Far from the Madding Crowd (54 page)

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.

The supper of hot pancakes, bread and butter, and as much cider as their intending sweetheart demanded, having been bought by the hopeful Jan Coggan and Matthew Moon, who swilled down more than their usual share of several large flagons of cider, Maryann, her spirits considerably mellowed by the victuals and liquor, put her head close to theirs, and whispered to her would-be lovers.

“I've pondered on your offer,” she said, “and I decide to take it up accordingly. But I am not for a-doing of it here, in broad view of all and sundry, nor behind that rick-cloth with the ragged women of the town. You know, and I know, that I would be treated as a decent and respectable woman, and that what I seek is a man for life. Alas, what I have found to my sorrow is, there's too many that try the wares and run away without paying a penny. Now, I”m a fair minded woman, and I'm happy to go along with you two, seeing as you don't have even half a wife between you. But, and I say this with my hand on my heart, if I don't get a husband out of this night's sport, I shall make your two lives a living misery. Do you understand the terms I offer? And are you still up for the game?”

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 with the snatching of the message 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 ill-used 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 undiminished, 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.

As they journeyed homeward, the moonlight suddenly obscured by the looming shadows of tall elms all along the road, she remained blissfully in ignorance that, safely seated behind her on his steady old horse, with the skirts of his greatcoat spread over him concealing all movement, Boldwood was allowing both hands free play to open his breeches, the better to fondle, squeeze and tease his throbbing truncheon, softly at first, feeling its swift rise under his hands to cause his breath to come faster, then, maddened to extremity by the sight of his adored one, so near and yet so far from him, he began to rub himself more eagerly, at first in rhythm to the horse's slow pace, then faster, as his erection swelled and grew peremptory in its demand for satistfaction. How wondrous it would be, he thought, to stop Bathsheba's waggon, to show her the visible evidence of his passion, and to join his body to hers, here in the darkness! his proximity to the object of his desire hastened his emissions in so intense a gushing forth of pleasure that it was with the greatest difficulty that he restrained himself from groaning and sobbing aloud with relief.

Summoning every vestige of control, he wiped himself, laced up his breeches, and soon found an excuse for advancing from his position in the rear, and riding 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, and 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 her 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 I — I 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. And, after all, was she not a widow who had known the passionate heat of connection with a husband who was able to drive her into frenzies and leave her spent, exhausted, and gasping? How was that aching void within her to be filled? Or was she never again to know the feel of a man's hard cock gently inserted into her, the insistent, mounting rhythms of the act of conjugal union?

How differently the night ended for her three revelling farm folk. Having gained entrance to an unused shepherd's hut on a field near Bathsheba's farm, the two men were about to draw lots for their roles in the forthcoming drama, but Maryann would have none of it.

“I'll take you, Jan Coggan,” she said, undoing his trouser waistband with a brisk hand, “and you, Matthew, stand further off, at the end of the bed and watch. Only watch, mind, I'll have no speeches about my performance. Nor suggestions neither.”