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.

Because Poorgrass had suffered a recurrence of his "multiplying eye," Oak was to drive Bathsheba home. He was still involved in Boldwood's business, however, and so when Boldwood offered to escort Bathsheba, she accepted, still somewhat alarmed by the incident in the tent. Riding beside her, Boldwood renewed his proposal. He suggested that now there was no longer any reasonable doubt about Troy's death. Bathsheba objected: "From the first I have had a strange unaccountable feeling that he could not have perished." She did not want to remarry, but she did regret her treatment of Boldwood and wished she could make amends. Boldwood immediately asked her to repair the wrong by marrying him in six years, when Troy could legally be declared dead. When he persisted, she asked to delay her answer until Christmas. Later, Bathsheba told Oak that she was afraid that outright refusal would cause Boldwood to go mad. Oak advised a conditional promise. Suggesting that there was no guarantee that they would all be alive in six years, she deferred to Oak's judgment. "She had spoken frankly, and neither asked nor expected any reply from Gabriel more satisfactory than she had obtained. Yet in . . . her complicated heart there existed at this minute a little pang of disappointment. . . . He might have just hinted at that old love of his. . . . it ruffled our heroine all the afternoon."

Boldwood's obsession with Bathsheba is further revealed. Yet, for all the farmer's seeming unbalance, he is shrewd enough to play on Bathsheba's guilt about her treatment of him. This is probably the only effective weapon he has in his struggle to win her. Oak maintains his surface calm, while Bathsheba, eternally feminine, is piqued when he does not attempt to win her himself.


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."

The story builds toward a focal point on Christmas Eve. The chapter is divided into seven parts: Boldwood, surprisingly, had planned a Christmas party. Mistletoe, garlands, and decorations were brought in from the woods, and elaborate preparations were made. Bathsheba was agitated and reluctant to go. She admitted to Liddy that she was the cause for the party. To avoid gossip, she would wear her widow's weeds. Boldwood fussed over his newly tailored clothes. When Oak arrived to report on the day's work, Boldwood reminded him that he was expected at the party. "Make yourself merry. I am determined that neither expense nor trouble shall be spared." Gabriel replied that he might be late. He was glad to see Boldwood in better spirits. Boldwood asked whether women keep promises. Oak replied, "If it is not inconvenient to her she may." Boldwood, feverishly cheerful, commented that Oak had become quite cynical lately. Troy was in a tavern in Casterbridge with Pennyways, who reminded him that his deceit was punishable by law. He could not answer Troy's question about Bathsheba's relationship with Boldwood. This was to be Bathsheba's first appearance at Boldwood's home. Pennyways still bore her a grudge. He told Troy that Oak was still the boss and that Bathsheba couldn't manage without him. Bathsheba, though plainly dressed, looked very well. Liddy suggested it was because of her excitement. Bathsheba admitted that she was vacillating between feeling buoyant and feeling wretched. When Liddy joked about Boldwood's imminent proposal, Bathsheba gravely silenced her. As Oak helped Boldwood tie his cravat, he urged him to be cautious and not to count on Bathsheba. Boldwood said he knew of Oak's love, and he wished to reward him for his decency. He would increase the extent of his partnership. When Oak had gone, Boldwood pulled out a small box and regarded a handsome ring. Hearing wheels in the distance, he put the box in his pocket and went to greet his guests. While Troy was attiring himself in a high-collared greatcoat and traveling cap, Pennyways counseled against his going to Boldwood's party. Troy argued angrily, "There she is with plenty of money, and a house and farm . . . and here am I still living from hand to mouth -- a needy adventurer." In addition, Troy knew he had been seen and recognized in town. Pennyways realized he would have to get back into Bathsheba's good graces in the event of a reconciliation, and so, as a first step, he suggested to Troy, "I sometimes think she likes you yet, and is a good woman at bottom." Troy announced that he would be at Boldwood's before nine.

Hardy has kept strict account of the threads running through the novel and here arranges them so that they can be tucked into the complicated tapestry. Structurally, this chapter is carefully outlined in seven sections that indicate what must follow. Troy has a premonition of tragedy, but, characteristically, he shrugs it off and sends for more brandy. Boldwood is keyed up but confident. Bathsheba's feelings vacillate, and Oak is gloomy and apprehensive.


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 congregated outside of Boldwood's house, watching the guests arrive and whispering rumors of Troy's reappearance. They were sure Bathsheba hadn't heard of it but weren't sure whether that was a good or bad omen. They sympathized with their mistress. Boldwood came out. Not noticing the watchers, he leaned on the gate, murmuring, "I hope to God she'll come, or this night will be nothing but misery to me!" A few minutes later, wheels were heard; Boldwood went to welcome Bathsheba. Tall, Smallbury, and Samway went to the malthouse. They saw Troy peeping in a window. "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." The men were unnerved by Troy's return and decided that they should warn Bathsheba. Laban was chosen to tell her but was reluctant; he entered Boldwood's house and left again. He couldn't bring himself to ruin everything. The men decided they had better all join together. Meanwhile, having stayed an hour and thus satisfied amenities, Bathsheba wished to leave. But before she could go, Boldwood found her and insisted on an answer to his proposal. Finally, she gave her promise: If she were truly a widow, she would not marry anyone, if not Boldwood. The man's restraint broke, and he told her of how he had suffered, of how much he loved her. Sobbing, Bathsheba finally agreed to marry him in six years. Boldwood gave her the ring. Bathsheba said it would be improper for her to wear it. When he persisted, she agreed to wear it just for the evening. Bathsheba descended from the little parlor to find the party somehow deadened. As one of her men stepped forward to talk to her, there was a knock at the door. Someone wished to speak to Mrs. Troy. Boldwood asked the man in; he was one of the few who did not recognize Troy. Bathsheba sank down at the base of the staircase, staring. Still unaware, Boldwood invited the stranger to have a drink. Troy strode in, turning down his collar and laughing. The truth suddenly dawned on Boldwood. Troy ordered Bathsheba to leave with him. She hesitated. Boldwood, in a strange voice, told her to go. Troy then pulled her roughly, and she screamed. There was a loud noise. Smoke filled the room. When Bathsheba had cried out, Boldwood's face had changed. He had taken a gun from the rack and had shot and killed Troy. He then attempted to shoot himself but was prevented by Samway. Boldwood said, "There is another way for me to die." He kissed Bathsheba's hand, "put on his hat, opened the door, and went into the darkness, nobody thinking of preventing him."

The action of this chapter is crowded and rapid. One event swiftly follows another, adding to the dramatic quality -- as Hardy well knew, having been in his earlier years a playwright. An atmosphere of inevitability surrounds the climax of the chapter. Once before Boldwood attempted to save Bathsheba from Troy, and when he found he was being tricked he had warned, "I'll punish you yet!" Since that time Boldwood's emotional instability has been made increasingly apparent. His determination to possess Bathsheba is that of a fanatic. Troy has changed little, and he is once again able to thwart Boldwood by trickery and deceit. Never a man of caution, he has ignored a premonition of disaster, and his dramatic gesture costs him his life. We may initially be shocked at Troy's murder, because the chapter has moved so quickly, but we are not really surprised by it once we pause to reflect.


AFTER THE SHOCK

Boldwood passed into the high road and turned in the direction of
Casterbridge.  Here he walked at an even, steady pace over Yalbury
Hill, along the dead level beyond, mounted Mellstock Hill, and
between eleven and twelve o'clock crossed the Moor into the town.
The streets were nearly deserted now, and the waving lamp-flames only
lighted up rows of grey shop-shutters, and strips of white paving
upon which his step echoed as his passed along.  He turned to the
right, and halted before an archway of heavy stonework, which was
closed by an iron studded pair of doors.  This was the entrance
to the gaol, and over it a lamp was fixed, the light enabling the
wretched traveller to find a bell-pull.

The small wicket at last opened, and a porter appeared.  Boldwood
stepped forward, and said something in a low tone, when, after a
delay, another man came.  Boldwood entered, and the door was closed
behind him, and he walked the world no more.

Long before this time Weatherbury had been thoroughly aroused, and
the wild deed which had terminated Boldwood's merrymaking became
known to all.  Of those out of the house Oak was one of the first to
hear of the catastrophe, and when he entered the room, which was
about five minutes after Boldwood's exit, the scene was terrible.
All the female guests were huddled aghast against the walls like
sheep in a storm, and the men were bewildered as to what to do.  As
for Bathsheba, she had changed.  She was sitting on the floor beside
the body of Troy, his head pillowed in her lap, where she had herself
lifted it.  With one hand she held her handkerchief to his breast and
covered the wound, though scarcely a single drop of blood had flowed,
and with the other she tightly clasped one of his.  The household
convulsion had made her herself again.  The temporary coma had
ceased, and activity had come with the necessity for it.  Deeds of
endurance, which seem ordinary in philosophy, are rare in conduct,
and Bathsheba was astonishing all around her now, for her philosophy
was her conduct, and she seldom thought practicable what she did
not practise.  She was of the stuff of which great men's mothers
are made.  She was indispensable to high generation, hated at tea
parties, feared in shops, and loved at crises.  Troy recumbent in
his wife's lap formed now the sole spectacle in the middle of the
spacious room.

"Gabriel," she said, automatically, when he entered, turning up a
face of which only the well-known lines remained to tell him it
was hers, all else in the picture having faded quite.  "Ride to
Casterbridge instantly for a surgeon.  It is, I believe, useless,
but go.  Mr. Boldwood has shot my husband."

Her statement of the fact in such quiet and simple words came with
more force than a tragic declamation, and had somewhat the effect of
setting the distorted images in each mind present into proper focus.
Oak, almost before he had comprehended anything beyond the briefest
abstract of the event, hurried out of the room, saddled a horse and
rode away.  Not till he had ridden more than a mile did it occur to
him that he would have done better by sending some other man on this
errand, remaining himself in the house.  What had become of Boldwood?
He should have been looked after.  Was he mad--had there been a
quarrel?  Then how had Troy got there?  Where had he come from?  How
did this remarkable reappearance effect itself when he was supposed
by many to be at the bottom of the sea?  Oak had in some slight
measure been prepared for the presence of Troy by hearing a rumour
of his return just before entering Boldwood's house; but before he
had weighed that information, this fatal event had been superimposed.
However, it was too late now to think of sending another messenger,
and he rode on, in the excitement of these self-inquiries
not discerning, when about three miles from Casterbridge, a
square-figured pedestrian passing along under the dark hedge in the
same direction as his own.

The miles necessary to be traversed, and other hindrances incidental
to the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, delayed
the arrival of Mr. Aldritch, the surgeon; and more than three hours
passed between the time at which the shot was fired and that of his
entering the house.  Oak was additionally detained in Casterbridge
through having to give notice to the authorities of what had
happened; and he then found that Boldwood had also entered the town,
and delivered himself up.

In the meantime the surgeon, having hastened into the hall at
Boldwood's, found it in darkness and quite deserted.  He went on to
the back of the house, where he discovered in the kitchen an old man,
of whom he made inquiries.

"She's had him took away to her own house, sir," said his informant.

"Who has?" said the doctor.

"Mrs. Troy.  'A was quite dead, sir."

This was astonishing information.  "She had no right to do that,"
said the doctor.  "There will have to be an inquest, and she should
have waited to know what to do."

"Yes, sir; it was hinted to her that she had better wait till the law
was known.  But she said law was nothing to her, and she wouldn't let
her dear husband's corpse bide neglected for folks to stare at for
all the crowners in England."

Mr. Aldritch drove at once back again up the hill to Bathsheba's.
The first person he met was poor Liddy, who seemed literally to have
dwindled smaller in these few latter hours.  "What has been done?" he
said.

"I don't know, sir," said Liddy, with suspended breath.  "My mistress
has done it all."

"Where is she?"

"Upstairs with him, sir.  When he was brought home and taken
upstairs, she said she wanted no further help from the men.  And then
she called me, and made me fill the bath, and after that told me I
had better go and lie down because I looked so ill.  Then she locked
herself into the room alone with him, and would not let a nurse come
in, or anybody at all.  But I thought I'd wait in the next room in
case she should want me.  I heard her moving about inside for more
than an hour, but she only came out once, and that was for more
candles, because hers had burnt down into the socket.  She said we
were to let her know when you or Mr. Thirdly came, sir."

Oak entered with the parson at this moment, and they all went
upstairs together, preceded by Liddy Smallbury.  Everything was
silent as the grave when they paused on the landing.  Liddy knocked,
and Bathsheba's dress was heard rustling across the room: the key
turned in the lock, and she opened the door.  Her looks were calm and
nearly rigid, like a slightly animated bust of Melpomene.

"Oh, Mr. Aldritch, you have come at last," she murmured from her lips
merely, and threw back the door.  "Ah, and Mr. Thirdly.  Well, all is
done, and anybody in the world may see him now."  She then passed by
him, crossed the landing, and entered another room.

Looking into the chamber of death she had vacated they saw by the
light of the candles which were on the drawers a tall straight
shape lying at the further end of the bedroom, wrapped in white.
Everything around was quite orderly.  The doctor went in, and after a
few minutes returned to the landing again, where Oak and the parson
still waited.

"It is all done, indeed, as she says," remarked Mr. Aldritch, in a
subdued voice.  "The body has been undressed and properly laid out in
grave clothes.  Gracious Heaven--this mere girl!  She must have the
nerve of a stoic!"

"The heart of a wife merely," floated in a whisper about the ears
of the three, and turning they saw Bathsheba in the midst of them.
Then, as if at that instant to prove that her fortitude had been
more of will than of spontaneity, she silently sank down between
them and was a shapeless heap of drapery on the floor.  The simple
consciousness that superhuman strain was no longer required had at
once put a period to her power to continue it.

They took her away into a further room, and the medical attendance
which had been useless in Troy's case was invaluable in Bathsheba's,
who fell into a series of fainting-fits that had a serious aspect
for a time.  The sufferer was got to bed, and Oak, finding from the
bulletins that nothing really dreadful was to be apprehended on her
score, left the house.  Liddy kept watch in Bathsheba's chamber,
where she heard her mistress, moaning in whispers through the dull
slow hours of that wretched night: "Oh it is my fault--how can I
live!  O Heaven, how can I live!"

Boldwood, walking easily and steadily, arrived at the jail. He rang, said something to the porter in a low tone, and entered. "The door was closed behind him, and he walked the world no more." When Gabriel heard of the catastrophe, he rushed to Boldwood's house, arriving some five minutes after Boldwood's departure. The scene was dreadful. Bathsheba sat on the floor beside the body, Troy's head pillowed in her lap. "With one hand she held her handkerchief to his breast . . . though scarcely a single drop of blood had flowed, and with the other she tightly clasped one of his. The household convulsion had made her herself again. . . . Deeds of endurance which seem ordinary in philosophy are rare in conduct, and Bathsheba was astonishing all . . . for her philosophy was her conduct." She ordered Gabriel to ride for a surgeon. In town, Gabriel also stopped to notify the authorities and so learned of Boldwood's surrender. Meanwhile, Bathsheba had Troy moved home. Liddy admitted the doctor, telling him that Bathsheba had locked herself in the room with the body. She had left orders that the surgeon and Parson Thirdly were to be admitted. The surgeon found Troy's body lit by candles and draped in white. Returning to Oak and the parson, the doctor remarked in a subdued voice, "It is all done. . . . this mere girl! She must have the nerve of a stoic!" "The heart of a wife, merely," Bathsheba whispered behind him. Then, silently, she sank to the floor. She had a series of fainting fits that for a time seemed serious, but the surgeon attended her. Liddy was told to watch over her during the night. She heard her mistress moan, "O it is my fault -- how can I live!"

Bathsheba's display of strength reminds the surgeon of the ancient stoics; it is also reminiscent of the great women of Greek tragedy. Then, having done what was required of her, Bathsheba can yield to weakness  and faint away. This was a common frailty in the women of Victorian times, both in literature and in life. Bathsheba's stern conscience, which continues to trouble her, is another typical Victorian characteristic.


THE MARCH FOLLOWING--"BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD"

We pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day without
sunshine, frost, or dew.  On Yalbury Hill, about midway between
Weatherbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over
the crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of
the greater number being frequently stretched afar in a northerly
direction.  The groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of
javelin-men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one
of which contained the high sheriff.  With the idlers, many of whom
had mounted to the top of a cutting formed for the road, were several
Weatherbury men and boys--among others Poorgrass, Coggan, and Cain
Ball.

At the end of half-an-hour a faint dust was seen in the expected
quarter, and shortly after a travelling-carriage, bringing one of the
two judges on the Western Circuit, came up the hill and halted on the
top.  The judge changed carriages whilst a flourish was blown by the
big-cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being formed of the vehicles
and javelin-men, they all proceeded towards the town, excepting the
Weatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off
returned home again to their work.

"Joseph, I seed you squeezing close to the carriage," said Coggan, as
they walked.  "Did ye notice my lord judge's face?"

"I did," said Poorgrass.  "I looked hard at en, as if I would read
his very soul; and there was mercy in his eyes--or to speak with the
exact truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was
towards me."

"Well, I hope for the best," said Coggan, "though bad that must be.
However, I shan't go to the trial, and I'd advise the rest of ye
that bain't wanted to bide away.  'Twill disturb his mind more than
anything to see us there staring at him as if he were a show."

"The very thing I said this morning," observed Joseph, "'Justice is
come to weigh him in the balances,' I said in my reflectious way,
'and if he's found wanting, so be it unto him,' and a bystander said
'Hear, hear!  A man who can talk like that ought to be heard.' But I
don't like dwelling upon it, for my few words are my few words, and
not much; though the speech of some men is rumoured abroad as though
by nature formed for such."

"So 'tis, Joseph.  And now, neighbours, as I said, every man bide at
home."

The resolution was adhered to; and all waited anxiously for the news
next day.  Their suspense was diverted, however, by a discovery which
was made in the afternoon, throwing more light on Boldwood's conduct
and condition than any details which had preceded it.

That he had been from the time of Greenhill Fair until the fatal
Christmas Eve in excited and unusual moods was known to those who had
been intimate with him; but nobody imagined that there had shown in
him unequivocal symptoms of the mental derangement which Bathsheba
and Oak, alone of all others and at different times, had momentarily
suspected.  In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary
collection of articles.  There were several sets of ladies' dresses
in the piece, of sundry expensive materials; silks and satins,
poplins and velvets, all of colours which from Bathsheba's style of
dress might have been judged to be her favourites.  There were two
muffs, sable and ermine.  Above all there was a case of jewellery,
containing four heavy gold bracelets and several lockets and rings,
all of fine quality and manufacture.  These things had been bought in
Bath and other towns from time to time, and brought home by stealth.
They were all carefully packed in paper, and each package was
labelled "Bathsheba Boldwood," a date being subjoined six years in
advance in every instance.

These somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed with care and love
were the subject of discourse in Warren's malt-house when Oak entered
from Casterbridge with tidings of sentence. He came in the afternoon,
and his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale
sufficiently well.  Boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had
pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death.

The conviction that Boldwood had not been morally responsible for his
later acts now became general.  Facts elicited previous to the trial
had pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had not been of
sufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination into the
state of Boldwood's mind.  It was astonishing, now that a presumption
of insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances were
remembered to which a condition of mental disease seemed to afford
the only explanation--among others, the unprecedented neglect of his
corn stacks in the previous summer.

A petition was addressed to the Home Secretary, advancing
the circumstances which appeared to justify a request for a
reconsideration of the sentence.  It was not "numerously signed"
by the inhabitants of Casterbridge, as is usual in such cases, for
Boldwood had never made many friends over the counter.  The shops
thought it very natural that a man who, by importing direct from
the producer, had daringly set aside the first great principle of
provincial existence, namely that God made country villages to supply
customers to county towns, should have confused ideas about the
Decalogue.  The prompters were a few merciful men who had perhaps too
feelingly considered the facts latterly unearthed, and the result was
that evidence was taken which it was hoped might remove the crime in
a moral point of view, out of the category of wilful murder, and lead
it to be regarded as a sheer outcome of madness.

The upshot of the petition was waited for in Weatherbury with
solicitous interest.  The execution had been fixed for eight o'clock
on a Saturday morning about a fortnight after the sentence was
passed, and up to Friday afternoon no answer had been received.  At
that time Gabriel came from Casterbridge Gaol, whither he had been
to wish Boldwood good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the
town.  When past the last house he heard a hammering, and lifting
his bowed head he looked back for a moment.  Over the chimneys he
could see the upper part of the gaol entrance, rich and glowing
in the afternoon sun, and some moving figures were there.  They
were carpenters lifting a post into a vertical position within the
parapet.  He withdrew his eyes quickly, and hastened on.

It was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to
meet him.

"No tidings," Gabriel said, wearily.  "And I'm afraid there's no
hope.  I've been with him more than two hours."

"Do ye think he REALLY was out of his mind when he did it?" said
Smallbury.

"I can't honestly say that I do," Oak replied.  "However, that we can
talk of another time.  Has there been any change in mistress this
afternoon?"

"None at all."

"Is she downstairs?"

"No.  And getting on so nicely as she was too.  She's but very little
better now again than she was at Christmas.  She keeps on asking
if you be come, and if there's news, till one's wearied out wi'
answering her.  Shall I go and say you've come?"

"No," said Oak.  "There's a chance yet; but I couldn't stay in town
any longer--after seeing him too.  So Laban--Laban is here, isn't
he?"

"Yes," said Tall.

"What I've arranged is, that you shall ride to town the last thing
to-night; leave here about nine, and wait a while there, getting home
about twelve.  If nothing has been received by eleven to-night, they
say there's no chance at all."

"I do so hope his life will be spared," said Liddy.  "If it is not,
she'll go out of her mind too.  Poor thing; her sufferings have been
dreadful; she deserves anybody's pity."

"Is she altered much?" said Coggan.

"If you haven't seen poor mistress since Christmas, you wouldn't know
her," said Liddy.  "Her eyes are so miserable that she's not the same
woman.  Only two years ago she was a romping girl, and now she's
this!"

Laban departed as directed, and at eleven o'clock that night several
of the villagers strolled along the road to Casterbridge and awaited
his arrival--among them Oak, and nearly all the rest of Bathsheba's
men.  Gabriel's anxiety was great that Boldwood might be saved, even
though in his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had
been qualities in the farmer which Oak loved.  At last, when they all
were weary the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance--

     First dead, as if on turf it trode,
     Then, clattering on the village road
     In other pace than forth he yode.

"We shall soon know now, one way or other." said Coggan, and they all
stepped down from the bank on which they had been standing into the
road, and the rider pranced into the midst of them.

"Is that you, Laban?" said Gabriel.

"Yes--'tis come.  He's not to die.  'Tis confinement during Her
Majesty's pleasure."

"Hurrah!" said Coggan, with a swelling heart.  "God's above the devil
yet!"

On a bleak day three months later, a number of people gathered on Yalbury Hill. The high sheriff waited in a carriage. Another carriage arrived carrying the judge of the circuit court; he switched carriages, trumpets flourished, and a procession went into town. Bathsheba's men discussed their hopes that the judge would be merciful to Boldwood. Much had been learned of Boldwood's behavior. No one had guessed the extent of his derangement. The closets in his home were found to contain an expensive and elegant collection of ladies' clothes, muffs, and jewelry, all wrapped, labeled "Bathsheba Boldwood," and dated six years ahead. Boldwood had bought the things in Bath and elsewhere and had brought them to his home. The group which gathered at the malthouse thoroughly discussed the question of Boldwood's odd behavior. Once the suggestion had been raised, it was simple to find examples of the farmer's oddity. "The conviction that Boldwood had not been morally responsible for his later acts now became general." But Gabriel arrived to announce the verdict: "Boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death." A petition was sent to the home secretary, asking for reconsideration of the verdict because of Boldwood's state of mind. But not too many inhabitants of Casterbridge signed it. Shopkeepers resented Boldwood's patronage of other towns to purchase the finery for Bathsheba. A few merciful men prodded others into signing. The reply to the petition had not arrived by the Friday preceding the day set for the execution. Coming from the jail where he had bidden farewell to Boldwood, Gabriel saw the scaffold being erected. Bathsheba was in bed, wasting away. She constantly asked whether the messenger had arrived with an answer to the petition. Gabriel too was worried. His "anxiety was great that Boldwood might be saved, even though in his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had been qualities in the farmer which Oak loved." At last, late that night, a rider brought the answer they awaited. The sentence had been commuted to "confinement during Her Majesty's pleasure." "'Hurrah!' said Coggan, with a swelling heart. 'God's above the devil yet!"'

In this chapter we learn most of the news through hearsay and the expression of the views of the townsfolk. Liddy, for example, tells us that Bathsheba's "sufferings have been dreadful", and that she fears for her mistress' sanity if Boldwood is executed. Oak, as always, remains steadfast