Page 41 of Far from the Madding Crowd

SUSPICION -- FANNY IS SENT FOR

BATHSHEBA said very little to her husband all thatevening of their return from market, and he was notdisposed to say much to her. He exhibited the un-pleasant combination of a restless condition with asilent tongue. The next day, which was Sunday, passednearly in the same manner as regarded their taciturnity,Bathsheba going to church both morning and afternoon.This was the day before the Budmouth races. In theevening Troy said, suddenly --”Bathsheba, could you let me have twenty pounds?”Her countenance instantly sank.” Twenty pounds?she said.”The fact is, I want it badly.” The anxiety uponTroy's face was unusual and very marked. lt was aculmination of the mood he had been in all the day.”Ah! for those races to-morrow.”Troy for the moment made no reply. Her mistakehad its advantages to a man who shrank from havinghis mind inspected as he did now. ”Well, suppose Ido want it for races?” he said, at last.”O, Frank!” Bathsheba replied, and there was sucha volume of entreaty in the words. ”Only such a fewweeks ago you said that I was far sweeter than all yourother pleasures put together, and that you would givethem all up for me; and now, won't you give up thisone, which is more a worry than a pleasure? Do,Frank. Come, let me fascinate you by all I can do -- by pretty words and pretty looks, and everything Ican think of -- to stay at home. Say yes to your wife --say yes!”The tenderest and softest phases of Bathsheba'snature were prominent now -- advanced impulsively forhis acceptance, without any of the disguises and defenceswhich the wariness of her character when she was cooltoo frequently threw over them. Few men could haveresisted the arch yet dignified entreaty of the beautifulface, thrown a little back and sideways in the wellknown attitude that expresses more than the words itaccompanies, and which seems to have been designedfor these special occasions. Had the woman not beenhis wife, Troy would have succumbed instantly; as itwas, he thought he would not deceive her longer.”The money is not wanted for racing debts at all,”he said.”What is it for?” she asked. ”You worry me a greatdeal by these mysterious responsibilities, Frank.”Troy hesitated. He did not now love her enoughto allow himself to be carried too far by her ways. Yetit was necessary to be civil. ”You wrong me by sucha suspicious manner, he said. ”Such strait-waistcoatingas you treat me to is not becoming in you at so early adate.””I think that I have a right to grumble a little if Ipay.” she said, with features between a smile and apout.Exactly; and, the former being done, suppose weproceed to the latter. Bathsheba, fun is all very well,but don't go too far, or you may have cause to regretsomething.”She reddened. ”I do that already.” she said, quickly”What do you regret?”SUSPICION”That my romance has come to an end.””All romances end at marriage.””I wish you wouldn't talk like that. You grieve meto my soul by being smart at my expense.””You are dull enough at mine. I believe you hateme.””Not you -- only your faults. I do hate them.””'Twould be much more becoming if you set your-self to cure them. Come, let's strike a balance withthe twenty pounds, and be friends.”She gave a sigh of resignation. ”I have about thatsum here for household expenses. If you must have it,take it.””Very good. Thank you. I expect I shall havegone away before you are in to breakfast to-morrow.””And must you go? Ah! there was a time, Frank,when it would have taken a good many promises toother people to drag you away from me. You used tocall me darling, then. But it doesn't matter to you howmy days are passed now.””I must go, in spite of sentiment.” Troy, as hespoke, looked at his watch, and, apparently actuated byNON LUCENDO principles, opened the case at the back,revealing, snugly stowed within it, a small coil of hair.Bathsheba's eyes had been accidentally lifted at thatmoment, and she saw the action and saw the hair. Sheflushed in pain and surprise, and some words escapedher before she had thought whether or not it was wiseto utter them. ”A woman's curl of hair!” she said.”O, Frank, whose is that?”Troy had instantly closed his watch. He carelesslyreplied, as one who cloaked some feelings that the sighthad stirred.” Why, yours, of course. Whose should itbe? I had quite forgotten that I had it.””What a dreadful fib, Frank!””I tell you I had forgotten it!” he said, loudly.”I don't mean that -- it was yellow hair.””Nonsense.””That's insulting me. I know it was yellow. Nowwhose was it? I want to know.””Very well I'll tell you, so make no more ado. Itis the hair of a young woman I was going to marrybefore I knew you.””You ought to tell me her name, then.””I cannot do that.””Is she married yet?””No.””Is she alive?””Yes.””Is she pretty?””Yes.””It is wonderful how she can be, poor thing, undersuch an awful affliction!””Affliction -- what affliction?” he inquired, quickly.”Having hair of that dreadful colour.””Oh -- ho-i like that!” said Troy, recovering him-self. ”Why, her hair has been admired by everybodywho has seen her since she has worn it loose, which hasnot been long. It is beautiful hair. People used toturn their heads to look at it, poor girl!””Pooh! that's nothing -- that's nothing!” she ex-claimed, in incipient accents of pique. ”If I cared foryour love as much as I used to I could say people hadturned to look at mine.””Bathsheba, don't be so fitful and jealous. Youknew what married life would be like, and shouldn'thave entered it if you feared these contingencies.”Troy had by this time driven her to bitterness: herheart was big in her throat, and the ducts to her eyeswere painfully full. Ashamed as she was to showemotion, at last she burst out: --”This is all I get for loving you so well! Ah! whenI married you your life was dearer to me than my own.I would have died for you -- how truly I can say that Iwould have died for you! And now you sneer at myfoolishness in marrying you. O! is it kind to me tothrow my mistake in my face? Whatever opinion youmay have of my wisdom, you should not tell me of it somercilessly, now that I am in your power.””I can't help how things fall out.” said Troy; ”uponmy heart, women will be the death of me!””Well you shouldn't keep people's hair. You'llburn it, won't you, Frank?”Frank went on as if he had not heard her. ”Thereare considerations even before my consideration for you;reparations to be made -- ties you know nothing of Ifyou repent of marrying, so do I.”Trembling now, she put her hand upon his arm,saying, in mingled tones of wretchedness and coaxing,”I only repent it if you don't love me better than anywoman in the world! I don't otherwise, Frank. Youdon't repent because you already love somebody betterthan you love me, do you?””I don't know. Why do you say that?””You won't burn that curl. You like the womanwho owns that pretty hair -- yes; it is pretty -- morebeautiful than my miserable black mane! Well, it isno use; I can't help being ugly. You must like herbest, if you will!””Until to-day, when I took it from a drawer, I havenever looked upon that bit of hair for several months --that I am ready to swear.””But just now you said ”ties;” and then -- thatwoman we met?””'Twas the meeting with her that reminded me ofthe hair.””Is it hers, then?””Yes. There, now that you have wormed it out ofme, I hope you are content.””And what are the ties?””Oh! that meant nothing -- a mere jest.””A mere jest!” she said, in mournful astonishment.”Can you jest when I am so wretchedly in earnest?Tell me the truth, Frank. I am not a fool, you know,although I am a woman, and have my woman's moments.Come! treat me fairly.” she said, looking honestly andfearlessly into his face. ”I don't want much; barejustice -- that's all! Ah! once I felt I could be contentwith nothing less than the highest homage from thehusband I should choose. Now, anything short ofcruelty will content me. Yes! the independent andspirited Bathsheba is come to this!””For Heaven's sake don't be so desperate!”Troysaid, snappishly, rising as he did so, and leaving theroom.Directly he had gone, Bathsheba burst into greatsobs -- dry-eyed sobs, which cut as they came, withoutany softening by tears. But she determined to repressall evidences of feeling. She was conquered; but shewould never own it as long as she lived. Her pridewas indeed brought low by despairing discoveries of herspoliation by marriage with a less pure nature than herown. She chafed to and fro in rebelliousness, like acaged leopard; her whole soul was in arms, and theblood fired her face. Until she had met Troy, Bath-sheba had been proud of her position as a woman; ithad been a glory to her to know that her lips had beentouched by no man's on earth -- that her waist hadnever been encircled by a lover's arm. She hatedherself now. In those earlier days she had alwaysnourished a secret contempt for girls who were theslaves of the first goodlooking young fellow who shouldchoose to salute them. She had never taken kindly tothe idea of marriage in the abstract as did the majorityof women she saw about her. In the turmoil of heranxiety for her lover she had agreed to marry him; butthe perception that had accompanied her happiest hourson this account was rather that of self-sacrifice than ofpromotion and honour. Although she scarcely knewthe divinity's name, Diana was the goddess whomBathsheba instinctively adored. That she had never,by look, word, or sign, encouraged a man to approachher -- that she had felt herself sufficient to herself, andhad in the independence of her girlish heart fanciedthere was a certain degradation in renouncing thesimplicity of a maiden existence to become the humblerhalf of an indifferent matrimonial whole -- were factsnow bitterly remembered. O, if she had neverstooped to folly of this kind, respectable as it was, andcould only stand again, as she had stood on the hill atNorcombe, and dare Troy or any other man to pollutea hair of her head by his interference!The next morning she rose earlier than usual, andhad the horse saddled for her ride round the farm inthe customary way. When she came in at half-pasteight -- their usual hour for breakfasting -- she was in-formed that her husband had risen, taken his breakfast,and driven off to Casterbridge with the gig and Poppet.After breakfast she was cool and collected -- quiteherself in fact -- and she rambled to the gate, intendingto walk to another quarter of the farm, which she stillpersonally superintended as well as her duties in thehouse would permit, continually, however, finding her-self preceded in forethought by Gabriel Oak, for whomshe began to entertain the genuine friendship of a sister.Of course, she sometimes thought of him in the light ofan old lover, and had momentary imaginings of whatlife with him as a husband would have been like; alsoof life with Boldwood under the same conditions. ButBathsheba, though she could feel, was not much givento futile dreaming, and her musings under this headwere short and entirely confined to the times whenTroy's neglect was more than ordinarily evident.She saw coming up the road a man like Mr. Boldwood.It was Mr. Boldwood. Bathsheba blushed painfully,and watched. The farmer stopped when still a longway off, and held up his hand to Gabriel Oak, who wasin a footpath across the field. The two men thenapproached each other and seemed to engage inearnest conversation.Thus they continued for a long time. Joseph Poor-grass now passed near them, wheeling a barrow of applesup the hill to Bathsheba's residence. Boldwood andGabriel called to him, spoke to him for a few minutes,and then all three parted, Joseph immediately comingup the hill with his barrow.Bathsheba, who had seen this pantomime with somesurprise, experienced great relief when Boldwood turnedback again. ”Well, what's the message, Joseph?” shesaid.He set down his barrow, and, putting upon himselfthe refined aspect that a conversation with a lady re-quired, spoke to Bathsheba over the gate.”You'll never see Fanny Robin no more -- use norprincipal -- ma'am.””Why?””Because she's dead in the Union.””Fanny dead -- never!””Yes, ma'am.””What did she die from?””I don't know for certain; but I should be inclinedto think it was from general weakness of constitution.She was such a limber maid that 'a could stand nohardship, even when I knowed her, and 'a went like acandle-snoff, so 'tis said. She was took bad in themorning, and, being quite feeble and worn out, shedied in the evening. She belongs by law to our parish;and Mr. Boldwood is going to send a waggon at threethis afternoon to fetch her home here and bury her.””Indeed I shall not let Mr. Boldwood do any suchthing-i shall do it! Fanny was my uncle's servant,and, although I only knew her for a couple of days,FANNY IS SENT FORshe belongs to me. How very, very sad this is! --the idea of Fanny being in a workhouse.” Bathshebahad begun to know what suffering was, and she spokewith real feeling.... ”Send across to Mr. Boldwood's,and say that Mrs. Troy will take upon herself the dutyof fetching an old servant of the family.... Weought not to put her in a waggon we'll get a hearse.””There will hardly be time, ma'am, will there?””Perhaps not.” she said, musingly. ”When did yousay we must be at the door -- three o'clock?””Three o'clock this afternoon, ma'am, so to speak it.””Very well-you go with it. A pretty waggon isbetter than an ugly hearse, after all. Joseph, have thenew spring waggon with the blue body and red wheels,and wash it very clean. And, Joseph -- -- ””Yes, ma'am.””Carry with you some evergreens and flowers to putupon her coffin -- indeed, gather a great many, andcompletely bury her in them. Get some boughs oflaurustinus, and variegated box, and yew, and boy'siove;ay, and some hunches of chrysanthemum. And let oldPleasant draw her, because she knew him so well.”I will, ma'am. I oughtto have said that theUnion, in the form of four labouring men, will meet mewhen I gets to our churchyard gate, and take her andbury her according to the rites of the Board of Guardians,as by law ordained.””Dear me -- Casterbridge Union -- and is Fanny cometo this?” said Bathsheba, musing. ”I wish I had knownof it sooner. I thought she was far away. How longhas she lived there?””On'y been there a day or two.””Oh! -- then she has not been staying there as aregular inmate?””No. She first went to live in a garrison-town t'otherside o' Wessex, and since then she's been picking up aliving at seampstering in Melchester for several months,at the house of a very respectable widow-woman whotakes in work of that sort. She only got handy theUnion-house on Sunday morning 'a b'lieve, and 'tis sup-posed here and there that she had traipsed every stepof the way from Melchester. Why she left her place,I can't say, for I don't know; and as to a lie, why, Iwouldn't tell it. That's the short of the story, ma'am.””Ah-h!”No gem ever flashed from a rosy ray to a white onemore rapidly than changed the young wife's counten-ance whilst this word came from her in a long-drawnbreath. ”Did she walk along our turnpike-road?” shesaid, in a suddenly restless and eager voice.”I believe she did.... Ma'am, shall I call Liddy?You bain't well, ma'am, surely? You look like a lily --so pale and fainty!””No; don't call her; it is nothing. When did shepass Weatherbury?””Last Saturday night.””That will do, Joseph; now you may go.”Certainly, ma'am.””Joseph, come hither a moment. What was thecolour of Fanny Robin's hair?””Really, mistress, now that 'tis put to me so judge-and-jury like, I can't call to mind, if ye'll believe me!””Never mind; go on and do what I told you. Stop -- well no, go on.”She turned herself away from him, that he might nolonger notice the mood which had set its sign so visiblyupon her, and went indoors with a distressing sense offaintness and a beating brow. About an hour after, sheheard the noise of the waggon and went out, still with apainful consciousness of her bewildered and troubledlook. Joseph, dressed in his best suit of clothes, wasputting in the horse to start. The shrubs and flowerswere all piled in the waggon, as she had directedBathsheba hardly saw them now.”Whose sweetheart did you say, Joseph?””I don't know, ma'am.””Are you quite sure?””Yes, ma'am, quite sure.”Sure of what?””I'm sure that all I know is that she arrived in themorning and died in the evening without further parley.What Oak and Mr. Boldwood told me was only thesefew words. `Little Fanny Robin is dead, Joseph,'Gabriel said, looking in my face in his steady old way.I was very sorry, and I said, `Ah! -- and how did shecome to die?' `Well, she's dead in CasterhridgeUnion,' he said, `and perhaps 'tisn't much matterabout how she came to die. She reached the Unionearly Sunday morning, and died in the afternoon -- that'sclear enough.' Then I asked what she'd been doinglately, and Mr. Boldwood turned round to me then, andleft off spitting a thistle with the end of his stick. Hetold me about her having lived by seampstering inMelchester, as I mentioned to you, and that she walkedtherefrom at the end of last week, passing near hereSaturday night in the dusk. They then said I hadbetter just name a hint of her death to you, and awaythey went. Her death might have been brought on bybiding in the night wind, you know, ma'am; for peopleused to say she'd go off in a decline: she used to cougha good deal in winter time. However, 'tisn't muchodds to us about that now, for 'tis all over.””Have you heard a different story at all?' Shelooked at him so intently that Joseph's eyes quailed.”Not a word, mistress, I assure 'ee!” he said.”Hardly anybody in the parish knows the news yet.””I wonder why Gabriel didn't bring the message tome himself. He mostly makes a point of seeing meupon the most trifling errand.” These words weremerely murmured, and she was looking upon the ground.”Perhaps he was busy, ma'am.” Joseph suggested.”And sometimes he seems to suffer from things uponhis mind, connected with the time when he was betteroff than 'a is now. 'A's rather a curious item, but avery understanding shepherd, and learned in books.””Did anything seem upon his mind whilst he wasspeaking to you about this?””I cannot but say that there did, ma'am. He wasterrible down, and so was Farmer Boldwood.””Thank you, Joseph. That will do. Go on now,or you'll be late.”Bathsheba, still unhappy, went indoors again. Inthe course of the afternoon she said to Liddy, Who hadbeen informed of the occurrence, ” What was the colourof poor Fanny Robin's hair? Do you know? I cannotrecollect-i only saw her for a day or two.””It was light, ma'am; but she wore it rather short,and packed away under her cap, so that you wouldhardly notice it. But I have seen her let it down whenshe was going to bed, and it looked beautiful then.Real golden hair.””Her young man was a soldier, was he not?””Yes. In the same regiment as Mr. Troy. He sayshe knew him very well.”What, Mr. Troy says so? How came he to saythat?””One day I just named it to him, and asked him ifhe knew Fanny's young man. He said, ”O yes, heknew the young man as well as he knew himself, andthat there wasn't a man in the regiment he likedbetter.””Ah! Said that, did he?””Yes; and he said there was a strong likeness be-tween himself and the other young man, so that some-times people mistook them -- -- ””Liddy, for Heaven's sake stop your talking!” saidBathsheba, with the nervous petulance that comes fromworrying perceptions.



CHAPTER XLII