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CHAPTER L - THE SHEEP FAIR -- TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE'S HAND
GREENHILL was the Nijni Novgorod of South Wessex; and the
busiest, merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number
was the day of the sheep fair. This yearly gathering was
upon the summit of a hill which retained in good
preservation the remains of an ancient earthwork, consisting
of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval form
encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down
here and there. To each of the two chief openings on
opposite sides a winding road ascended, and the level green
space of ten or fifteen acres enclosed by the bank was the
site of the fair. A few permanent erections dotted the
spot, but the majority of visitors patronized canvas alone
for resting and feeding under during the time of their
sojourn here.
Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances
started from home two or three days, or even a week, before
the fair, driving their charges a few miles each day -- not
more than ten or twelve -- and resting them at night in
hired fields by the wayside at previously chosen points,
where they fed, having fasted since morning. The shepherd
of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit
for the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand
his crook, which he used as the staff of his pilgrimage.
Several of the sheep would get worn and lame, and
occasionally a lambing occurred on the road. To meet these
contingencies, there was frequently provided, to accompany
the flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into
which the weakly ones were taken for the remainder of the
journey.
The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance
from the hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in
their case. But the large united flocks of Bathsheba and
Farmer Boldwood formed a valuable and imposing multitude
which demanded much attention, and on this account Gabriel,
in addition to Boldwood's shepherd and Cain Ball,
accompanied them along the way, through the decayed old town
of Kingsbere, and upward to the plateau, -- old George the
dog of course behind them.
When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and
lighted the dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of
dust were to be seen floating between the pairs of hedges
which streaked the wide prospect around in all directions.
These gradually converged upon the base of the hill, and the
flocks became individually visible, climbing the serpentine
ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession, they
entered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude
after multitude, horned and hornless -- blue flocks and red
flocks, buff flocks and brown flocks, even green and salmon-
tinted flocks, according to the fancy of the colourist and
custom of the farm. Men were shouting, dogs were barking,
with greatest animation, but the thronging travellers in so
long a journey had grown nearly indifferent to such terrors,
though they still bleated piteously at the unwontedness of
their experiences, a tall shepherd rising here and there in
the midst of them, like a gigantic idol amid a crowd of
prostrate devotees.
The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs
and the old Wessex horned breeds, to the latter class
Bathsheba's and Farmer Boldwood's mainly belonged. These
filed in about nine o'clock, their vermiculated horns
lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in
geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear
nestling under each horn. Before and behind came other
varieties, perfect leopards as to the full rich substance of
their coats, and only lacking the spots. There were also a
few of the Oxfordshire breed, whose wool was beginning to
curl like a child's flaxen hair, though surpassed in this
respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in turn
less curly than the Cotswolds. But the most picturesque by
far was a small flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there
this year. Their pied faces and legs, dark and heavy horns,
tresses of wool hanging round their swarthy foreheads, quite
relieved the monotony of the flocks in that quarter.
All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered
and were penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog
belonging to each flock being tied to the corner of the pen
containing it. Alleys for pedestrians intersected the pens,
which soon became crowded with buyers and sellers from far
and near.
In another part of the hill an altogether different scene
began to force itself upon the eye towards midday. A
circular tent, of exceptional newness and size, was in
course of erection here. As the day drew on, the flocks
began to change hands, lightening the shepherd's
responsibilities; and they turned their attention to this
tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed
concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was
going on.
"The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin's Ride to York
and the Death of Black Bess," replied the man promptly,
without turning his eyes or leaving off trying.
As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly
stimulating harmonies, and the announcement was publicly
made, Black Bess standing in a conspicuous position on the
outside, as a living proof, if proof were wanted, of the
truth of the oracular utterances from the stage over which
the people were to enter. These were so convinced by such
genuine appeals to heart and understanding both that they
soon began to crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being
visible Jan Coggan and Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday
keeping here to-day.
"That's the great ruffen pushing me!" screamed a woman in
front of Jan over her shoulder at him when the rush was at
its fiercest.
"How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?"
said Coggan, in a deprecating tone, turning without turning
his body, which was jammed as in a vice.
There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent
forth their echoing notes. The crowd was again ecstasied,
and gave another lurch in which Coggan and Poorgrass were
again thrust by those behind upon the women in front.
"Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such
ruffens!" exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed
like a reed shaken by the wind.
Now," said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the
public at large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-
blades. "Did ye ever hear such onreasonable woman as that?
Upon my carcase, neighbours, if I could only get out of this
cheesewring, the damn women might eat the show for me!"
"Don't ye lose yer temper, Jan!" implored Joseph Poorgrass,
in a whisper. "They might get their men to murder us, for I
think by the shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form
of womankind."
Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be
pacified to please a friend, and they gradually reached the
foot of the ladder, Poorgrass being flattened like a
jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for admission, which he had
got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become so reeking hot
in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the woman in
spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with
chalked face and shoulders, who took the money of him,
hastily dropped it again from a fear that some trick had
been played to burn her fingers. So they all entered, and
the cloth of the tent, to the eyes of an observer on the
outside, became bulged into innumerable pimples such as we
observe on a sack of potatoes, caused by the various human
heads, backs, and elbows at high pressure within.
At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-
tents. One of these, alloted to the male performers, was
partitioned into halves by a cloth; and in one of the
divisions there was sitting on the grass, pulling on a pair
of jack-boots, a young man whom we instantly recognise as
Sergeant Troy.
Troy's appearance in this position may be briefly accounted
for. The brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads
was about to start on a voyage, though somewhat short of
hands. Troy read the articles and joined, but before they
sailed a boat was despatched across the bay to Lulwind cove;
as he had half expected, his clothes were gone. He
ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he
made a precarious living in various towns as Professor of
Gymnastics, Sword Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few
months were sufficient to give him a distaste for this kind
of life. There was a certain animal form of refinement in
his nature; and however pleasant a strange condition might
be whilst privations were easily warded off, it was
disadvantageously coarse when money was short. There was
ever present, too, the idea that he could claim a home and
its comforts did he but chose to return to England and
Weatherbury Farm. Whether Bathsheba thought him dead was a
frequent subject of curious conjecture. To England he did
return at last; but the fact of drawing nearer to
Weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his intention
to enter his old groove at the place became modified. It
was with gloom he considered on landing at Liverpool that if
he were to go home his reception would be of a kind very
unpleasant to contemplate; for what Troy had in the way of
emotion was an occasional fitful sentiment which sometimes
caused him as much inconvenience as emotion of a strong and
healthy kind. Bathsheba was not a women to be made a fool
of, or a woman to suffer in silence; and how could he endure
existence with a spirited wife to whom at first entering he
would be beholden for food and lodging? Moreover, it was
not at all unlikely that his wife would fail at her farming,
if she had not already done so; and he would then become
liable for her maintenance: and what a life such a future
of poverty with her would be, the spectre of Fanny
constantly between them, harrowing his temper and
embittering her words! Thus, for reasons touching on
distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his
return from day to day, and would have decided to put it off
altogether if he could have found anywhere else the ready-
made establishment which existed for him there.
At this time -- the July preceding the September in which we
find at Greenhill Fair -- he fell in with a travelling
circus which was performing in the outskirts of a northern
town. Troy introduced himself to the manager by taming a
restive horse of the troupe, hitting a suspended apple with
a pistol-bullet fired from the animal's back when in full
gallop, and other feats. For his merits in these -- all
more or less based upon his experiences as a dragoon-
guardsman -- Troy was taken into the company, and the play
of Turpin was prepared with a view to his personation of the
chief character. Troy was not greatly elated by the
appreciative spirit in which he was undoubtedly treated, but
he thought the engagement might afford him a few weeks for
consideration. It was thus carelessly, and without having
formed any definite plan for the future, that Troy
found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the company
on this day.
And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the
pavilion the following incident had taken place. Bathsheba
-- who was driven to the fair that day by her odd man
Poorgrass -- had, like every one else, read or heard the
announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great Cosmopolitan
Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of Turpin,
and she was not yet too old and careworn to be without a
little curiosity to see him. This particular show was by
far the largest and grandest in the fair, a horde of little
shows grouping themselves under its shade like chickens
around a hen. The crowd had passed in, and Boldwood, who
had been watching all the day for an opportunity of speaking
to her, seeing her comparatively isolated, came up to her
side.
"I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?" he
said, nervously.
"Oh yes, thank you," said Bathsheba, colour springing up in
the centre of her cheeks. "I was fortunate enough to sell
them all just as we got upon the hill, so we hadn't to pen
at all."
"And now you are entirely at leisure?"
"Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two
hours' time: otherwise I should be going home. He was
looking at this large tent and the announcement. Have you
ever seen the play of "Turpin's Ride to York?" Turpin was a
real man, was he not?"
"Oh yes, perfectly true -- all of it. Indeed, I think I've
heard Jan Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King,
Turpin's friend, quite well."
"Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with
his relations, we must remember. I hope they can all be
believed."
"Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You
have never seen it played, I suppose?"
"Never. I was not allowed to go into these places when I
was young. Hark! What's that prancing? How they shout!"
"Black Bess just started off, I suppose. Am I right in
supposing you would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy?
Please excuse my mistake, if it is one; but if you would
like to, I'll get a seat for you with pleasure." Perceiving
that she hesitated, he added, "I myself shall not stay to
see it: I've seen it before."
Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had
only withheld her feet from the ladder because she feared to
go in alone. She had been hoping that Oak might appear,
whose assistance in such cases was always accepted as an
inalienable right, but Oak was nowhere to be seen; and hence
it was that she said, "Then if you will just look in first,
to see if there's room, I think I will go in for a minute or
two."
And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the
tent with Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a
"reserved" seat, again withdrew.
This feature consisted of one raised bench in very
conspicuous part of the circle, covered with red cloth, and
floored with a piece of carpet, and Bathsheba immediately
found, to her confusion, that she was the single reserved
individual in the tent, the rest of the crowded spectators,
one and all, standing on their legs on the borders of the
arena, where they got twice as good a view of the
performance for half the money. Hence as many eyes were
turned upon her, enthroned alone in this place of honour,
against a scarlet back-ground, as upon the ponies and clown
who were engaged in preliminary exploits in the centre,
Turpin not having yet appeared. Once there, Bathsheba was
forced to make the best of it and remain: she sat down,
spreading her skirts with some dignity over the unoccupied
space on each side of her, and giving a new and feminine
aspect to the pavilion. In a few minutes she noticed the
fat red nape of Coggan's neck among those standing just
below her, and Joseph Poorgrass's saintly profile a little
further on.
The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. The strange
luminous semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves
intensified into Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams
which came through holes and divisions in the canvas, and
spirted like jets of gold-dust across the dusky blue
atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they alighted
on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like little
lamps suspended there.
Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a
reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on
high before him as described, sitting as queen of the
tournament. He started back in utter confusion, for
although his disguise effectually concealed his personality,
he instantly felt that she would be sure to recognize his
voice. He had several times during the day thought of the
possibility of some Weatherbury person or other appearing
and recognizing him; but he had taken the risk carelessly.
If they see me, let them, he had said. But here was
Bathsheba in her own person; and the reality of the scene
was so much intenser than any of his prefigurings that he
felt he had not half enough considered the point.
She looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about
Weatherbury people was changed. He had not expected her to
exercise this power over him in the twinkling of an eye.
Should he go on, and care nothing? He could not bring
himself to do that. Beyond a politic wish to remain
unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of shame at
the possibility that his attractive young wife, who already
despised him, should despise him more by discovering him in
so mean a condition after so long a time. He actually
blushed at the thought, and was vexed beyond measure that
his sentiments of dislike towards Weatherbury should have
led him to dally about the country in this way.
But Troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his
wit's end. He hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his
own little dressing space from that of the manager and
proprietor, who now appeared as the individual called Tom
King as far down as his waist, and as the aforesaid
respectable manager thence to his toes.
"Here's the devil to pay!" said Troy.
"How's that?"
"Why, there's a blackguard creditor in the tent I don't want
to see, who'll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I
open my mouth. What's to be done?"
"You must appear now, I think."
"I can't."
"But the play must proceed."
"Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can't
speak his part, but that he'll perform it just the same
without speaking."
The proprietor shook his head.
"Anyhow, play or no play, I won't open my mouth," said Troy,
firmly.
"Very well, then let me see. I tell you how we'll manage,"
said the other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely
awkward to offend his leading man just at this time. "I
won't tell 'em anything about your keeping silence; go on
with the piece and say nothing, doing what you can by a
judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods in
the heroic places, you know. They'll never find out that
the speeches are omitted."
This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin's speeches were not
many or long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in
the action; and accordingly the play began, and at the
appointed time Black Bess leapt into the grassy circle amid
the plaudits of the spectators. At the turnpike scene,
where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by the
officers, and half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled
nightcap denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan uttered
a broad-chested "Well done!" which could be heard all over
the fair above the bleating, and Poorgrass smiled
delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast between
our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in
the form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely
and wait to be let through. At the death of Tom King, he
could not refrain from seizing Coggan by the hand, and
whispering, with tears in his eyes, "Of course he's not
really shot, Jan -- only seemingly!" And when the last sad
scene came on, and the body of the gallant and faithful Bess
had to be carried out on a shutter by twelve volunteers from
among the spectators, nothing could restrain Poorgrass from
lending a hand, exclaiming, as he asked Jan to join him,
"Twill be something to tell of at Warren's in future years,
Jan, and hand down to our children." For many a year in
Weatherbury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who had had
experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand
the hoof of Bess as she lay upon the board upon his
shoulder. If, as some thinkers hold, immortality consists
in being enshrined in others' memories, then did Black Bess
become immortal that day if she never had done so before.
Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-
up for the character, the more effectually to disguise
himself, and though he had felt faint qualms on first
entering, the metamorphosis effected by judiciously "lining"
his face with a wire rendered him safe from the eyes of
Bathsheba and her men. Nevertheless, he was relieved when
it was got through.
There a second performance in the evening, and the tent was
lighted up. Troy had taken his part very quietly this time,
venturing to introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was
just concluding it when, whilst standing at the edge of the
circle contiguous to the first row of spectators, he
observed within a yard of him the eye of a man darted keenly
into his side features. Troy hastily shifted his position,
after having recognized in the scrutineer the knavish bailiff
Pennyways, his wife's sworn enemy, who still hung about the
outskirts of Weatherbury.
At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by
circumstances. That he had been recognized by this man was
highly probable; yet there was room for a doubt. Then the
great objection he had felt to allowing news of his
proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the event of his
return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present
occupation would discredit him still further in his wife's
eyes, returned in full force. Moreover, should he resolve
not to return at all, a tale of his being alive and being in
the neighbourhood would be awkward; and he was anxious to
acquire a knowledge of his wife's temporal affairs before
deciding which to do.
In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre. It
occurred to him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of
him if possible, would be a very wise act. He had put on a
thick beard borrowed from the establishment, and in this he
wandered about the fair-field. It was now almost dark, and
respectable people were getting their carts and gigs ready
to go home.
The largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an
innkeeper from a neighbouring town. This was considered an
unexceptionable place for obtaining the necessary food and
rest: Host Trencher (as he was jauntily called by the local
newspaper) being a substantial man of high repute for
catering through all the country round. The tent was
divided into first and second-class compartments, and at the
end of the first-class division was a yet further enclosure
for the most exclusive, fenced off from the body of the tent
by a luncheon-bar, behind which the host himself stood
bustling about in white apron and shirt-sleeves, and looking
as if he had never lived anywhere but under canvas all his
life. In these penetralia were chairs and a table, which,
on candles being lighted, made quite a cozy and luxurious
show, with an urn, plated tea and coffee pots, china
teacups, and plum cakes.
Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman
was frying pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling
them at a penny a-piece, and looked over the heads of the
people within. He could see nothing of Pennyways, but he
soon discerned Bathsheba through an opening into the
reserved space at the further end. Troy thereupon
retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and
listened. He could hear Bathsheba's voice immediately
inside the canvas; she was conversing with a man. A warmth
overspread his face: surely she was not so unprincipled as
to flirt in a fair! He wondered if, then, she reckoned upon
his death as an absolute certainty. To get at the root of
the matter, Troy took a penknife from his pocket and softly
made two little cuts crosswise in the cloth, which, by
folding back the corners left a hole the size of a wafer.
Close to this he placed his face, withdrawing it again in a
movement of surprise; for his eye had been within twelve
inches of the top of Bathsheba's head. It was too near to
be convenient. He made another hole a little to one side
and lower down, in a shaded place beside her chair, from
which it was easy and safe to survey her by looking
horizontally.
Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning
back, sipping a cup of tea that she held in her hand, and
the owner of the male voice was Boldwood, who had apparently
just brought the cup to her, Bathsheba, being in a negligent
mood, leant so idly against the canvas that it was pressed
to the shape of her shoulder, and she was, in fact, as good
as in Troy's arms; and he was obliged to keep his breast
carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth
through the cloth as he gazed in.
Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again
within him as they had been stirred earlier in the day. She
was handsome as ever, and she was his. It was some minutes
before he could counteract his sudden wish to go in, and
claim her. Then he thought how the proud girl who had
always looked down upon him even whilst it was to love him,
would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling player.
Were he to make himself known, that chapter of his life must
at all risks be kept for ever from her and from the
Weatherbury people, or his name would be a byword throughout
the parish. He would be nicknamed "Turpin" as long as he
lived. Assuredly before he could claim her these few past
months of his existence must be entirely blotted out.
"Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma'am?" said
Farmer Boldwood.
"Thank you," said Bathsheba. "But I must be going at once.
It was great neglect in that man to keep me waiting here
till so late. I should have gone two hours ago, if it had
not been for him. I had no idea of coming in here; but
there's nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea, though I
should never have got one if you hadn't helped me."
Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and
watched each varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like
sinuosities of her little ear. She took out her purse and
was insisting to Boldwood on paying for her tea for herself,
when at this moment Pennyways entered the tent. Troy
trembled: here was his scheme for respectability endangered
at once. He was about to leave his hole of espial, attempt
to follow Pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had
recognized him, when he was arrested by the conversation,
and found he was too late.
"Excuse me, ma'am," said Pennyways; "I've some private
information for your ear alone."
"I cannot hear it now," she said, coldly. That Bathsheba
could not endure this man was evident; in fact, he was
continually coming to her with some tale or other, by which
he might creep into favour at the expense of persons
maligned.
"I'll write it down," said Pennyways, confidently. He
stooped over the table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-
book, and wrote upon the paper, in a round hand --
"YOUR HUSBAND IS HERE. I'VE SEEN HIM. WHO'S THE FOOL NOW?"
This he folded small, and handed towards her. Bathsheba
would not read it; she would not even put out her hand to
take it. Pennyways, then, with a laugh of derision, tossed
it into her lap, and, turning away, left her.
From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had
not been able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a
moment's doubt that the note referred to him. Nothing that
he could think of could be done to check the exposure.
"Curse my luck!" he whispered, and added imprecations which
rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind. Meanwhile
Boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap --
"Don't you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy? If not, I'll destroy
it."
"Oh, well," said Bathsheba, carelessly, "perhaps it is
unjust not to read it; but I can guess what it is about. He
wants me to recommend him, or it is to tell me of some
little scandal or another connected with my work-people.
He's always doing that."
Bathsheba held the note in her right hand. Boldwood handed
towards her a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order
to take a slice, she put the note into her left hand, where
she was still holding the purse, and then allowed her hand
to drop beside her close to the canvas. The moment had come
for saving his game, and Troy impulsively felt that he would
play the card. For yet another time he looked at the fair
hand, and saw the pink finger-tips, and the blue veins of
the wrist, encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings which
she wore: how familiar it all was to him! Then, with the
lightning action in which he was such an adept, he
noiselessly slipped his hand under the bottom of the tent-
cloth, which was far from being pinned tightly down, lifted
it a little way, keeping his eye to the hole, snatched the
note from her fingers, dropped the canvas, and ran away in
the gloom towards the bank and ditch, smiling at the scream
of astonishment which burst from her. Troy then slid down
on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in the bottom
of the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards,
ascended again, and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards
the front entrance of the tent. His object was now to get
to Pennyways, and prevent a repetition of the announcement
until such time as he should choose.
Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups
there gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently
not wishing to make himself prominent by inquiring for him.
One or two men were speaking of a daring attempt that had
just been made to rob a young lady by lifting the canvas of
the tent beside her. It was supposed that the rogue had
imagined a slip of paper which she held in her hand to be a
bank note, for he had seized it, and made off with it,
leaving her purse behind. His chagrin and disappointment at
discovering its worthlessness would be a good joke, it was
said. However, the occurrence seemed to have become known
to few, for it had not interrupted a fiddler, who had lately
begun playing by the door of the tent, nor the four bowed
old men with grim countenances and walking-sticks in hand,
who were dancing "Major Malley's Reel" to the tune. Behind
these stood Pennyways. Troy glided up to him, beckoned, and
whispered a few words; and with a mutual glance of
concurrence the two men went into the night together.
Content of CHAPTER L - THE SHEEP FAIR -- TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE'S HAND [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
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Read next: CHAPTER LI - BATHSHEBA TALKS WITH HER OUTRIDER
Read previous: CHAPTER XLIX - OAK'S ADVANCEMENT -- A GREAT HOPE
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