________________________________________________
_
CHAPTER XLIX - OAK'S ADVANCEMENT -- A GREAT HOPE
THE later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the
leaves lay thick upon the turf of the glades and the mosses
of the woods. Bathsheba, having previously been living in a
state of suspended feeling which was not suspense, now lived
in a mood of quietude which was not precisely peacefulness.
While she had known him to be alive she could have thought
of his death with equanimity; but now that it might be she
had lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still. She
kept the farm going, raked in her profits without caring
keenly about them, and expended money on ventures because
she had done so in bygone days, which, though not long gone
by, seemed infinitely removed from her present. She looked
back upon that past over a great gulf, as if she were now a
dead person, having the faculty of meditation still left in
her, by means of which, like the mouldering gentlefolk of
the poet's story, she could sit and ponder what a gift life
used to be.
However, one excellent result of her general apathy was the
long-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having
virtually exercised that function for a long time already,
the change, beyond the substantial increase of wages it
brought, was little more than a nominal one addressed to the
outside world.
Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much of his wheat and
all his barley of that season had been spoilt by the rain.
It sprouted, grew into intricate mats, and was ultimately
thrown to the pigs in armfuls. The strange neglect which
had produced this ruin and waste became the subject of
whispered talk among all the people round; and it was
elicited from one of Boldwood's men that forgetfulness had
nothing to do with it, for he had been reminded of the
danger to his corn as many times and as persistently as
inferiors dared to do. The sight of the pigs turning in
disgust from the rotten ears seemed to arouse Boldwood, and
he one evening sent for Oak. Whether it was suggested by
Bathsheba's recent act of promotion or not, the farmer
proposed at the interview that Gabriel should undertake the
superintendence of the Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba's,
because of the necessity Boldwood felt for such aid, and the
impossibility of discovering a more trustworthy man.
Gabriel's malignant star was assuredly setting fast.
Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal -- for Oak was
obliged to consult her -- at first languidly objected. She
considered that the two farms together were too extensive
for the observation of one man. Boldwood, who was
apparently determined by personal rather than commercial
reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with a horse
for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty,
the two farms lying side by side. Boldwood did not directly
communicate with her during these negotiations, only
speaking to Oak, who was the go-between throughout. All was
harmoniously arranged at last, and we now see Oak mounted on
a strong cob, and daily trotting the length breadth of about
two thousand acres in a cheerful spirit of surveillance, as
if the crops all belonged to him -- the actual mistress of
the one-half and the master of the other, sitting in their
respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion.
Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a
talk in the parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest
fast.
"Whatever d'ye think," said Susan Tall, "Gable Oak is coming
it quite the dand. He now wears shining boots with hardly a
hob in 'em, two or three times a-week, and a tall hat a-
Sundays, and 'a hardly knows the name of smockfrock. When I
see people strut enough to be cut up into bantam cocks, I
stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!"
It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed
wage by Bathsheba independent of the fluctuations of
agricultural profits, had made an engagement with Boldwood
by which Oak was to receive a share of the receipts -- a
small share certainly, yet it was money of a higher quality
than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way that
wages were not. Some were beginning to consider Oak a
"near" man, for though his condition had thus far improved,
he lived in no better style than before, occupying the same
cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending his stockings, and
sometimes even making his bed with his own hands. But as
Oak was not only provokingly indifferent to public opinion,
but a man who clung persistently to old habits and usages,
simply because they were old, there was room for doubt as to
his motives.
A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose
unreasoning devotion to Bathsheba could only be
characterized as a fond madness which neither time nor
circumstance, evil nor good report, could weaken or destroy.
This fevered hope had grown up again like a grain of
mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the hasty
conjecture that Troy was drowned. He nourished it
fearfully, and almost shunned the contemplation of it in
earnest, lest facts should reveal the wildness of the dream.
Bathsheba having at last been persuaded to wear mourning,
her appearance as she entered the church in that guise was
in itself a weekly addition to his faith that a time was
coming -- very far off perhaps, yet surely nearing -- when
his waiting on events should have its reward. How long he
might have to wait he had not yet closely considered. What
he would try to recognize was that the severe schooling she
had been subjected to had made Bathsheba much more
considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings of
others, and he trusted that, should she be willing at any
time in the future to marry any man at all, that man would
be himself. There was a substratum of good feeling in her:
her self-reproach for the injury she had thoughtlessly done
him might be depended upon now to a much greater extent than
before her infatuation and disappointment. It would be
possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature,
and to suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them
for fulfilment at some future day, keeping the passionate
side of his desire entirely out of her sight. Such was
Boldwood's hope.
To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps
additionally charming just now. Her exuberance of spirit
was pruned down; the original phantom of delight had shown
herself to be not too bright for human nature's daily food,
and she had been able to enter this second poetical phase
without losing much of the first in the process.
Bathsheba's return from a two months' visit to her old aunt
at Norcombe afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a
pretext for inquiring directly after her -- now possibly in
the ninth month of her widowhood -- and endeavouring to get
a notion of her state of mind regarding him. This occurred
in the middle of the haymaking, and Boldwood contrived to be
near Liddy who was assisting in the fields.
"I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia," he said
pleasantly.
She simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak
so frankly to her.
"I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence," he
continued, in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted
neighbour could scarcely say less about her.
"She is quite well, sir."
"And cheerful, I suppose."
"Yes, cheerful."
"Fearful, did you say?"
"Oh no. I merely said she was cheerful."
"Tells you all her affairs?"
"No, sir."
"Some of them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mrs. Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia, and very
wisely, perhaps."
"She do, sir. I've been with her all through her troubles,
and was with her at the time of Mr. Troy's going and all.
And if she were to marry again I expect I should bide with
her."
"She promises that you shall -- quite natural," said the
strategic lover, throbbing throughout him at the presumption
which Liddy's words appeared to warrant -- that his darling
had thought of re-marriage.
"No -- she doesn't promise it exactly. I merely judge on my
own account."
"Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to the
possibility of marrying again, you conclude ----"
"She never do allude to it, sir," said Liddy, thinking how
very stupid Mr. Boldwood was getting.
"Of course not," he returned hastily, his hope falling
again. "You needn't take quite such long reaches with your
rake, Lydia -- short and quick ones are best. Well,
perhaps, as she is absolute mistress again now, it is wise
of her to resolve never to give up her freedom."
"My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously,
that she supposed she might marry again at the end of seven
years from last year, if she cared to risk Mr. Troy's coming
back and claiming her."
"Ah, six years from the present time. Said that she might.
She might marry at once in every reasonable person's
opinion, whatever the lawyers may say to the contrary."
"Have you been to ask them?" said Liddy, innocently.
"Not I," said Boldwood, growing red. "Liddy, you needn't
stay here a minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says. I
am now going on a little farther. Good-afternoon."
He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for
this one time in his life done anything which could be
called underhand. Poor Boldwood had no more skill in
finesse than a battering-ram, and he was uneasy with a sense
of having made himself to appear stupid and, what was worse,
mean. But he had, after all, lighted upon one fact by way
of repayment. It was a singularly fresh and fascinating
fact, and though not without its sadness it was pertinent
and real. In little more than six years from this time
Bathsheba might certainly marry him. There was something
definite in that hope, for admitting that there might have
been no deep thought in her words to Liddy about marriage,
they showed at least her creed on the matter.
This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind. Six
years were a long time, but how much shorter than never, the
idea he had for so long been obliged to endure! Jacob had
served twice seven years for Rachel: what were six for such
a woman as this? He tried to like the notion of waiting for
her better than that of winning her at once. Boldwood felt
his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was
possible she had never yet known its full volume, and this
patience in delay would afford him an opportunity of giving
sweet proof on the point. He would annihilate the six years
of his life as if they were minutes -- so little did he
value his time on earth beside her love. He would let her
see, all those six years of intangible ethereal courtship,
how little care he had for anything but as it bore upon the
consummation.
Meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the
week in which Greenhill Fair was held. This fair was
frequently attended by the folk of Weatherbury.
Content of CHAPTER XLIX - OAK'S ADVANCEMENT -- A GREAT HOPE [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
_
Read next: CHAPTER L - THE SHEEP FAIR -- TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE'S HAND
Read previous: CHAPTER XLVIII - DOUBTS ARISE -- DOUBTS LINGER
Table of content of Far From The Madding Crowd
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
