BATHSHEBA TALKS WITH HER OUTRIDER
THE arrangement for getting back again to Weather-bury had been that Oak should take the place of Poor-grass in Bathsheba's conveyance and drive her home,it being discovered late in the afternoon that Josephwas suffering from his old complaint, a multiplying eye,and was, therefore, hardly trustworthy as coachman andprotector to a woman. But Oak had found himself sooccupied, and was full of so many cares relative tothose portions of Boldwood's flocks that were notdisposed of, that Bathsheba, without telling Oak oranybody, resolved to drive home herself, as she hadmany times done from Casterbridge Market, and trustto her good angel for performing the journey un-molested. But having fallen in with Farmer Boldwoodaccidentally (on her part at least) at the refreshment-tent, she found it impossible to refuse his offer to rideon horseback beside her as escort. It had growntwilight before she was aware, but Boldwood assuredher that there was no cause for uneasiness, as themoon would be up in half-an-hour.Immediately after the incident in the tent, she hadrisen to go -- now absolutely alarmed and really gratefulfor her old lover's protection -- though regretting Gabriel'sabsence, whose company she would have much preferred,as being more proper as well as more pleasant, since hewas her own managing-man and servant. This, how-ever, could not be helped; she would not, on anyconsideration, treat Boldwood harshly, having oncealready illused him, and the moon having risen, andthe gig being ready, she drove across the hilltop inthe wending way's which led downwards -- to obliviousobscurity, as it seemed, for the moon and the hill itflooded with light were in appearance on a level, therest of the world lying as a vast shady concave betweenthem. Boldwood mounted his horse, and followed inclose attendance behind. Thus they descended intothe lowlands, and the sounds of those left on thehill came like voices from the sky, and the lights wereas those of a camp in heaven. They soon passed themerry stragglers in the immediate vicinity of the hill,traversed Kingsbere, and got upon the high road.The keen instincts of Bathsheba had perceived thatthe farmer's staunch devotion to herself was still un-diminished, and she sympathized deeply. The sighthad quite depressed her this evening; had remindedher of her folly; she wished anew, as she had wishedmany months ago, for some means of making repara-tion for her fault. Hence her pity for the man whoso persistently loved on to his own injury and per-manent gloom had betrayed Bathsheba into an injudi-cious considerateness of manner, which appearedalmost like tenderness, and gave new vigour to theexquisite dream of a Jacob's seven years service inpoor Boldwood's mind.He soon found an excuse for advancing from hisposition in the rear, and rode close by her side. Theyhad gone two or three miles in the moonlight, speakingdesultorily across the wheel of her gig concerning thefair, farming, Oak's usefulness to them both, and otherindifferent subjects, when Boldwood said suddenlyand 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 thatshe said, I have not seriously thought of any suchsubject.I quite understand that. Yet your late husbandhas been dead nearly one year, and -- You forget that his death was never absolutelyproved, and may not have taken place; so that I maynot be really a widow. she said, catching at the straw ofescape that the fact affordedNot absolutely proved, perhaps, but it was provedcircumstantially. A man saw him drowning, too. Noreasonable person has any doubt of his death; norhave you, ma'am, I should imagine.O yes I have, or I should have acted differently,she said, gently. From the first, I have had a strangeuaccountable feeling that he could not have perished,but I have been able to explain that in several wayssince. Even were I half persuaded that I shall seehim no more, I am far from thinking of marriage withanother. I should be very contemptible to indulge insuch a thought.They were silent now awhile, and having struck intoan unfrequented track across a common, the creaks ofBoldwood's saddle and gig springs were all thesounds to be heard. Boldwood ended the pause.Do you remember when I carried you fainting inmy arms into the King's Arms, in Casterbridge? Everydog has his day: that was mine.I know-I know it all. she said, hurriedly.I, for one, shall never cease regretting that eventsso fell out as to deny you to me.I, too, am very sorry. she said, and then checkedherself. I mean, you know, I am sorry you thoughtI -- I have always this dreary pleasure in thinking overthose past times with you -- that I was something toyou before HE was anything, and that you belongedALMOST to me. But, of course, that's nothing. Younever 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 isdifficult for a woman to define her feelings in languagewhich is chiefly made by men to express theirs. Mytreatment of you was thoughtless, inexcusable, wicked!I shall eternally regret it. If there had been anythingI could have done to make amends I would mostgladly have done it -- there was nothing on earth I solonged to do as to repair the error. But that was notpossible.Don't blame yourself -- you were not so far in thewrong as you suppose. Bathsheba, suppose you hadreal complete proof that you are what, in fact, you are -- a widow -- would you repair the old wrong to me bymarrying me?I cannot say. I shouldn't yet, at any rate.But you might at some future time of your life?O yes, I might at some time.Well, then, do you know that without further proofof any kind you may marry again in about six yearsfrom the present -- subject to nobody's objection orblame?O yes. she said, quickly. I know all that. Butdon't talk of it -- seven or six years -- where may we allbe by that time?They will soon glide by, and it will seem anastonishingly short time to look back upon when theyare 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 Iwait that time, will you marry me? You own that youowe 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 talkabout this matter now. Perhaps it is not proper, andI ought not to allow it. Let us drop it. My husbandmay be living, as I said.Of course, I'll drop the subject if you wish. Butpropriety has nothing to do with reasons. I am amiddle-aged man, willing to protect you for theremainder of our lives. On your side, at least, thereis no passion or blamable haste -- on mine, perhaps,there is. But I can't help seeing that if you choosefrom a feeling of pity, and, as you say, a wish to makeamends, to make a bargain with me for a far-aheadtime -- an agreement which will set all things rightand make me happy, late though it may be -- there isno fault to be found with you as a woman. Hadn'tI the first place beside you? Haven't you beenalmost mine once already? Surely you can say tome as much as this, you will have me back againshould circumstances permit? Now, pray speak! OBathsheba, promise -- it is only a little promise -- thatif you marry again, you will marry me!His tone was so excited that she almost feared himat this moment, even whilst she sympathized. It wasa simple physical fear -- the weak of the strong; thereno emotional aversion or inner repugnance. Shesaid, with some distress in her voice, for she rememberedvividly his outburst on the Yalbury Road, and shrankfrom a repetition of his anger: --I will never marry another man whilst you wish meto be your wife, whatever comes -- but to say more -- youhave taken me so by surprise -- But let it stand in these simple words -- that in sixyears' time you will be my wife? Unexpected accidentswe'll not mention, because those, of course, must begiven way to. Now, this time I know you will keepyour 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: O whatshall I do? I don't love you, and I much fear that Inever shall love you as much as a woman ought to lovea husband. If you, sir, know that, and I can yet giveyou happiness by a mere promise to marry at the end ofsix years, if my husband should not come back, it is agreat honour to me. And if you value such an act offriendship from a woman who doesn't esteem her-self as she did, and has little love left, why itwill -- Promise! -- Consider, if I cannot promise soon.But soon is perhaps never?O no, it is not! I mean soon. Christmas, we'llsay.Christmas! He said nothing further till headded: Well, I'll say no more to you about it till thattime.Bathsheba was in a very peculiar state of mind,which showed how entirely the soul is the slave of thebody, the ethereal spirit dependent for its quality uponthe tangible flesh and blood. It is hardly too much tosay that she felt coerced by a force stronger than herown will, not only into the act of promising upon thissingularly remote and vague matter, but into the emo-tion of fancying that she ought to promise. When theweeks intervening between the night of this conversa-tion and Christmas day began perceptibly to diminish,her anxiety and perplexity increased.One day she was led by an accident into an oddlyconfidential dialogue with Gabriel about her difficultyIt afforded her a little relief -- of a dull and cheerlesskind. They were auditing accounts, and somethingoccurred in the course of their labours which led Oakto 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 ex-pecting her assent. The most mournful reason of allfor my agreeing to it. she said sadly, and the truereason 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 asyet-i believe that if I don't give my word, he'll go outof his mind.Really, do ye? said Gabriel, gravely.I believe this. she continued, with reckless frank-ness; and Heaven knows I say it in a spirit the veryreverse of vain, for I am grieved and troubled to mysoul about it-i believe I hold that man's future in myhand. His career depends entirely upon my treatmentof him. O Gabriel, I tremble at my responsibility, forit is terrible!Well, I think this much, ma'am, as I told you yearsago. said Oak, that his life is a total blank wheneverhe isn't hoping for 'ee; but I can't suppose-i hopethat 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 Iwould.But is it right? Some rash acts of my past lifehave taught me that a watched woman must have verymuch circumspection to retain only a very little credit,and I do want and long to be discreet in this! Andsix years -- why we may all be in our graves by thatBATHSHEBA TALKS WITH OAKtime, even if Mr. Troy does not come back again, whichhe may not impossibly do! Such thoughts give a sortof 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 aman and woman to make: I don't see anything reallywrong about it. said Oak, slowly. In fact the verything that makes it doubtful if you ought to marry enunder any condition, that is, your not caring about him -- for I may suppose -- -- Yes, you may suppose that love is wanting. shesaid 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 thingthat 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 obligea man seems different, somehow. The real sin, ma'amin my mind, lies in thinking of ever wedding wi' a manyou don't love honest and true.That I'm willing to pay the penalty of. said Bath-sheba, firmly. You know, Gabriel, this is what I can-not get off my conscience -- that I once seriously injuredhim in sheer idleness. If I had never played a trickupon him, he would never have wanted to marry me.O if I could only pay some heavy damages in moneyto him for the harm I did, and so get the sin off mysoul that way!.. Well, there's the debt, which canonly be discharged in one way, and I believe I ambound to do it if it honestly lies in my power, withoutany consideration of my own future at all. When arake gambles away his expectations, the fact that it isan inconvenient debt doesn't make him the less liable.I've been a rake, and the single point I ask you is, con-sidering that my own scruples, and the fact that in theeye of the law my husband is only missing, will keepany man from marrying me until seven years havepassed -- am I free to entertain such an idea, eventhough 'tis a sort of penance -- for it will be that? Ihate the act of marriage under such circumstances, andthe class of women I should seem to belong to by doingit!It seems to me that all depends upon whe'r youthink, as everybody else do, that your husband isdead.I shall get to, I suppose, because I cannot helpfeeling what would have brought him back long beforethis time if he had lived.Well, then, in religious sense you will be as freeto THINK o' marrying again as any real widow of oneyear's standing. But why don't ye ask Mr. Thirdly'sadvice on how to treat Mr. Boldwood?No. When I want a broad-minded opinion forgeneral enlightenment, distinct from special advice, Inever go to a man who deals in the subject pro-fessionally. So I like the parson's opinion on law, thelawyer's on doctoring, the doctor's on business, and mybusiness-man's -- that is, yours -- on morals.And on love -- -- My own.I'm afraid there's a hitch in that argument. saidOak, with a grave smile.She did not reply at once, and then saying, Goodevening Mr. Oak. went away.She had spoken frankly, and neither asked nor ex-pected any reply from Gabriel more satisfactory thanthat she had obtained. Yet in the centremost parts ofher complicated heart there existed at this minute alittle pang of disappointment, for a reason she wouldnot allow herself to recognize. Oak had not oncewished her free that he might marry her himself -- hadnot once said, I could wait for you as well as he.That was the insect sting. Not that she would havelistened to any such hypothesis. O no -- for wasn'tshe saying all the time that such thoughts of the futurewere improper, and wasn't Gabriel far too poor a manto speak sentiment to her? Yet he might have justhinted about that old love of his, and asked, in a playfuloff-hand way, if he might speak of it. It would haveseemed pretty and sweet, if no more; and then shewould have shown how kind and inoffensive a woman'sNo can sometimes be. But to give such cool advice -- the very advice she had asked for -- it ruffled ourheroine all the afternoon.
CHAPTER LII