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CHAPTER XLIV - UNDER A TREE -- REACTION
BATHSHEBA went along the dark road, neither knowing nor
caring about the direction or issue of her flight. The
first time that she definitely noticed her position was when
she reached a gate leading into a thicket over-hung by some
large oak and beech trees. On looking into the place, it
occurred to her that she had seen it by daylight on some
previous occasion, and that what appeared like an impassable
thicket was in reality a brake of fern now withering fast.
She could think of nothing better to do with her palpitating
self than to go in here and hide; and entering, she lighted
on a spot sheltered from the damp fog by a reclining trunk,
where she sank down upon a tangled couch of fronds and
stems. She mechanically pulled some armfuls round her to
keep off the breezes, and closed her eyes.
Whether she slept or not that night Bathsheba was not
clearly aware. But it was with a freshened existence and a
cooler brain that, a long time afterwards, she became
conscious of some interesting proceedings which were going
on in the trees above her head and around.
A coarse-throated chatter was the first sound.
It was a sparrow just waking.
Next: "Chee-weeze-weeze-weeze!" from another retreat.
It was a finch.
Third: "Tink-tink-tink-tink-a-chink!" from the hedge.
It was a robin.
"Chuck-chuck-chuck!" overhead.
A squirrel.
Then, from the road, "With my ra-ta-ta, and my rum-tum-tum!"
It was a ploughboy. Presently he came opposite, and she
believed from his voice that he was one of the boys on her
own farm. He was followed by a shambling tramp of heavy
feet, and looking through the ferns Bathsheba could just
discern in the wan light of daybreak a team of her own
horses. They stopped to drink at a pond on the other side
of the way. She watched them flouncing into the pool,
drinking, tossing up their heads, drinking again, the water
dribbling from their lips in silver threads. There was
another flounce, and they came out of the pond, and turned
back again towards the farm.
She looked further around. Day was just dawning, and beside
its cool air and colours her heated actions and resolves of
the night stood out in lurid contrast. She perceived that
in her lap, and clinging to her hair, were red and yellow
leaves which had come down from the tree and settled
silently upon her during her partial sleep. Bathsheba shook
her dress to get rid of them, when multitudes of the same
family lying round about her rose and fluttered away in the
breeze thus created, "like ghosts from an enchanter
fleeing."
There was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the
as yet unrisen sun attracted her eyes thither. From her
feet, and between the beautiful yellowing ferns with their
feathery arms, the ground sloped downwards to a hollow, in
which was a species of swamp, dotted with fungi. A morning
mist hung over it now -- a fulsome yet magnificent silvery
veil, full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque -- the
hedge behind it being in some measure hidden by its hazy
luminousness. Up the sides of this depression grew sheaves
of the common rush, and here and there a peculiar species of
flag, the blades of which glistened in the emerging sun,
like scythes. But the general aspect of the swamp was
malignant. From its moist and poisonous coat seemed to be
exhaled the essences of evil things in the earth, and in the
waters under the earth. The fungi grew in all manner of
positions from rotting leaves and tree stumps, some
exhibiting to her listless gaze their clammy tops, others
their oozing gills. Some were marked with great splotches,
red as arterial blood, others were saffron yellow, and
others tall and attenuated, with stems like macaroni. Some
were leathery and of richest browns. The hollow seemed a
nursery of pestilences small and great, in the immediate
neighbourhood of comfort and health, and Bathsheba arose
with a tremor at the thought of having passed the night on
the brink of so dismal a place.
"There were now other footsteps to be heard along the road.
Bathsheba's nerves were still unstrung: she crouched down
out of sight again, and the pedestrian came into view. He
was a schoolboy, with a bag slung over his shoulder
containing his dinner, and a hook in his hand. He paused by
the gate, and, without looking up, continued murmuring words
in tones quite loud enough to reach her ears.
"'O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord': -- that I know
out o' book. 'Give us, give us, give us, give us, give us':
-- that I know. 'Grace that, grace that, grace that, grace
that': -- that I know." Other words followed to the same
effect. The boy was of the dunce class apparently; the book
was a psalter, and this was his way of learning the collect.
In the worst attacks of trouble there appears to be always a
superficial film of consciousness which is left disengaged
and open to the notice of trifles, and Bathsheba was faintly
amused at the boy's method, till he too passed on.
By this time stupor had given place to anxiety, and anxiety
began to make room for hunger and thirst. A form now
appeared upon the rise on the other side of the swamp, half-
hidden by the mist, and came towards Bathsheba. The woman --
for it was a woman -- approached with her face askance, as
if looking earnestly on all sides of her. When she got a
little further round to the left, and drew nearer, Bathsheba
could see the newcomer's profile against the sunny sky, and
knew the wavy sweep from forehead to chin, with neither
angle nor decisive line anywhere about it, to be the
familiar contour of Liddy Smallbury.
Bathsheba's heart bounded with gratitude in the thought that
she was not altogether deserted, and she jumped up. "Oh,
Liddy!" she said, or attempted to say; but the words had
only been framed by her lips; there came no sound. She had
lost her voice by exposure to the clogged atmosphere all
these hours of night.
"Oh, ma'am! I am so glad I have found you," said the girl,
as soon as she saw Bathsheba.
"You can't come across," Bathsheba said in a whisper, which
she vainly endeavoured to make loud enough to reach Liddy's
ears. Liddy, not knowing this, stepped down upon the swamp,
saying, as she did so, "It will bear me up, I think."
Bathsheba never forgot that transient little picture of
Liddy crossing the swamp to her there in the morning light.
Iridescent bubbles of dank subterranean breath rose from the
sweating sod beside the waiting maid's feet as she trod,
hissing as they burst and expanded away to join the vapoury
firmament above. Liddy did not sink, as Bathsheba had
anticipated.
She landed safely on the other side, and looked up at the
beautiful though pale and weary face of her young mistress.
"Poor thing!" said Liddy, with tears in her eyes, "Do
hearten yourself up a little, ma'am. However did ----"
"I can't speak above a whisper -- my voice is gone for the
present," said Bathsheba, hurriedly. "I suppose the damp
air from that hollow has taken it away Liddy, don't question
me, mind. Who sent you -- anybody?"
"Nobody. I thought, when I found you were not at home, that
something cruel had happened. I fancy I heard his voice
late last night; and so, knowing something was wrong ----"
"Is he at home?"
"No; he left just before I came out."
"Is Fanny taken away?"
"Not yet. She will soon be -- at nine o'clock."
"We won't go home at present, then. Suppose we walk about
in this wood?"
Liddy, without exactly understanding everything, or
anything, in this episode, assented, and they walked
together further among the trees.
"But you had better come in, ma'am, and have something to
eat. You will die of a chill!"
"I shall not come indoors yet -- perhaps never."
"Shall I get you something to eat, and something else to put
over your head besides that little shawl?"
"If you will, Liddy."
Liddy vanished, and at the end of twenty minutes returned
with a cloak, hat, some slices of bread and butter, a tea-
cup, and some hot tea in a little china jug
"Is Fanny gone?" said Bathsheba.
"No," said her companion, pouring out the tea.
Bathsheba wrapped herself up and ate and drank sparingly.
Her voice was then a little clearer, and trifling colour
returned to her face. "Now we'll walk about again," she
said.
They wandered about the wood for nearly two hours, Bathsheba
replying in monosyllables to Liddy's prattle, for her mind
ran on one subject, and one only. She interrupted with --
"I wonder if Fanny is gone by this time?"
"I will go and see."
She came back with the information that the men were just
taking away the corpse; that Bathsheba had been inquired
for; that she had replied to the effect that her mistress
was unwell and could not be seen.
"Then they think I am in my bedroom?"
"Yes." Liddy then ventured to add: "You said when I first
found you that you might never go home again -- you didn't
mean it, ma'am?"
"No; I've altered my mind. It is only women with no pride
in them who run away from their husbands. There is one
position worse than that of being found dead in your
husband's house from his ill usage, and that is, to be found
alive through having gone away to the house of somebody
else. I've thought of it all this morning, and I've chosen
my course. A runaway wife is an encumbrance to everybody, a
burden to herself and a byword -- all of which make up a
heap of misery greater than any that comes by staying at
home -- though this may include the trifling items of
insult, beating, and starvation. Liddy, if ever you marry --
God forbid that you ever should! -- you'll find yourself
in a fearful situation; but mind this, don't you flinch.
Stand your ground, and be cut to pieces. That's what I'm
going to do."
"Oh, mistress, don't talk so!" said Liddy, taking her hand;
"but I knew you had too much sense to bide away. May I ask
what dreadful thing it is that has happened between you and
him?"
"You may ask; but I may not tell."
In about ten minutes they returned to the house by a
circuitous route, entering at the rear. Bathsheba glided up
the back stairs to a disused attic, and her companion
followed.
"Liddy," she said, with a lighter heart, for youth and hope
had begun to reassert themselves; "you are to be my
confidante for the present -- somebody must be -- and I
choose you. Well, I shall take up my abode here for a
while. Will you get a fire lighted, put down a piece of
carpet, and help me to make the place comfortable.
Afterwards, I want you and Maryann to bring up that little
stump bedstead in the small room, and the bed belonging to
it, and a table, and some other things.... What shall I do
to pass the heavy time away?"
"Hemming handkerchiefs is a very good thing," said Liddy.
"Oh no, no! I hate needlework -- I always did."
"Knitting?"
"And that, too."
"You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and
peacocks want filling in; and then it could be framed and
glazed, and hung beside your aunt's ma'am."
"Samplers are out of date -- horribly countrified. No
Liddy, I'll read. Bring up some books -- not new ones. I
haven't heart to read anything new."
"Some of your uncle's old ones, ma'am?"
"Yes. Some of those we stowed away in boxes." A faint
gleam of humour passed over her face as she said: "Bring
Beaumont and Fletcher's MAID'S TRAGEDY, and the MOURNING
BRIDE, and let me see -- NIGHT THOUGHTS, and the VANITY OF
HUMAN WISHES."
"And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife
Desdemona? It is a nice dismal one that would suit you
excellent just now."
"Now, Liddy, you've been looking into my books without
telling me; and I said you were not to! How do you know it
would suit me? It wouldn't suit me at all."
"But if the others do ----"
"No, they don't; and I won't read dismal books. Why should
I read dismal books, indeed? Bring me LOVE IN A VILLAGE,
and MAID OF THE MILL, and DOCTOR SYNTAX, and some volumes of
the SPECTATOR."
All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic in a
state of barricade; a precaution which proved to be needless
as against Troy, for he did not appear in the neighbourhood
or trouble them at all. Bathsheba sat at the window till
sunset, sometimes attempting to read, at other times
watching every movement outside without much purpose, and
listening without much interest to every sound.
The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid
cloud received its rays in the east. Up against this dark
background the west front of the church tower -- the only
part of the edifice visible from the farm-house windows --
rose distinct and lustrous, the vane upon the summit
bristling with rays. Hereabouts, at six o'clock, the young
men of the village gathered, as was their custom, for a game
of Prisoners' base. The spot had been consecrated to this
ancient diversion from time immemorial, the old stocks
conveniently forming a base facing the boundary of the
churchyard, in front of which the ground was trodden hard
and bare as a pavement by the players. She could see the
brown and black heads of the young lads darting about right
and left, their white shirt-sleeves gleaming in the sun;
whilst occasionally a shout and a peal of hearty laughter
varied the stillness of the evening air. They continued
playing for a quarter of an hour or so, when the game
concluded abruptly, and the players leapt over the wall and
vanished round to the other side behind a yew-tree, which
was also half behind a beech, now spreading in one mass of
golden foliage, on which the branches traced black lines.
"Why did the base-players finish their game so suddenly?"
Bathsheba inquired, the next time that Liddy entered the
room.
"I think 'twas because two men came just then from
Casterbridge and began putting up a grand carved tombstone,"
said Liddy. "The lads went to see whose it was."
"Do you know?" Bathsheba asked.
"I don't," said Liddy.
Content of CHAPTER XLIV - UNDER A TREE -- REACTION [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
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