CHAPTER XI
OUTSIDE THE BARRACKS--SNOW--A MEETING
For dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of acertain town and military station, many miles north of Weatherbury,at a later hour on this same snowy evening--if that may be called aprospect of which the chief constituent was darkness.
It was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without causingany great sense of incongruity: when, with impressible persons, lovebecomes solicitousness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith to hope:when the exercise of memory does not stir feelings of regret atopportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipationdoes not prompt to enterprise.
The scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river,behind which rose a high wall. On the right was a tract of land,partly meadow and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to awide undulating upland.
The changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of thiskind than amid woodland scenery. Still, to a close observer, theyare just as perceptible; the difference is that their media ofmanifestation are less trite and familiar than such well-known onesas the bursting of the buds or the fall of the leaf. Many are notso stealthy and gradual as we may be apt to imagine in consideringthe general torpidity of a moor or waste. Winter, in coming to thecountry hereabout, advanced in well-marked stages, wherein mighthave been successively observed the retreat of the snakes, thetransformation of the ferns, the filling of the pools, a rising offogs, the embrowning by frost, the collapse of the fungi, and anobliteration by snow.
This climax of the series had been reached to-night on the aforesaidmoor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities wereforms without features; suggestive of anything, proclaiming nothing,and without more character than that of being the limit of somethingelse--the lowest layer of a firmament of snow. From this chaoticskyful of crowding flakes the mead and moor momentarily receivedadditional clothing, only to appear momentarily more naked thereby.The vast arch of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it werethe roof of a large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor;for the instinctive thought was that the snow lining the heavens andthat encrusting the earth would soon unite into one mass without anyintervening stratum of air at all.
We turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics; which wereflatness in respect of the river, verticality in respect of the wallbehind it, and darkness as to both. These features made up the mass.If anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall, and if anything could be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath. Theindistinct summit of the facade was notched and pronged by chimneyshere and there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblongshapes of windows, though only in the upper part. Below, down to thewater's edge, the flat was unbroken by hole or projection.
An indescribable succession of dull blows, perplexing in theirregularity, sent their sound with difficulty through the fluffyatmosphere. It was a neighbouring clock striking ten. The bell wasin the open air, and being overlaid with several inches of mufflingsnow, had lost its voice for the time.
About this hour the snow abated: ten flakes fell where twenty hadfallen, then one had the room of ten. Not long after a form movedby the brink of the river.
By its outline upon the colourless background, a close observermight have seen that it was small. This was all that was positivelydiscoverable, though it seemed human.
The shape went slowly along, but without much exertion, for the snow,though sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep. At thistime some words were spoken aloud:--
"One. Two. Three. Four. Five."
Between each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozenyards. It was evident now that the windows high in the wall werebeing counted. The word "Five" represented the fifth window from theend of the wall.
Here the spot stopped, and dwindled smaller. The figure wasstooping. Then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards thefifth window. It smacked against the wall at a point several yardsfrom its mark. The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with theexecution of a woman. No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, orsquirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utterimbecility as was shown here.
Another attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must havebecome pimpled with the adhering lumps of snow. At last one fragmentstruck the fifth window.
The river would have been seen by day to be of that deep smooth sortwhich races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, anyirregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a smallwhirlpool. Nothing was heard in reply to the signal but the gurgleand cluck of one of these invisible wheels--together with a few smallsounds which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy manlaughter--caused by the flapping of the waters against triflingobjects in other parts of the stream.
The window was struck again in the same manner.
Then a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of thewindow. This was followed by a voice from the same quarter.
"Who's there?"
The tones were masculine, and not those of surprise. The highwall being that of a barrack, and marriage being looked upon withdisfavour in the army, assignations and communications had probablybeen made across the river before to-night.
"Is it Sergeant Troy?" said the blurred spot in the snow,tremulously.
This person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and theother speaker so much a part of the building, that one would havesaid the wall was holding a conversation with the snow.
"Yes," came suspiciously from the shadow. "What girl are you?"
"Oh, Frank--don't you know me?" said the spot. "Your wife, FannyRobin."
"Fanny!" said the wall, in utter astonishment.
"Yes," said the girl, with a half-suppressed gasp of emotion.
There was something in the woman's tone which is not that of thewife, and there was a manner in the man which is rarely a husband's.The dialogue went on:
"How did you come here?"
"I asked which was your window. Forgive me!"
"I did not expect you to-night. Indeed, I did not think you wouldcome at all. It was a wonder you found me here. I am orderlyto-morrow."
"You said I was to come."
"Well--I said that you might."
"Yes, I mean that I might. You are glad to see me, Frank?"
"Oh yes--of course."
"Can you--come to me!"
"My dear Fan, no! The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates areclosed, and I have no leave. We are all of us as good as in thecounty gaol till to-morrow morning."
"Then I shan't see you till then!" The words were in a falteringtone of disappointment.
"How did you get here from Weatherbury?"
"I walked--some part of the way--the rest by the carriers."
"I am surprised."
"Yes--so am I. And Frank, when will it be?"
"What?"
"That you promised."
"I don't quite recollect."
"O you do! Don't speak like that. It weighs me to the earth. Itmakes me say what ought to be said first by you."
"Never mind--say it."
"O, must I?--it is, when shall we be married, Frank?"
"Oh, I see. Well--you have to get proper clothes."
"I have money. Will it be by banns or license?"
"Banns, I should think."
"And we live in two parishes."
"Do we? What then?"
"My lodgings are in St. Mary's, and this is not. So they will haveto be published in both."
"Is that the law?"
"Yes. O Frank--you think me forward, I am afraid! Don't, dearFrank--will you--for I love you so. And you said lots of times youwould marry me, and--and--I--I--I--"
"Don't cry, now! It is foolish. If I said so, of course I will."
"And shall I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?"
"Yes"
"To-morrow?"
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"Not to-morrow. We'll settle in a few days."
"You have the permission of the officers?"
"No, not yet."
"O--how is it? You said you almost had before you leftCasterbridge."
"The fact is, I forgot to ask. Your coming like this is so suddenand unexpected."
"Yes--yes--it is. It was wrong of me to worry you. I'll go awaynow. Will you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twills's, in NorthStreet? I don't like to come to the Barracks. There are bad womenabout, and they think me one."
"Quite, so. I'll come to you, my dear. Good-night."
"Good-night, Frank--good-night!"
And the noise was again heard of a window closing. The little spotmoved away. When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation washeard inside the wall.
"Ho--ho--Sergeant--ho--ho!" An expostulation followed, but it wasindistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which washardly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpoolsoutside.