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CHAPTER LI - 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 illused 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 un-
diminished, 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, 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 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 it
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 oddlike, 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.
Content of CHAPTER LI - BATHSHEBA TALKS WITH HER OUTRIDER [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
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Read next: CHAPTER LII - CONVERGING COURSES
Read previous: CHAPTER L - THE SHEEP FAIR -- TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE'S HAND
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