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CHAPTER XXXIX - COMING HOME -- A CRY
ON the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury,
and about three miles from the former place, is Yalbury
Hill, one of those steep long ascents which pervade the
highways of this undulating part of South Wessex. In
returning from market it is usual for the farmers and other
gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up.
One Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba's
vehicle was duly creeping up this incline. She was sitting
listlessly in the second seat of the gig, whilst walking
beside her in farmer's marketing suit of unusually
fashionable cut was an erect, well-made young man. Though
on foot, he held the reins and whip, and occasionally aimed
light cuts at the horse's ear with the end of the lash, as a
recreation. This man was her husband, formerly Sergeant
Troy, who, having bought his discharge with Bathsheba's
money, was gradually transforming himself into a farmer of a
spirited and very modern school. People of unalterable
ideas still insisted upon calling him "Sergeant" when they
met him, which was in some degree owing to his having still
retained the well-shaped moustache of his military days, and
the soldierly bearing inseparable from his form and
training.
"Yes, if it hadn't been for that wretched rain I should have
cleared two hundred as easy as looking, my love," he was
saying. "Don't you see, it altered all the chances? To
speak like a book I once read, wet weather is the narrative,
and fine days are the episodes, of our country's history;
now, isn't that true?"
"But the time of year is come for changeable weather."
"Well, yes. The fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of
everybody. Never did I see such a day as 'twas! 'Tis a wild
open place, just out of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in
towards us like liquid misery. Wind and rain -- good Lord!
Dark? Why, 'twas as black as my hat before the last race
was run. 'Twas five o'clock, and you couldn't see the
horses till they were almost in, leave alone colours. The
ground was as heavy as lead, and all judgment from a
fellow's experience went for nothing. Horses, riders,
people, were all blown about like ships at sea. Three
booths were blown over, and the wretched folk inside crawled
out upon their hands and knees; and in the next field were
as many as a dozen hats at one time. Ay, Pimpernel
regularly stuck fast, when about sixty yards off, and when I
saw Policy stepping on, it did knock my heart against the
lining of my ribs, I assure you, my love!"
"And you mean, Frank," said Bathsheba, sadly -- her voice
was painfully lowered from the fulness and vivacity of the
previous summer -- "that you have lost more than a hundred
pounds in a month by this dreadful horse-racing? O, Frank,
it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take away my money so.
We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the end of
it!"
"Humbug about cruel. Now, there 'tis again -- turn on the
waterworks; that's just like you."
"But you'll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting,
won't you?" she implored. Bathsheba was at the full depth
for tears, but she maintained a dry eye.
"I don't see why I should; in fact, if it turns out to be a
fine day, I was thinking of taking you."
"Never, never! I'll go a hundred miles the other way first.
I hate the sound of the very word!"
"But the question of going to see the race or staying at
home has very little to do with the matter. Bets are all
booked safely enough before the race begins, you may depend.
Whether it is a bad race for me or a good one, will have
very little to do with our going there next Monday."
"But you don't mean to say that you have risked anything on
this one too!" she exclaimed, with an agonized look.
"There now, don't you be a little fool. Wait till you are
told. Why, Bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and
sauciness you formerly had, and upon my life if I had known
what a chicken-hearted creature you were under all your
boldness, I'd never have -- I know what."
A flash of indignation might have been seen in Bathsheba's
dark eyes as she looked resolutely ahead after this reply.
They moved on without further speech, some early-withered
leaves from the trees which hooded the road at this spot
occasionally spinning downward across their path to the
earth.
A woman appeared on the brow of the hill. The ridge was in
a cutting, so that she was very near the husband and wife
before she became visible. Troy had turned towards the gig
to remount, and whilst putting his foot on the step the
woman passed behind him.
Though the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide
enveloped them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough
to discern the extreme poverty of the woman's garb, and the
sadness of her face.
"Please, sir, do you know at what time Casterbridge Union-
house closes at night?"
The woman said these words to Troy over his shoulder.
Troy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he
seemed to recover presence of mind sufficient to prevent
himself from giving way to his impulse to suddenly turn and
face her. He said, slowly --
"I don't know."
The woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined
the side of his face, and recognized the soldier under the
yeoman's garb. Her face was drawn into an expression which
had gladness and agony both among its elements. She uttered
an hysterical cry, and fell down.
"Oh, poor thing!" exclaimed Bathsheba, instantly preparing
to alight.
"Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!" said Troy,
peremptorily throwing her the reins and the whip. "Walk the
horse to the top: I'll see to the woman."
"But I ----"
"Do you hear? Clk -- Poppet!"
The horse, gig, and Bathsheba moved on.
"How on earth did you come here? I thought you were miles
away, or dead! Why didn't you write to me?" said Troy to
the woman, in a strangely gentle, yet hurried voice, as he
lifted her up.
"I feared to."
"Have you any money?"
"None."
"Good Heaven -- I wish I had more to give you! Here's --
wretched -- the merest trifle. It is every farthing I have
left. I have none but what my wife gives me, you know, and
I can't ask her now."
The woman made no answer.
"I have only another moment," continued Troy; "and now
listen. Where are you going to-night? Casterbridge Union?"
"Yes; I thought to go there."
"You shan't go there; yet, wait. Yes, perhaps for to-night;
I can do nothing better -- worse luck! Sleep there to-night,
and stay there to-morrow. Monday is the first free day I
have; and on Monday morning, at ten exactly, meet me on
Grey's Bridge just out of the town. I'll bring all the
money I can muster. You shan't want -- I'll see that,
Fanny; then I'll get you a lodging somewhere. Good-bye till
then. I am a brute -- but good-bye!"
After advancing the distance which completed the ascent of
the hill, Bathsheba turned her head. The woman was upon her
feet, and Bathsheba saw her withdrawing from Troy, and going
feebly down the hill by the third milestone from
Casterbridge. Troy then came on towards his wife, stepped
into the gig, took the reins from her hand, and without
making any observation whipped the horse into a trot. He
was rather agitated.
"Do you know who that woman was?" said Bathsheba, looking
searchingly into his face.
"I do," he said, looking boldly back into hers.
"I thought you did," said she, with angry hauteur, and still
regarding him. "Who is she?"
He suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit
neither of the women.
"Nothing to either of us," he said. "I know her by sight."
"What is her name?"
"How should I know her name?"
"I think you do."
"Think if you will, and be ----" The sentence was completed
by a smart cut of the whip round Poppet's flank, which
caused the animal to start forward at a wild pace. No more
was said.
Content of CHAPTER XXXIX - COMING HOME -- A CRY [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
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Read next: CHAPTER XL - ON CASTERBRIDGE HIGHWAY
Read previous: CHAPTER XXXVIII - RAIN -- ONE SOLITARY MEETS ANOTHER
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