CHAPTER LI
BATHSHEBA TALKS WITH HER OUTRIDER
The arrangement for getting back again to Weatherbury had been thatOak should take the place of Poorgrass in Bathsheba's conveyance anddrive 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 and protector to a woman.But Oak had found himself so occupied, and was full of so manycares relative to those portions of Boldwood's flocks that were notdisposed of, that Bathsheba, without telling Oak or anybody, resolvedto drive home herself, as she had many times done from CasterbridgeMarket, and trust to her good angel for performing the journeyunmolested. But having fallen in with Farmer Boldwood accidentally(on her part at least) at the refreshment-tent, she found itimpossible to refuse his offer to ride on horseback beside her asescort. It had grown twilight before she was aware, but Boldwoodassured her that there was no cause for uneasiness, as the moonwould be up in half-an-hour.
Immediately after the incident in the tent, she had risen togo--now absolutely alarmed and really grateful for her old lover'sprotection--though regretting Gabriel's absence, whose company shewould have much preferred, as being more proper as well as morepleasant, 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 themoon having risen, and the gig being ready, she drove across thehilltop in the wending way's which led downwards--to obliviousobscurity, as it seemed, for the moon and the hill it flooded withlight were in appearance on a level, the rest of the world lying asa vast shady concave between them. Boldwood mounted his horse, andfollowed in close attendance behind. Thus they descended into thelowlands, and the sounds of those left on the hill came like voicesfrom the sky, and the lights were as those of a camp in heaven. Theysoon passed the merry stragglers in the immediate vicinity of thehill, traversed Kingsbere, and got upon the high road.
The keen instincts of Bathsheba had perceived that the farmer'sstaunch devotion to herself was still undiminished, and shesympathized deeply. The sight had quite depressed her this evening;had reminded her of her folly; she wished anew, as she had wishedmany months ago, for some means of making reparation for her fault.Hence her pity for the man who so persistently loved on to his owninjury and permanent gloom had betrayed Bathsheba into an injudiciousconsiderateness of manner, which appeared almost like tenderness,and gave new vigour to the exquisite dream of a Jacob's seven yearsservice 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 inthe moonlight, speaking desultorily across the wheel of her gigconcerning the fair, farming, Oak's usefulness to them both, andother 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 tilla minute or more had elapsed that she said, "I have not seriouslythought of any such subject."
"I quite understand that. Yet your late husband has been dead nearlyone year, and--"
"You forget that his death was never absolutely proved, and may nothave 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 ofhis 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 feelingthat he could not have perished, but I have been able to explain thatin several ways since. But though I am fully persuaded that I shallsee him no more, I am far from thinking of marriage with another. Ishould be very contemptible to indulge in such a thought."
They were silent now awhile, and having struck into an unfrequentedtrack across a common, the creaks of Boldwood's saddle and her gigsprings were all the sounds to be heard. Boldwood ended the pause.
"Do you remember when I carried you fainting in my arms into theKing'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 asto deny you to me."
"I, too, am very sorry," she said, and then checked herself. "Imean, you know, I am sorry you thought I--"
"I have always this dreary pleasure in thinking over those past timeswith you--that I was something to you before HE was anything, andthat you belonged ALMOST 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 is difficult for awoman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by mento express theirs. My treatment of you was thoughtless, inexcusable,wicked! I shall eternally regret it. If there had been anythingI could have done to make amends I would most gladly have doneit--there was nothing on earth I so longed to do as to repair theerror. But that was not possible."
"Don't blame yourself--you were not so far in the wrong as yousuppose. Bathsheba, suppose you had real complete proof that you arewhat, in fact, you are--a widow--would you repair the old wrong to meby 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 youmay marry again in about six years from the present--subject tonobody's objection or blame?"
"Oh yes," she said, quickly. "I know all that. But don't talk ofit--seven or six years--where may we all be by that time?"
"They will soon glide by, and it will seem an astonishingly shorttime to look back upon when they are past--much less than to lookforward to now."
"Yes, yes; I have found that in my own experience."
"Now listen once more," Boldwood pleaded. "If I wait that time, willyou marry me? You own that you owe me amends--let that be your wayof 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 dropit. My husband may be living, as I said."
"Of course, I'll drop the subject if you wish. But propriety hasnothing to do with reasons. I am a middle-aged man, willing toprotect 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 fora far-ahead time--an agreement which will set all things right andmake me happy, late though it may be--there is no fault to be foundwith you as a woman. Hadn't I the first place beside you? Haven'tyou been almost mine once already? Surely you can say to me as muchas this, you will have me back again should circumstances permit?Now, pray speak! O Bathsheba, promise--it is only a littlepromise--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 weakof the strong; there was no emotional aversion or inner repugnance.She said, with some distress in her voice, for she remembered vividlyhis outburst on the Yalbury Road, and shrank from a repetition of hisanger:--
"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 youwill be my wife? Unexpected accidents we'll not mention,
becausethose, of course, must be given way to. Now, this time I know youwill 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'tlove you, and I much fear that I never shall love you as much as awoman ought to love a husband. If you, sir, know that, and I canyet give you happiness by a mere promise to marry at the end of sixyears, if my husband should not come back, it is a great honour tome. And if you value such an act of friendship from a woman whodoesn't esteem herself as she did, and has little love left, whyI--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 sayno more to you about it till that time."
Bathsheba was in a very peculiar state of mind, which showed howentirely the soul is the slave of the body, the ethereal spiritdependent for its quality upon the tangible flesh and blood. It ishardly too much to say that she felt coerced by a force stronger thanher own will, not only into the act of promising upon this singularlyremote and vague matter, but into the emotion of fancying that sheought to promise. When the weeks intervening between the night ofthis conversation and Christmas day began perceptibly to diminish,her anxiety and perplexity increased.
One day she was led by an accident into an oddly confidentialdialogue with Gabriel about her difficulty. It afforded her a littlerelief--of a dull and cheerless kind. They were auditing accounts,and something occurred 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 howshe had again got into the toils; what Boldwood had asked her, andhow he was expecting her assent. "The most mournful reason of allfor my agreeing to it," she said sadly, "and the true reason why Ithink to do so for good or for evil, is this--it is a thing I havenot breathed to a living soul as yet--I believe that if I don't givemy word, he'll go out of his mind."
"Really, do ye?" said Gabriel, gravely.
"I believe this," she continued, with reckless frankness; "and Heavenknows I say it in a spirit the very reverse of vain, for I am grievedand troubled to my soul about it--I believe I hold that man's futurein my hand. His career depends entirely upon my treatment of him. OGabriel, 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; butI can't suppose--I hope that nothing so dreadful hangs on to it asyou fancy. His natural manner has always been dark and strange, youknow. But since the case is so sad and odd-like, why don't ye givethe conditional promise? I think I would."
"But is it right? Some rash acts of my past life have taught me thata watched woman must have very much circumspection to retain only avery 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 ifMr. Troy does not come back again, which he may not impossibly do!Such thoughts give a sort of absurdity to the scheme. Now, isn'tit preposterous, Gabriel? However he came to dream of it, I cannotthink. 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 tomake: 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 marryen under any condition, that is, your not caring about him--for Imay suppose--"
"Yes, you may suppose that love is wanting," she said shortly. "Loveis an utterly bygone, sorry, worn-out, miserable thing with me--forhim or any one else."
"Well, your want of love seems to me the one thing that takes awayharm 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'svanishing, it mid be wrong; but a cold-hearted agreement to oblige aman seems different, somehow. The real sin, ma'am in my mind, liesin thinking of ever wedding wi' a man you don't love honest andtrue."
"That I'm willing to pay the penalty of," said Bathsheba, firmly."You know, Gabriel, this is what I cannot get off my conscience--thatI once seriously injured him in sheer idleness. If I had neverplayed a trick upon him, he would never have wanted to marry me. Ohif I could only pay some heavy damages in money to him for the harmI did, and so get the sin off my soul that way!... Well, there'sthe debt, which can only be discharged in one way, and I believeI am bound to do it if it honestly lies in my power, without anyconsideration of my own future at all. When a rake gambles away hisexpectations, the fact that it is an inconvenient debt doesn't makehim the less liable. I've been a rake, and the single point I askyou is, considering that my own scruples, and the fact that in theeye of the law my husband is only missing, will keep any man frommarrying me until seven years have passed--am I free to entertainsuch an idea, even though 'tis a sort of penance--for it will bethat? I HATE the act of marriage under such circumstances, and theclass of women I should seem to belong to by doing it!"
"It seems to me that all depends upon whe'r you think, as everybodyelse do, that your husband is dead."
"Yes--I've long ceased to doubt that. I well know what would havebrought 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 whydon'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 inthe subject professionally. So I like the parson's opinion onlaw, the lawyer'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," said Oak, with a gravesmile.
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 replyfrom Gabriel more satisfactory than that she had obtained. Yet inthe centremost parts of her complicated heart there existed at thisminute a little pang of disappointment, for a reason she would notallow herself to recognize. Oak had not once wished her free that hemight marry her himself--had not once said, "I could wait for you aswell as he." That was the insect sting. Not that she would havelistened to any such hypothesis. O no--for wasn't she saying allthe time that such thoughts of the future were improper, and wasn'tGabriel far too poor a man to speak sentiment to her? Yet he mighthave just hinted about that old love of his, and asked, in a playfuloff-hand way, if he might speak of it. It would have seemed prettyand sweet, if no more; and then she would have shown how kind andinoffensive a woman's "No" can sometimes be. But to give such cooladvice--the very advice she had asked for--it ruffled our heroine allthe afternoon.