheba fired as her bailiff toward the beginning of the book. After the show, Troy realizes that he needs to track down Pennyways before the guy blows his cover. He puts on a fake beard and goes looking for the guy. While looking for Pennyways, Troy overhears Bathsheba talking inside a tent. He goes and looks through a slit in the tent to see Bathsheba talking to Boldwood. As he looks into the tent, he realizes that Bathsheba is truly good-looking and that she's all his if he only wants to appear and claim her as his wife. While he watches, Pennyways enters the tent and gives a note to Bathsheba. She tells him she won't give him the satisfaction of reading it, though, and he eventually leaves. She sits for a while with the note dangling from her hand. Eventually, Troy reaches through the tent and grabs it from her. The note, of course, says that Pennyways has seen Troy alive. But luckily for Troy, Bathsheba will never see this note. Now, he goes to find Pennyways and strike a deal with him, saying he'll help the guy financially if he just keeps his mouth shut.


BATHSHEBA TALKS WITH HER OUTRIDER

The arrangement for getting back again to Weatherbury had been that
Oak should take the place of Poorgrass in Bathsheba's conveyance and
drive her home, it being discovered late in the afternoon that Joseph
was suffering from his old complaint, a multiplying eye, and was,
therefore, hardly trustworthy as coachman and protector to a woman.
But Oak had found himself so occupied, and was full of so many
cares relative to those portions of Boldwood's flocks that were not
disposed of, that Bathsheba, without telling Oak or anybody, resolved
to drive home herself, as she had many times done from Casterbridge
Market, and trust to her good angel for performing the journey
unmolested.  But having fallen in with Farmer Boldwood accidentally
(on her part at least) at the refreshment-tent, she found it
impossible to refuse his offer to ride on horseback beside her as
escort.  It had grown twilight before she was aware, but Boldwood
assured her that there was no cause for uneasiness, as the moon
would be up in half-an-hour.

Immediately after the incident in the tent, she had risen to
go--now absolutely alarmed and really grateful for her old lover's
protection--though regretting Gabriel's absence, whose company she
would have much preferred, as being more proper as well as more
pleasant, since he was her own managing-man and servant.  This,
however, could not be helped; she would not, on any consideration,
treat Boldwood harshly, having once already ill-used him, and the
moon having risen, and the gig being ready, she drove across the
hilltop in the wending way's which led downwards--to oblivious
obscurity, as it seemed, for the moon and the hill it flooded with
light were in appearance on a level, the rest of the world lying as
a vast shady concave between them.  Boldwood mounted his horse, and
followed in close attendance behind.  Thus they descended into the
lowlands, and the sounds of those left on the hill came like voices
from the sky, and the lights were as those of a camp in heaven.  They
soon passed the merry stragglers in the immediate vicinity of the
hill, traversed Kingsbere, and got upon the high road.

The keen instincts of Bathsheba had perceived that the farmer's
staunch devotion to herself was still undiminished, and she
sympathized deeply.  The sight had quite depressed her this evening;
had reminded her of her folly; she wished anew, as she had wished
many months ago, for some means of making reparation for her fault.
Hence her pity for the man who so persistently loved on to his own
injury and permanent gloom had betrayed Bathsheba into an injudicious
considerateness of manner, which appeared almost like tenderness,
and gave new vigour to the exquisite dream of a Jacob's seven years
service in poor Boldwood's mind.

He soon found an excuse for advancing from his position in the rear,
and rode close by her side.  They had gone two or three miles in
the moonlight, speaking desultorily across the wheel of her gig
concerning the fair, farming, Oak's usefulness to them both, and
other indifferent subjects, when Boldwood said suddenly and simply--

"Mrs. Troy, you will marry again some day?"

This point-blank query unmistakably confused her, and it was not till
a minute or more had elapsed that she said, "I have not seriously
thought of any such subject."

"I quite understand that.  Yet your late husband has been dead nearly
one year, and--"

"You forget that his death was never absolutely proved, and may not
have taken place; so that I may not be really a widow," she said,
catching at the straw of escape that the fact afforded.

"Not absolutely proved, perhaps, but it was proved circumstantially.
A man saw him drowning, too.  No reasonable person has any doubt of
his death; nor have you, ma'am, I should imagine."

"I have none now, or I should have acted differently," she said,
gently.  "I certainly, at first, had a strange unaccountable feeling
that he could not have perished, but I have been able to explain that
in several ways since.  But though I am fully persuaded that I shall
see him no more, I am far from thinking of marriage with another.  I
should be very contemptible to indulge in such a thought."

They were silent now awhile, and having struck into an unfrequented
track across a common, the creaks of Boldwood's saddle and her gig
springs were all the sounds to be heard. Boldwood ended the pause.

"Do you remember when I carried you fainting in my arms into the
King's Arms, in Casterbridge?  Every dog has his day: that was mine."

"I know--I know it all," she said, hurriedly.

"I, for one, shall never cease regretting that events so fell out as
to deny you to me."

"I, too, am very sorry," she said, and then checked herself.  "I
mean, you know, I am sorry you thought I--"

"I have always this dreary pleasure in thinking over those past times
with you--that I was something to you before HE was anything, and
that you belonged ALMOST to me.  But, of course, that's nothing.  You
never liked me."

"I did; and respected you, too."

"Do you now?"

"Yes."

"Which?"

"How do you mean which?"

"Do you like me, or do you respect me?"

"I don't know--at least, I cannot tell you.  It is difficult for a
woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men
to express theirs.  My treatment of you was thoughtless, inexcusable,
wicked!  I shall eternally regret it.  If there had been anything
I could have done to make amends I would most gladly have done
it--there was nothing on earth I so longed to do as to repair the
error.  But that was not possible."

"Don't blame yourself--you were not so far in the wrong as you
suppose.  Bathsheba, suppose you had real complete proof that you are
what, in fact, you are--a widow--would you repair the old wrong to me
by marrying me?"

"I cannot say.  I shouldn't yet, at any rate."

"But you might at some future time of your life?"

"Oh yes, I might at some time."

"Well, then, do you know that without further proof of any kind you
may marry again in about six years from the present--subject to
nobody's objection or blame?"

"Oh yes," she said, quickly.  "I know all that.  But don't talk of
it--seven or six years--where may we all be by that time?"

"They will soon glide by, and it will seem an astonishingly short
time to look back upon when they are past--much less than to look
forward to now."

"Yes, yes; I have found that in my own experience."

"Now listen once more," Boldwood pleaded.  "If I wait that time, will
you marry me?  You own that you owe me amends--let that be your way
of making them."

"But, Mr. Boldwood--six years--"

"Do you want to be the wife of any other man?"

"No indeed!  I mean, that I don't like to talk about this matter now.
Perhaps it is not proper, and I ought not to allow it.  Let us drop
it.  My husband may be living, as I said."

"Of course, I'll drop the subject if you wish.  But propriety has
nothing to do with reasons.  I am a middle-aged man, willing to
protect you for the remainder of our lives.  On your side, at least,
there is no passion or blamable haste--on mine, perhaps, there is.
But I can't help seeing that if you choose from a feeling of pity,
and, as you say, a wish to make amends, to make a bargain with me for
a far-ahead time--an agreement which will set all things right and
make me happy, late though it may be--there is no fault to be found
with you as a woman.  Hadn't I the first place beside you?  Haven't
you been almost mine once already?  Surely you can say to me as much
as this, you will have me back again should circumstances permit?
Now, pray speak!  O Bathsheba, promise--it is only a little
promise--that if you marry again, you will marry me!"

His tone was so excited that she almost feared him at this moment,
even whilst she sympathized.  It was a simple physical fear--the weak
of the strong; there was no emotional aversion or inner repugnance.
She said, with some distress in her voice, for she remembered vividly
his outburst on the Yalbury Road, and shrank from a repetition of his
anger:--

"I will never marry another man whilst you wish me to be your wife,
whatever comes--but to say more--you have taken me so by surprise--"

"But let it stand in these simple words--that in six years' time you
will be my wife?  Unexpected accidents we'll not mention, because
those, of course, must be given way to.  Now, this time I know you
will keep your word."

"That's why I hesitate to give it."

"But do give it!  Remember the past, and be kind."

She breathed; and then said mournfully: "Oh what shall I do?  I don't
love you, and I much fear that I never shall love you as much as a
woman ought to love a husband.  If you, sir, know that, and I can
yet give you happiness by a mere promise to marry at the end of six
years, if my husband should not come back, it is a great honour to
me.  And if you value such an act of friendship from a woman who
doesn't esteem herself as she did, and has little love left, why
I--I will--"

"Promise!"

"--Consider, if I cannot promise soon."

"But soon is perhaps never?"

"Oh no, it is not!  I mean soon.  Christmas, we'll say."

"Christmas!"  He said nothing further till he added: "Well, I'll say
no more to you about it till that time."

Bathsheba was in a very peculiar state of mind, which showed how
entirely the soul is the slave of the body, the ethereal spirit
dependent for its quality upon the tangible flesh and blood.  It is
hardly too much to say that she felt coerced by a force stronger than
her own will, not only into the act of promising upon this singularly
remote and vague matter, but into the emotion of fancying that she
ought to promise.  When the weeks intervening between the night of
this conversation and Christmas day began perceptibly to diminish,
her anxiety and perplexity increased.

One day she was led by an accident into an oddly confidential
dialogue with Gabriel about her difficulty.  It afforded her a little
relief--of a dull and cheerless kind.  They were auditing accounts,
and something occurred in the course of their labours which led Oak
to say, speaking of Boldwood, "He'll never forget you, ma'am, never."

Then out came her trouble before she was aware; and she told him how
she had again got into the toils; what Boldwood had asked her, and
how he was expecting her assent.  "The most mournful reason of all
for my agreeing to it," she said sadly, "and the true reason why I
think to do so for good or for evil, is this--it is a thing I have
not breathed to a living soul as yet--I believe that if I don't give
my word, he'll go out of his mind."

"Really, do ye?" said Gabriel, gravely.

"I believe this," she continued, with reckless frankness; "and Heaven
knows I say it in a spirit the very reverse of vain, for I am grieved
and troubled to my soul about it--I believe I hold that man's future
in my hand.  His career depends entirely upon my treatment of him.  O
Gabriel, I tremble at my responsibility, for it is terrible!"

"Well, I think this much, ma'am, as I told you years ago," said Oak,
"that his life is a total blank whenever he isn't hoping for 'ee; but
I can't suppose--I hope that nothing so dreadful hangs on to it as
you fancy.  His natural manner has always been dark and strange, you
know.  But since the case is so sad and odd-like, why don't ye give
the conditional promise?  I think I would."

"But is it right?  Some rash acts of my past life have taught me that
a watched woman must have very much circumspection to retain only a
very little credit, and I do want and long to be discreet in this!
And six years--why we may all be in our graves by that time, even if
Mr. Troy does not come back again, which he may not impossibly do!
Such thoughts give a sort of absurdity to the scheme.  Now, isn't
it preposterous, Gabriel?  However he came to dream of it, I cannot
think.  But is it wrong?  You know--you are older than I."

"Eight years older, ma'am."

"Yes, eight years--and is it wrong?"

"Perhaps it would be an uncommon agreement for a man and woman to
make: I don't see anything really wrong about it," said Oak, slowly.
"In fact the very thing that makes it doubtful if you ought to marry
en under any condition, that is, your not caring about him--for I
may suppose--"

"Yes, you may suppose that love is wanting," she said shortly.  "Love
is an utterly bygone, sorry, worn-out, miserable thing with me--for
him or any one else."

"Well, your want of love seems to me the one thing that takes away
harm from such an agreement with him.  If wild heat had to do wi'
it, making ye long to over-come the awkwardness about your husband's
vanishing, it mid be wrong; but a cold-hearted agreement to oblige a
man seems different, somehow.  The real sin, ma'am in my mind, lies
in thinking of ever wedding wi' a man you don't love honest and
true."

"That I'm willing to pay the penalty of," said Bathsheba, firmly.
"You know, Gabriel, this is what I cannot get off my conscience--that
I once seriously injured him in sheer idleness.  If I had never
played a trick upon him, he would never have wanted to marry me.  Oh
if I could only pay some heavy damages in money to him for the harm
I did, and so get the sin off my soul that way!...  Well, there's
the debt, which can only be discharged in one way, and I believe
I am bound to do it if it honestly lies in my power, without any
consideration of my own future at all.  When a rake gambles away his
expectations, the fact that it is an inconvenient debt doesn't make
him the less liable.  I've been a rake, and the single point I ask
you is, considering that my own scruples, and the fact that in the
eye of the law my husband is only missing, will keep any man from
marrying me until seven years have passed--am I free to entertain
such an idea, even though 'tis a sort of penance--for it will be
that?  I HATE the act of marriage under such circumstances, and the
class of women I should seem to belong to by doing it!"

"It seems to me that all depends upon whe'r you think, as everybody
else do, that your husband is dead."

"Yes--I've long ceased to doubt that.  I well know what would have
brought him back long before this time if he had lived."

"Well, then, in a religious sense you will be as free to THINK o'
marrying again as any real widow of one year's standing.  But why
don't ye ask Mr. Thirdly's advice on how to treat Mr. Boldwood?"

"No.  When I want a broad-minded opinion for general enlightenment,
distinct from special advice, I never go to a man who deals in
the subject professionally.  So I like the parson's opinion on
law, the lawyer's on doctoring, the doctor's on business, and my
business-man's--that is, yours--on morals."

"And on love--"

"My own."

"I'm afraid there's a hitch in that argument," said Oak, with a grave
smile.

She did not reply at once, and then saying, "Good evening, Mr. Oak."
went away.

She had spoken frankly, and neither asked nor expected any reply
from Gabriel more satisfactory than that she had obtained.  Yet in
the centremost parts of her complicated heart there existed at this
minute a little pang of disappointment, for a reason she would not
allow herself to recognize.  Oak had not once wished her free that he
might marry her himself--had not once said, "I could wait for you as
well as he."  That was the insect sting.  Not that she would have
listened to any such hypothesis.  O no--for wasn't she saying all
the time that such thoughts of the future were improper, and wasn't
Gabriel far too poor a man to speak sentiment to her?  Yet he might
have just hinted about that old love of his, and asked, in a playful
off-hand way, if he might speak of it.  It would have seemed pretty
and sweet, if no more; and then she would have shown how kind and
inoffensive a woman's "No" can sometimes be.  But to give such cool
advice--the very advice she had asked for--it ruffled our heroine all
the afternoon.

Gabriel Oak turns out to be too busy with fair business to escort Bathsheba home as planned, so she decides to drive alone in her cart. Unfortunately, she gets caught leaving by Boldwood, and the man insists on escorting her the whole way home... alone. Hurray. Boldwood is tired of beating around the bush, so he flat out asks Bathsheba if she would ever consider marrying him again. She says she's not really interested, but Boldwood isn't one to take no for an answer. She tells him that the only reason she'd ever marry him would be out of a sense that she owed him something, but she'll never love him. Finally, he gets her to promise him that by Christmas, she'll be able to commit to marrying him, even if it's a six or seven year engagement. As the next few weeks go by, Bathsheba decides that she needs to confide in someone about her dilemma. She talks to Gabriel Oak about it and admits that she'll never love Boldwood. She's afraid that if she refuses him, though, she'll be responsible for driving him literally insane. Oak simply says that it's not fair to marry someone you don't love, but Bathsheba keeps insisting that it's more complicated than that. Bathsheba says she likes talking to Oak about love because it's something he's not an expert in. He tells her, however, that she shouldn't be so sure about this. As she walks away, Bathsheba resents the fact that for all of her romance with Troy and Boldwood, Oak has never once tried to throw his hat back into the ring. Not that she would have accepted him. She just wished she had the opportunity to say no to him. Oh, jeez. Bathsheba is such a diva.


CONVERGING COURSES

Christmas-eve came, and a party that Boldwood was to give in the
evening was the great subject of talk in Weatherbury.  It was not
that the rarity of Christmas parties in the parish made this one a
wonder, but that Boldwood should be the giver.  The announcement
had had an abnormal and incongruous sound, as if one should hear of
croquet-playing in a cathedral aisle, or that some much-respected
judge was going upon the stage.  That the party was intended to be
a truly jovial one there was no room for doubt.  A large bough of
mistletoe had been brought from the woods that day, and suspended
in the hall of the bachelor's home.  Holly and ivy had followed in
armfuls.  From six that morning till past noon the huge wood fire
in the kitchen roared and sparkled at its highest, the kettle, the
saucepan, and the three-legged pot appearing in the midst of the
flames like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego; moreover, roasting
and basting operations were continually carried on in front of the
genial blaze.

As it grew later the fire was made up in the large long hall into
which the staircase descended, and all encumbrances were cleared out
for dancing.  The log which was to form the back-brand of the evening
fire was the uncleft trunk of a tree, so unwieldy that it could be
neither brought nor rolled to its place; and accordingly two men were
to be observed dragging and heaving it in by chains and levers as the
hour of assembly drew near.

In spite of all this, the spirit of revelry was wanting in the
atmosphere of the house.  Such a thing had never been attempted
before by its owner, and it was now done as by a wrench.  Intended
gaieties would insist upon appearing like solemn grandeurs, the
organization of the whole effort was carried out coldly, by
hirelings, and a shadow seemed to move about the rooms, saying that
the proceedings were unnatural to the place and the lone man who
lived therein, and hence not good.

Bathsheba was at this time in her room, dressing for the event.  She
had called for candles, and Liddy entered and placed one on each side
of her mistress's glass.

"Don't go away, Liddy," said Bathsheba, almost timidly. "I am
foolishly agitated--I cannot tell why.  I wish I had not been obliged
to go to this dance; but there's no escaping now.  I have not spoken
to Mr. Boldwood since the autumn, when I promised to see him at
Christmas on business, but I had no idea there was to be anything of
this kind."

"But I would go now," said Liddy, who was going with her; for
Boldwood had been indiscriminate in his invitations.

"Yes, I shall make my appearance, of course," said Bathsheba.  "But I
am THE CAUSE of the party, and that upsets me!--Don't tell, Liddy."

"Oh no, ma'am.  You the cause of it, ma'am?"

"Yes.  I am the reason of the party--I.  If it had not been for me,
    there would never have been one.  I can't explain any more--there's
    no more to be explained.  I wish I had never seen Weatherbury."

    "That's wicked of you--to wish to be worse off than you are."

    "No, Liddy.  I have never been free from trouble since I have lived
    here, and this party is likely to bring me more.  Now, fetch my black
    silk dress, and see how it sits upon me."

    "But you will leave off that, surely, ma'am?  You have been a
    widow-lady fourteen months, and ought to brighten up a little on
    such a night as this."

    "Is it necessary?  No; I will appear as usual, for if I were to wear
    any light dress people would say things about me, and I should seem
    to be rejoicing when I am solemn all the time.  The party doesn't
    suit me a bit; but never mind, stay and help to finish me off."

    Boldwood was dressing also at this hour.  A tailor from Casterbridge
    was with him, assisting him in the operation of trying on a new coat
    that had just been brought home.

    Never had Boldwood been so fastidious, unreasonable about the fit,
    and generally difficult to please.  The tailor walked round and round
    him, tugged at the waist, pulled the sleeve, pressed out the collar,
    and for the first time in his experience Boldwood was not bored.
    Times had been when the farmer had exclaimed against all such
    niceties as childish, but now no philosophic or hasty rebuke whatever
    was provoked by this man for attaching as much importance to a crease
    in the coat as to an earthquake in South America.  Boldwood at last
    expressed himself nearly satisfied, and paid the bill, the tailor
    passing out of the door just as Oak came in to report progress for
    the day.

    "Oh, Oak," said Boldwood.  "I shall of course see you here to-night.
    Make yourself merry.  I am determined that neither expense nor
    trouble shall be spared."

    "I'll try to be here, sir, though perhaps it may not be very early,"
    said Gabriel, quietly.  "I am glad indeed to see such a change in
    'ee from what it used to be."

    "Yes--I must own it--I am bright to-night: cheerful and more than
    cheerful--so much so that I am almost sad again with the sense that
    all of it is passing away.  And sometimes, when I am excessively
    hopeful and blithe, a trouble is looming in the distance: so that I
    often get to look upon gloom in me with content, and to fear a happy
    mood.  Still this may be absurd--I feel that it is absurd.  Perhaps
    my day is dawning at last."

    "I hope it 'ill be a long and a fair one."

    "Thank you--thank you.  Yet perhaps my cheerfulness rests on a
    slender hope.  And yet I trust my hope.  It is faith, not hope.  I
    think this time I reckon with my host.--Oak, my hands are a little
    shaky, or something; I can't tie this neckerchief properly.  Perhaps
    you will tie it for me.  The fact is, I have not been well lately,
    you know."

    "I am sorry to hear that, sir."

    "Oh, it's nothing.  I want it done as well as you can, please.  Is
    there any late knot in fashion, Oak?"

    "I don't know, sir," said Oak.  His tone had sunk to sadness.

    Boldwood approached Gabriel, and as Oak tied the neckerchief the
    farmer went on feverishly--

    "Does a woman keep her promise, Gabriel?"

    "If it is not inconvenient to her she may."

    "--Or rather an implied promise."

    "I won't answer for her implying," said Oak, with faint bitterness.
    "That's a word as full o' holes as a sieve with them."

    "Oak, don't talk like that.  You have got quite cynical lately--how
    is it?  We seem to have shifted our positions: I have become the
    young and hopeful man, and you the old and unbelieving one.  However,
    does a woman keep a promise, not to marry, but to enter on an
    engagement to marry at some time?  Now you know women better than
    I--tell me."

    "I am afeard you honour my understanding too much.  However, she may
    keep such a promise, if it is made with an honest meaning to repair
    a wrong."

    "It has not gone far yet, but I think it will soon--yes, I know it
    will," he said, in an impulsive whisper.  "I have pressed her upon
    the subject, and she inclines to be kind to me, and to think of me
    as a husband at a long future time, and that's enough for me.  How
    can I expect more?  She has a notion that a woman should not marry
    within seven years of her husband's disappearance--that her own self
    shouldn't, I mean--because his body was not found.  It may be merely
    this legal reason which influences her, or it may be a religious
    one, but she is reluctant to talk on the point. Yet she has
    promised--implied--that she will ratify an engagement to-night."

    "Seven years," murmured Oak.

    "No, no--it's no such thing!" he said, with impatience.  "Five years,
    nine months, and a few days.  Fifteen months nearly have passed since
    he vanished, and is there anything so wonderful in an engagement of
    little more than five years?"

    "It seems long in a forward view.  Don't build too much upon such
    promises, sir.  Remember, you have once be'n deceived.  Her meaning
    may be good; but there--she's young yet."

    "Deceived?  Never!" said Boldwood, vehemently.  "She never promised
    me at that first time, and hence she did not break her promise!  If
    she promises me, she'll marry me.  Bathsheba is a woman to her word."

    Troy was sitting in a corner of The White Hart tavern at
    Casterbridge, smoking and drinking a steaming mixture from a glass.
    A knock was given at the door, and Pennyways entered.

    "Well, have you seen him?" Troy inquired, pointing to a chair.

    "Boldwood?"

    "No--Lawyer Long."

    "He wadn' at home.  I went there first, too."

    "That's a nuisance."

    "'Tis rather, I suppose."

    "Yet I don't see that, because a man appears to be drowned and was
    not, he should be liable for anything.  I shan't ask any lawyer--not
    I."

    "But that's not it, exactly.  If a man changes his name and so forth,
    and takes steps to deceive the world and his own wife, he's a cheat,
    and that in the eye of the law is ayless a rogue, and that is ayless
    a lammocken vagabond; and that's a punishable situation."

    "Ha-ha!  Well done, Pennyways," Troy had laughed, but it was with
    some anxiety that he said, "Now, what I want to know is this, do you
    think there's really anything going on between her and Boldwood?
    Upon my soul, I should never have believed it!  How she must detest
    me!  Have you found out whether she has encouraged him?"

    "I haen't been able to learn.  There's a deal of feeling on his side
    seemingly, but I don't answer for her.  I didn't know a word about
    any such thing till yesterday, and all I heard then was that she was
    gwine to the party at his house to-night.  This is the first time she
    has ever gone there, they say.  And they say that she've not so much
    as spoke to him since they were at Greenhill Fair: but what can folk
    believe o't?  However, she's not fond of him--quite offish and quite
    careless, I know."

    "I'm not so sure of that....  She's a handsome woman, Pennyways, is
    she not?  Own that you never saw a finer or more splendid creature
    in your life.  Upon my honour, when I set eyes upon her that day I
    wondered what I could have been made of to be able to leave her by
    herself so long.  And then I was hampered with that bothering show,
    which I'm free of at last, thank the stars."  He smoked on awhile,
    and then added, "How did she look when you passed by yesterday?"

    "Oh, she took no great heed of me, ye may well fancy; but she looked
    well enough, far's I know.  Just flashed her haughty eyes upon my
    poor scram body, and then let them go past me to what was yond, much
    as if I'd been no more than a leafless tree.  She had just got off
    her mare to look at the last wring-down of cider for the year; she
    had been riding, and so her colours were up and her breath rather
    quick, so that her bosom plimmed and fell--plimmed and fell--every
    time plain to my eye.  Ay, and there were the fellers round her
    wringing down the cheese and bustling about and saying, 'Ware o' the
    pommy, ma'am: 'twill spoil yer gown.'  'Never mind me,' says she.
    Then Gabe brought her some of the new cider, and she must needs go
    drinking it through a strawmote, and not in a nateral way at all.
    'Liddy,' says she, 'bring indoors a few gallons, and I'll make some
    cider-wine.'  Sergeant, I was no more to her than a morsel of scroff
    in the fuel-house!"

    "I must go and find her out at once--O yes, I see that--I must go.
    Oak is head man still, isn't he?"

    "Yes, 'a b'lieve.  And at Little Weatherbury Farm too.  He manages
    everything."

    "'Twill puzzle him to manage her, or any other man of his compass!"

    "I don't know about that.  She can't do without him, and knowing it
    well he's pretty independent.  And she've a few soft corners to her
    mind, though I've never been able to get into one, the devil's in't!"

    "Ah, baily, she's a notch above you, and you must own it: a higher
    class of animal--a finer tissue.  However, stick to me, and neither
    this haughty goddess, dashing piece of womanhood, Juno-wife of mine
    (Juno was a goddess, you know), nor anybody else shall hurt you.  But
    all this wants looking into, I perceive.  What with one thing and
    another, I see that my work is well cut out for me."

    "How do I look to-night, Liddy?" said Bathsheba, giving a final
    adjustment to her dress before leaving the glass.

    "I never saw you look so well before.  Yes--I'll tell you when you
    looked like it--that night, a year and a half ago, when you came in
    so wildlike, and scolded us for making remarks about you and Mr.
    Troy."

    "Everybody will think that I am setting myself to captivate Mr.
    Boldwood, I suppose," she murmured.  "At least they'll say so.  Can't
    my hair be brushed down a little flatter? I dread going--yet I dread
    the risk of wounding him by staying away."

    "Anyhow, ma'am, you can't well be dressed plainer than you are,
    unless you go in sackcloth at once.  'Tis your excitement is what
    makes you look so noticeable to-night."

    "I don't know what's the matter, I feel wretched at one time, and
    buoyant at another.  I wish I could have continued quite alone as I
    have been for the last year or so, with no hopes and no fears, and
    no pleasure and no grief."

    "Now just suppose Mr. Boldwood should ask you--only just suppose
    it--to run away with him, what would you do, ma'am?"

    "Liddy--none of that," said Bathsheba, gravely.  "Mind, I won't hear
    joking on any such matter.  Do you hear?"

    "I beg pardon, ma'am.  But knowing what rum things we women be, I
    just said--however, I won't speak of it again."

    "No marrying for me yet for many a year; if ever, 'twill be for
    reasons very, very different from those you think, or others will
    believe!  Now get my cloak, for it is time to go."

    "Oak," said Boldwood, "before you go I want to mention what has been
    passing in my mind lately--that little arrangement we made about
    your share in the farm I mean.  That share is small, too small,
    considering how little I attend to business now, and how much time
    and thought you give to it.  Well, since the world is brightening
    for me, I want to show my sense of it by increasing your proportion
    in the partnership.  I'll make a memorandum of the arrangement which
    struck me as likely to be convenient, for I haven't time to talk
    about it now; and then we'll discuss it at our leisure.  My intention
    is ultimately to retire from the management altogether, and until you
    can take all the expenditure upon your shoulders, I'll be a sleeping
    partner in the stock.  Then, if I marry her--and I hope--I feel I
    shall, why--"

    "Pray don't speak of it, sir," said Oak, hastily.  "We don't know
    what may happen.  So many upsets may befall 'ee.  There's many a
    slip, as they say--and I would advise you--I know you'll pardon me
    this once--not to be TOO SURE."

    "I know, I know.  But the feeling I have about increasing your share
    is on account of what I know of you.  Oak, I have learnt a little
    about your secret: your interest in her is more than that of bailiff
    for an employer.  But you have behaved like a man, and I, as a sort
    of successful rival--successful partly through your goodness of
    heart--should like definitely to show my sense of your friendship
    under what must have been a great pain to you."

    "O that's not necessary, thank 'ee," said Oak, hurriedly. "I must get
    used to such as that; other men have, and so shall I."

    Oak then left him.  He was uneasy on Boldwood's account, for he saw
    anew that this constant passion of the farmer made him not the man
    he once had been.

    As Boldwood continued awhile in his room alone--ready and dressed to
    receive his company--the mood of anxiety about his appearance seemed
    to pass away, and to be succeeded by a deep solemnity.  He looked out
    of the window, and regarded the dim outline of the trees upon the
    sky, and the twilight deepening to darkness.

    Then he went to a locked closet, and took from a locked drawer
    therein a small circular case the size of a pillbox, and was about to
    put it into his pocket.  But he lingered to open the cover and take
    a momentary glance inside.  It contained a woman's finger-ring, set
    all the way round with small diamonds, and from its appearance had
    evidently been recently purchased.  Boldwood's eyes dwelt upon its
    many sparkles a long time, though that its material aspect concerned
    him little was plain from his manner and mien, which were those of
    a mind following out the presumed thread of that jewel's future
    history.

    The noise of wheels at the front of the house became audible.
    Boldwood closed the box, stowed it away carefully in his pocket, and
    went out upon the landing.  The old man who was his indoor factotum
    came at the same moment to the foot of the stairs.

    "They be coming, sir--lots of 'em--a-foot and a-driving!"

    "I was coming down this moment.  Those wheels I heard--is it Mrs.
    Troy?"

    "No, sir--'tis not she yet."

    A reserved and sombre expression had returned to Boldwood's face
    again, but it poorly cloaked his feelings when he pronounced
    Bathsheba's name; and his feverish anxiety continued to show its
    existence by a galloping motion of his fingers upon the side of
    his thigh as he went down the stairs.

    "How does this cover me?" said Troy to Pennyways.  "Nobody would
    recognize me now, I'm sure."

    He was buttoning on a heavy grey overcoat of Noachian cut, with cape
    and high collar, the latter being erect and rigid, like a girdling
    wall, and nearly reaching to the verge of a travelling cap which was
    pulled down over his ears.

    Pennyways snuffed the candle, and then looked up and deliberately
    inspected Troy.

    "You've made up your mind to go then?" he said.

    "Made up my mind?  Yes; of course I have."

    "Why not write to her?  'Tis a very queer corner that you have got
    into, sergeant.  You see all these things will come to light if you
    go back, and they won't sound well at all.  Faith, if I was you I'd
    even bide as you be--a single man of the name of Francis.  A good
    wife is good, but the best wife is not so good as no wife at all.
    Now that's my outspoke mind, and I've been called a long-headed
    feller here and there."

    "All nonsense!" said Troy, angrily.  "There she is with plenty of
    money, and a house and farm, and horses, and comfort, and here am I
    living from hand to mouth--a needy adventurer.  Besides, it is no use
    talking now; it is too late, and I am glad of it; I've been seen and
    recognized here this very afternoon.  I should have gone back to her
    the day after the fair, if it hadn't been for you talking about the
    law, and rubbish about getting a separation; and I don't put it off
    any longer.  What the deuce put it into my head to run away at all, I
    can't think!  Humbugging sentiment--that's what it was.  But what man
    on earth was to know that his wife would be in such a hurry to get
    rid of his name!"

    "I should have known it.  She's bad enough for anything."

    "Pennyways, mind who you are talking to."

    "Well, sergeant, all I say is this, that if I were you I'd go abroad
    again where I came from--'tisn't too late to do it now.  I wouldn't
    stir up the business and get a bad name for the sake of living with
    her--for all that about your play-acting is sure to come out, you
    know, although you think otherwise.  My eyes and limbs, there'll
    be a racket if you go back just now--in the middle of Boldwood's
    Christmasing!"

    "H'm, yes.  I expect I shall not be a very welcome guest if he has
    her there," said the sergeant, with a slight laugh.  "A sort of
    Alonzo the Brave; and when I go in the guests will sit in silence and
    fear, and all laughter and pleasure will be hushed, and the lights in
    the chamber burn blue, and the worms--Ugh, horrible!--Ring for some
    more brandy, Pennyways, I felt an awful shudder just then!  Well,
    what is there besides?  A stick--I must have a walking-stick."

    Pennyways now felt himself to be in something of a difficulty, for
    should Bathsheba and Troy become reconciled it would be necessary
    to regain her good opinion if he would secure the patronage of her
    husband.  "I sometimes think she likes you yet, and is a good woman
    at bottom," he said, as a saving sentence.  "But there's no telling
    to a certainty from a body's outside.  Well, you'll do as you like
    about going, of course, sergeant, and as for me, I'll do as you tell
    me."

    "Now, let me see what the time is," said Troy, after emptying his
    glass in one draught as he stood.  "Half-past six o'clock.  I shall
    not hurry along the road, and shall be there then before nine."

Soon enough, Christmas Eve is upon the people of Weatherbury. Everyone learns that Farmer Boldwood is going to give a huge party, which is strange because the guy has never been known to party hearty. Meanwhile, Bathsheba is getting ready to attend the party, full of dread. She knows that Boldwood is having the party so he can publicly announce their engagement, and she doesn't know if she has the power to refuse him. The narrator swoops us over the Boldwood's house. More than usual, he's been very particular about the suit his tailor is making for him. He wants everything to be perfect. When the tailor leaves Gabriel Oak walks into the room. Boldwood dances around the "promise" that he thinks a lady has made to him, and Oak knows exactly what he's talking about. Gabriel warns him about being deceived, though, which makes Boldwood a little annoyed with him. Next, we look in on Sergeant Troy, who is hanging out at a place called the White Hart tavern in the nearby town of Casterbridge. There's a knock at his door, and Pennyways struts in. Troy has sent Pennyways out to inquire about what legal repercussions Troy would face for returning to Weatherbury after pretending he was dead. It turns out that he'd have to receive some sort of punishment for what he's done. Next, Troy wants to know if Bathsheba really plans on marrying Boldwood, as many people have said. Pennyways suggests that all the affection seems to be coming from Boldwood. The two of them briefly discuss how Gabriel Oak has flourished in Pennyways' old role, but Troy says this is just because Pennyways is kind of an incompetence fool. Apparently, the Pennyways knows how to take an insult, because he doesn't punch Troy in the nose. Now we're back with Bathsheba and Liddy. Bathsheba wants to keep making herself plainer and plainer for Boldwood's party, but she can't really do it: she's just too pretty to uglify. Liddy makes a joke about Bathsheba marrying Boldwood, but Bathsheba scolds her. Cut back to Oak and Boldwood. Being in a very good mood, Boldwood tells Oak that he plans on giving Oak a very large stake in his farm. He also says that when he marries Bathsheba he'll be looking to retire, so Oak will take over for him. Finally, Boldwood admits that he knows about the affection Oak has always held for Bathsheba, and he wants to reward him for always behaving with so much dignity. He knows it can't be easy for Oak to stand around listening to someone else talk about marrying Bathsheba. After Oak has left, Boldwood goes to a cupboard and takes out a box with an engagement ring inside it. At this point, he hears his first guests arriving. Once more, we flash back to Sergeant Troy, who is getting himself into a disguise so he won't be recognized at Boldwood's party. Yup, the guy plans on going, even though Pennyways advises against it. Troy knows, though, that people around Casterbridge have already seen and recognized him, so it won't be long before word of his existence gets back to Weatherbury.


CONCURRITUR--HORAE MOMENTO

Outside the front of Boldwood's house a group of men stood in the
dark, with their faces towards the door, which occasionally opened
and closed for the passage of some guest or servant, when a golden
rod of light would stripe the ground for the moment and vanish again,
leaving nothing outside but the glowworm shine of the pale lamp amid
the evergreens over the door.

"He was seen in Casterbridge this afternoon--so the boy said," one of
them remarked in a whisper.  "And I for one believe it.  His body was
never found, you know."

"'Tis a strange story," said the next.  "You may depend upon't that
she knows nothing about it."

"Not a word."

"Perhaps he don't mean that she shall," said another man.

"If he's alive and here in the neighbourhood, he means mischief,"
said the first.  "Poor young thing: I do pity her, if 'tis true.
He'll drag her to the dogs."

"O no; he'll settle down quiet enough," said one disposed to take a
more hopeful view of the case.

"What a fool she must have been ever to have had anything to do with
the man!  She is so self-willed and independent too, that one is more
minded to say it serves her right than pity her."

"No, no.  I don't hold with 'ee there.  She was no otherwise than a
girl mind, and how could she tell what the man was made of?  If 'tis
really true, 'tis too hard a punishment, and more than she ought to
hae.--Hullo, who's that?"  This was to some footsteps that were heard
approaching.

"William Smallbury," said a dim figure in the shades, coming up and
joining them.  "Dark as a hedge, to-night, isn't it? I all but missed
the plank over the river ath'art there in the bottom--never did such
a thing before in my life.  Be ye any of Boldwood's workfolk?"  He
peered into their faces.

"Yes--all o' us.  We met here a few minutes ago."

"Oh, I hear now--that's Sam Samway: thought I knowed the voice, too.
Going in?"

"Presently.  But I say, William," Samway whispered, "have ye heard
this strange tale?"

"What--that about Sergeant Troy being seen, d'ye mean, souls?" said
Smallbury, also lowering his voice.

"Ay: in Casterbridge."

"Yes, I have.  Laban Tall named a hint of it to me but now--but I
don't think it.  Hark, here Laban comes himself, 'a b'lieve."  A
footstep drew near.

"Laban?"

"Yes, 'tis I," said Tall.

"Have ye heard any more about that?"

"No," said Tall, joining the group.  "And I'm inclined to think we'd
better keep quiet.  If so be 'tis not true, 'twill flurry her, and do
her much harm to repeat it; and if so be 'tis true, 'twill do no good
to forestall her time o' trouble.  God send that it mid be a lie, for
though Henery Fray and some of 'em do speak against her, she's never
been anything but fair to me.  She's hot and hasty, but she's a brave
girl who'll never tell a lie however much the truth may harm her, and
I've no cause to wish her evil."

"She never do tell women's little lies, that's true; and 'tis a thing
that can be said of very few.  Ay, all the harm she thinks she says
to yer face: there's nothing underhand wi' her."

They stood silent then, every man busied with his own thoughts,
during which interval sounds of merriment could be heard within.
Then the front door again opened, the rays streamed out, the
well-known form of Boldwood was seen in the rectangular area of
light, the door closed, and Boldwood walked slowly down the path.

"'Tis master," one of the men whispered, as he neared them. "We'd
better stand quiet--he'll go in again directly.  He would think it
unseemly o' us to be loitering here."

Boldwood came on, and passed by the men without seeing them, they
being under the bushes on the grass.  He paused, leant over the gate,
and breathed a long breath.  They heard low words come from him.

"I hope to God she'll come, or this night will be nothing but misery
to me!  Oh my darling, my darling, why do you keep me in suspense
like this?"

He said this to himself, and they all distinctly heard it.  Boldwood
remained silent after that, and the noise from indoors was again
just audible, until, a few minutes later, light wheels could be
distinguished coming down the hill.  They drew nearer, and ceased at
the gate.  Boldwood hastened back to the door, and opened it; and the
light shone upon Bathsheba coming up the path.

Boldwood compressed his emotion to mere welcome: the men marked her
light laugh and apology as she met him: he took her into the house;
and the door closed again.

"Gracious heaven, I didn't know it was like that with him!" said one
of the men.  "I thought that fancy of his was over long ago."

"You don't know much of master, if you thought that," said Samway.

"I wouldn't he should know we heard what 'a said for the world,"
remarked a third.

"I wish we had told of the report at once," the first uneasily
continued.  "More harm may come of this than we know of.  Poor Mr.
Boldwood, it will be hard upon en.  I wish Troy was in--Well, God
forgive me for such a wish!  A scoundrel to play a poor wife such
tricks.  Nothing has prospered in Weatherbury since he came here.
And now I've no heart to go in.  Let's look into Warren's for a few
minutes first, shall us, neighbours?"

Samway, Tall, and Smallbury agreed to go to Warren's, and went out at
the gate, the remaining ones entering the house.  The three soon drew
near the malt-house, approaching it from the adjoining orchard, and
not by way of the street.  The pane of glass was illuminated as
usual.  Smallbury was a little in advance of the rest when, pausing,
he turned suddenly to his companions and said, "Hist!  See there."

The light from the pane was now perceived to be shining not upon the
ivied wall as usual, but upon some object close to the glass.  It was
a human face.

"Let's come closer," whispered Samway; and they approached on tiptoe.
There was no disbelieving the report any longer.  Troy's face was
almost close to the pane, and he was looking in.  Not only was he
looking in, but he appeared to have been arrested by a conversation
which was in progress in the malt-house, the voices of the
interlocutors being those of Oak and the maltster.

"The spree is all in her honour, isn't it--hey?" said the old man.
"Although he made believe 'tis only keeping up o' Christmas?"

"I cannot say," replied Oak.

"Oh 'tis true enough, faith.  I cannot understand Farmer Boldwood
being such a fool at his time of life as to ho and hanker after this
woman in the way 'a do, and she not care a bit about en."

The men, after recognizing Troy's features, withdrew across
the orchard as quietly as they had come.  The air was big with
Bathsheba's fortunes to-night: every word everywhere concerned her.
When they were quite out of earshot all by one instinct paused.

"It gave me quite a turn--his face," said Tall, breathing.

"And so it did me," said Samway.  "What's to be done?"

"I don't see that 'tis any business of ours," Smallbury murmured
dubiously.

"But it is!  'Tis a thing which is everybody's business," said
Samway.  "We know very well that master's on a wrong tack, and that
she's quite in the dark, and we should let 'em know at once.  Laban,
you know her best--you'd better go and ask to speak to her."

"I bain't fit for any such thing," said Laban, nervously.  "I should
think William ought to do it if anybody.  He's oldest."

"I shall have nothing to do with it," said Smallbury.  "'Tis a
ticklish business altogether.  Why, he'll go on to her himself in a
few minutes, ye'll see."

"We don't know that he will.  Come, Laban."

"Very well, if I must I must, I suppose," Tall reluctantly answered.
"What must I say?"

"Just ask to see master."

"Oh no; I shan't speak to Mr. Boldwood.  If I tell anybody, 'twill be
mistress."

"Very well," said Samway.

Laban then went to the door.  When he opened it the hum of bustle
rolled out as a wave upon a still strand--the assemblage being
immediately inside the hall--and was deadened to a murmur as he
closed it again.  Each man waited intently, and looked around at
the dark tree tops gently rocking against the sky and occasionally
shivering in a slight wind, as if he took interest in the scene,
which neither did.  One of them began walking up and down, and then
came to where he started from and stopped again, with a sense that
walking was a thing not worth doing now.

"I should think Laban must have seen mistress by this time," said
Smallbury, breaking the silence.  "Perhaps she won't come and speak
to him."

The door opened.  Tall appeared, and joined them.

"Well?" said both.

"I didn't like to ask for her after all," Laban faltered out.  "They
were all in such a stir, trying to put a little spirit into the
party.  Somehow the fun seems to hang fire, though everything's there
that a heart can desire, and I couldn't for my soul interfere and
throw damp upon it--if 'twas to save my life, I couldn't!"

"I suppose we had better all go in together," said Samway, gloomily.
"Perhaps I may have a chance of saying a word to master."

So the men entered the hall, which was the room selected and arranged
for the gathering because of its size.  The younger men and maids
were at last just beginning to dance.  Bathsheba had been perplexed
how to act, for she was not much more than a slim young maid herself,
and the weight of stateliness sat heavy upon her.  Sometimes she
thought she ought not to have come under any circumstances; then she
considered what cold unkindness that would have been, and finally
resolved upon the middle course of staying for about an hour only,
and gliding off unobserved, having from the first made up her mind
that she could on no account dance, sing, or take any active part in
the proceedings.

Her allotted hour having been passed in chatting and looking on,
Bathsheba told Liddy not to hurry herself, and went to the small
parlour to prepare for departure, which, like the hall, was decorated
with holly and ivy, and well lighted up.

Nobody was in the room, but she had hardly been there a moment when
the master of the house entered.

"Mrs. Troy--you are not going?" he said.  "We've hardly begun!"

"If you'll excuse me, I should like to go now."  Her manner was
restive, for she remembered her promise, and imagined what he was
about to say.  "But as it is not late," she added, "I can walk home,
and leave my man and Liddy to come when they choose."

"I've been trying to get an opportunity of speaking to you," said
Boldwood.  "You know perhaps what I long to say?"

Bathsheba silently looked on the floor.

"You do give it?" he said, eagerly.

"What?" she whispered.

"Now, that's evasion!  Why, the promise.  I don't want to intrude
upon you at all, or to let it become known to anybody.  But do give
your word!  A mere business compact, you know, between two people who
are beyond the influence of passion."  Boldwood knew how false this
picture was as regarded himself; but he had proved that it was the
only tone in which she would allow him to approach her.  "A promise
to marry me at the end of five years and three-quarters.  You owe it
to me!"

"I feel that I do," said Bathsheba; "that is, if you demand it.  But
I am a changed woman--an unhappy woman--and not--not--"

"You are still a very beautiful woman," said Boldwood.  Honesty and
pure conviction suggested the remark, unaccompanied by any perception
that it might have been adopted by blunt flattery to soothe and win
her.

However, it had not much effect now, for she said, in a passionless
murmur which was in itself a proof of her words: "I have no feeling
in the matter at all.  And I don't at all know what is right to do
in my difficult position, and I have nobody to advise me.  But I
give my promise, if I must.  I give it as the rendering of a debt,
conditionally, of course, on my being a widow."

"You'll marry me between five and six years hence?"

"Don't press me too hard.  I'll marry nobody else."

"But surely you will name the time, or there's nothing in the promise
at all?"

"Oh, I don't know, pray let me go!" she said, her bosom beginning to
rise.  "I am afraid what to do! I want to be just to you, and to be
that seems to be wronging myself, and perhaps it is breaking the
commandments.  There is considerable doubt of his death, and then it
is dreadful; let me ask a solicitor, Mr. Boldwood, if I ought or no!"

"Say the words, dear one, and the subject shall be dismissed;
a blissful loving intimacy of six years, and then marriage--O
Bathsheba, say them!" he begged in a husky voice, unable to sustain
the forms of mere friendship any longer.  "Promise yourself to me; I
deserve it, indeed I do, for I have loved you more than anybody in
the world!  And if I said hasty words and showed uncalled-for heat
of manner towards you, believe me, dear, I did not mean to distress
you; I was in agony, Bathsheba, and I did not know what I said.  You
wouldn't let a dog suffer what I have suffered, could you but know
it!  Sometimes I shrink from your knowing what I have felt for you,
and sometimes I am distressed that all of it you never will know.  Be
gracious, and give up a little to me, when I would give up my life
for you!"

The trimmings of her dress, as they quivered against the light,
showed how agitated she was, and at last she burst out crying.  "And
you'll not--press me--about anything more--if I say in five or six
years?" she sobbed, when she had power to frame the words.

"Yes, then I'll leave it to time."

She waited a moment.  "Very well.  I'll marry you in six years from
this day, if we both live," she said solemnly.

"And you'll take this as a token from me."

Boldwood had come close to her side, and now he clasped one of her
hands in both his own, and lifted it to his breast.

"What is it?  Oh I cannot wear a ring!" she exclaimed, on seeing
what he held; "besides, I wouldn't have a soul know that it's an
engagement!  Perhaps it is improper?  Besides, we are not engaged in
the usual sense, are we?  Don't insist, Mr. Boldwood--don't!"  In her
trouble at not being able to get her hand away from him at once, she
stamped passionately on the floor with one foot, and tears crowded to
her eyes again.

"It means simply a pledge--no sentiment--the seal of a practical
compact," he said more quietly, but still retaining her hand in
his firm grasp.  "Come, now!" And Boldwood slipped the ring on her
finger.

"I cannot wear it," she said, weeping as if her heart would break.
"You frighten me, almost.  So wild a scheme!  Please let me go home!"

"Only to-night: wear it just to-night, to please me!"

Bathsheba sat down in a chair, and buried her face in her
handkerchief, though Boldwood kept her hand yet.  At length she
said, in a sort of hopeless whisper--

"Very well, then, I will to-night, if you wish it so earnestly.  Now
loosen my hand; I will, indeed I will wear it to-night."

"And it shall be the beginning of a pleasant secret courtship of six
years, with a wedding at the end?"

"It must be, I suppose, since you will have it so!" she said, fairly
beaten into non-resistance.

Boldwood pressed her hand, and allowed it to drop in her lap.  "I am
happy now," he said.  "God bless you!"

He left the room, and when he thought she might be sufficiently
composed sent one of the maids to her.  Bathsheba cloaked the effects
of the late scene as she best could, followed the girl, and in a few
moments came downstairs with her hat and cloak on, ready to go.  To
get to the door it was necessary to pass through the hall, and before
doing so she paused on the bottom of the staircase which descended
into one corner, to take a last look at the gathering.

There was no music or dancing in progress just now.  At the lower
end, which had been arranged for the work-folk specially, a group
conversed in whispers, and with clouded looks.  Boldwood was standing
by the fireplace, and he, too, though so absorbed in visions arising
from her promise that he scarcely saw anything, seemed at that moment
to have observed their peculiar manner, and their looks askance.

"What is it you are in doubt about, men?" he said.

One of them turned and replied uneasily: "It was something Laban
heard of, that's all, sir."

"News?  Anybody married or engaged, born or dead?" inquired the
farmer, gaily.  "Tell it to us, Tall.  One would think from your
looks and mysterious ways that it was something very dreadful
indeed."

"Oh no, sir, nobody is dead," said Tall.

"I wish somebody was," said Samway, in a whisper.

"What do you say, Samway?" asked Boldwood, somewhat sharply.  "If you
have anything to say, speak out; if not, get up another dance."

"Mrs. Troy has come downstairs," said Samway to Tall.  "If you want
to tell her, you had better do it now."

"Do you know what they mean?" the farmer asked Bathsheba, across the
room.

"I don't in the least," said Bathsheba.

There was a smart rapping at the door.  One of the men opened it
instantly, and went outside.

"Mrs. Troy is wanted," he said, on returning.

"Quite ready," said Bathsheba.  "Though I didn't tell them to send."

"It is a stranger, ma'am," said the man by the door.

"A stranger?" she said.

"Ask him to come in," said Boldwood.

The message was given, and Troy, wrapped up to his eyes as we have
seen him, stood in the doorway.

There was an unearthly silence, all looking towards the newcomer.
Those who had just learnt that he was in the neighbourhood recognized
him instantly; those who did not were perplexed.  Nobody noted
Bathsheba.  She was leaning on the stairs.  Her brow had heavily
contracted; her whole face was pallid, her lips apart, her eyes
rigidly staring at their visitor.

Boldwood was among those who did not notice that he was Troy.  "Come
in, come in!" he repeated, cheerfully, "and drain a Christmas beaker
with us, stranger!"

Troy next advanced into the middle of the room, took off his cap,
turned down his coat-collar, and looked Boldwood in the face.  Even
then Boldwood did not recognize that the impersonator of Heaven's
persistent irony towards him, who had once before broken in upon his
bliss, scourged him, and snatched his delight away, had come to do
these things a second time.  Troy began to laugh a mechanical laugh:
Boldwood recognized him now.

Troy turned to Bathsheba.  The poor girl's wretchedness at this time
was beyond all fancy or narration.  She had sunk down on the lowest
stair; and there she sat, her mouth blue and dry, and her dark eyes
fixed vacantly upon him, as if she wondered whether it were not all
a terrible illusion.

Then Troy spoke.  "Bathsheba, I come here for you!"

She made no reply.

"Come home with me: come!"

Bathsheba moved her feet a little, but did not rise.  Troy went
across to her.

"Come, madam, do you hear what I say?" he said, peremptorily.

A strange voice came from the fireplace--a voice sounding far off
and confined, as if from a dungeon.  Hardly a soul in the assembly
recognized the thin tones to be those of Boldwood.  Sudden despair
had transformed him.

"Bathsheba, go with your husband!"

Nevertheless, she did not move.  The truth was that Bathsheba was
beyond the pale of activity--and yet not in a swoon.  She was in a
state of mental _gutta serena_; her mind was for the minute totally
deprived of light at the same time no obscuration was apparent from
without.

Troy stretched out his hand to pull her her towards him, when she
quickly shrank back.  This visible dread of him seemed to irritate
Troy, and he seized her arm and pulled it sharply.  Whether his grasp
pinched her, or whether his mere touch was the cause, was never
known, but at the moment of his seizure she writhed, and gave a
quick, low scream.

The scream had been heard but a few seconds when it was followed by
sudden deafening report that echoed through the room and stupefied
them all.  The oak partition shook with the concussion, and the place
was filled with grey smoke.

In bewilderment they turned their eyes to Boldwood.  At his back,
as stood before the fireplace, was a gun-rack, as is usual in
farmhouses, constructed to hold two guns.  When Bathsheba had cried
out in her husband's grasp, Boldwood's face of gnashing despair had
changed.  The veins had swollen, and a frenzied look had gleamed in
his eye.  He had turned quickly, taken one of the guns, cocked it,
and at once discharged it at Troy.

Troy fell.  The distance apart of the two men was so small that
the charge of shot did not spread in the least, but passed like a
bullet into his body.  He uttered a long guttural sigh--there was
a contraction--an extension--then his muscles relaxed, and he lay
still.

Boldwood was seen through the smoke to be now again engaged with the
gun.  It was double-barrelled, and he had, meanwhile, in some way
fastened his hand-kerchief to the trigger, and with his foot on the
other end was in the act of turning the second barrel upon himself.
Samway his man was the first to see this, and in the midst of the
general horror darted up to him.  Boldwood had already twitched
the handkerchief, and the gun exploded a second time, sending its
contents, by a timely blow from Samway, into the beam which crossed
the ceiling.

"Well, it makes no difference!" Boldwood gasped.  "There is another
way for me to die."

Then he broke from Samway, crossed the room to Bathsheba, and kissed
her hand.  He put on his hat, opened the door, and went into the
darkness, nobody thinking of preventing him.

A group of men is standing outside Boldwood's house, ready to head inside for the party. They're busy gossiping about a rumored sighting of Sergeant Troy they heard about in Casterbridge. They also gossip about how Bathsheba knows nothing about it. As more workmen arrive to discuss the news, they all eventually decide that they shouldn't say anything about it at the party. While they're talking, they all hush and hide in the shadows as Boldwood walks past. They can overhear him talking to himself about how much he hopes that Bathsheba will come to his party. Bathsheba arrives, and the men watch how nervous Boldwood gets when he greets her. They all thought that his crush on her ended a long time ago. Now they don't know what to think. Rather than go inside and see Boldwood make a fool of himself, the men decide to head to a pub for a pint. When they get to the pub, though, they see Sergeant Troy's face looking in a window. They all know him for sure, and he seems to be interested in a conversation that two people are having inside the pub. The men argue over who's going to tell their boss, Bathsheba, that they've seen Troy. Finally, it's settled on a guy named Laban Tall. They go back to the party and Laban goes in. Quite a while later, he comes back out and tells them he didn't have the heart to say anything to Bathsheba. They all decide to go in together to deliver the news. At this point, Bathsheba is already trying to leave. Boldwood catches her, though, and tries to bully her into accepting his proposal of marriage. She keeps telling him that she'll never be happy with him, but he doesn't seem to care. She tentatively agrees, but draws the line at putting on an engagement ring. The two of them wrestle over it for a bit before she agrees to wear it for one night only--to the Christmas party. When Boldwood returns to the party, he sees the group of workmen chatting. He asked if anyone has died or been married, and the men kind of look at one another as if they don't know how to break the news. They seem to have something to say to Bathsheba. At this moment, there's a knock at the front door. A stranger wants to speak with Bathsheba, so Boldwood invites him in. It's Sergeant Troy in his disguise. The men who already knew he was in the neighborhood recognize him instantly. When Boldwood invites him to stay, Troy takes off his disguise and looks directly into Boldwood's face. He even laughs at the guy, having stolen his bride-to-be for a second time. Troy looks to Bathsheba and orders her to come home with him. But before anything more can happen, there's a huge bang. Boldwood has grabbed a rifle that was hanging over his fireplace and shot Troy in the chest. A panic breaks out in the room, and Boldwood tries to turn the gun on himself. But he's prevented, and before anyone can get a hold of him, he runs off into the night.