CHAPTER 53 CONCORITOR HORRE MOMENTO Outside the front of Baldwood's house a group of men stood in the dark, with their faces towards the door which occasionally opened and closed for the passage of some guest or servant, when a golden rod of light would stripe the ground for the moment and vanish again, leaving nothing outside but the glow-worm shine of the pale lamp amid the evergreens over the door. He was seen in Casabridge this afternoon, so the boy said, one of them remarked in a whisper, An eye for one believe it, his body was never found, you know. There's a strange story, said the next. You may depend upon it, that she knows nothing about it. Not a word. Perhaps he don't mean that she shall, said another man. If he's alive and here in the neighbourhood he means mischief, said the first. Poor young Ting, I do pittier if it's true, he'll drag her to the dogs. Oh, no, he'll settle down quite enough, said one disposed to take a more hopeful view of the case.  She's so self-willed and independent, too, that one is more minded to say it serves her right than pittier. No, no, I don't hold it either. She was no other ways than a girl, mind, and how could she tell what the man was made of? If it is really true, it is too hard a punishment, and more than she ought to have. Hello, who's that? This was to some footsteps that were heard approaching. William Smallbury, said a dim figure in the shades, coming up and joining them. Dark as a hedge to-night, isn't it? I all but missed a plank over the river at heart, there in the bottom.  Be any of Bouldwood's workfolk, he peered into their faces. Yes, all of us. We met here a few minutes ago. Ah, I hear now, that Sam Samway, with all I know the voice, too. Going in? Presently, but I say William, Samway whispered. Have you heard this strange tale? What, about Sergeant Troy being seen, you mean, souls? Said Smallbury, also lowering his voice. I, in Castor Bridge. Yes, I have. Laban Tall named a hint of it to me but now, but he didn't think it. Hark! Here Laban comes himself, I believe. A footstep, drew near. Laban? Yes, to's I, said Tall. Have you heard any more about that? No, said Tall, joining the group, and I'm inclined to think we'd better keep quiet. If so, be it is not true to us flurrier, and do our much harm to repeat it, and if so be it is true, to do no good to forestall our time of trouble. God send that it may be a lie, for though Henry Frey and some of them do speak against her, she's never been anything but fair to me. She's hot and hazy, but she's a brave girl, who'll never tell a lie, however much the truth may harm her, and I've no cause to wish her evil. She never do tell women's little lies, that's true, and is it thing that can be said of very few? Aye, all the harm she thinks she says to her face, there's nothing on the hand with her. They stood silent then, every man busied with his own thoughts, during which interval sounds of merriment could be heard within. Then the front door again opened, the rays streamed out. The well-known form of boldwood was seen in the rectangular area of light, the door closed, and boldwood walked slowly down the path. "'Tis master!' one of the men whispered as he neared them. "'We'd better stand quiet, he'll go in again directly. He would think it unseemly of us to be light during here.' Boldwood came on, and passed by the men without seeing them, they being under the bushes on the grass. He paused, lent over the gate, and breathed a long breath. They heard low words come from him. "'I hope the gods shall come, or this night would be nothing but a misery to me. Oh, my darling, my darling, why do you keep me in suspense like this?' He said this to himself, and they all distinctly heard it. Boldwood remained silent after that, and the noise from indoors was again just audible, until, a few minutes later, light wheels could be distinguished coming down the hill. They drew nearer, and ceased at the gate. Boldwood hastened back to the door and opened it, and the light shone upon Bathsheba coming up the path. Boldwood compressed his emotion to mere welcome. The men marked her light laugh and apology as she met him. He took her into the house, and the door closed again. "'Grace is heaven. I didn't know it was like that with him,' said one of the men. I thought that fancy of his was over long ago. "'You don't know much of Master, if you thought that,' said Samway. "'I wouldn't he should know we heard what I said for the world,' remarked a third. I wish we had told of the report at once, the first un-easily continued. More harm may come of this than we know of. Poor Mr. Boldwood. It would be hard upon him.  Nothing is prospering whether he since he came here, and now I have no heart to go in. Let's look into Warrens for a few minutes first, shall we, neighbours?" Samway Tall and Smallbury agreed to go to Warrens, and went out at the gate, the remaining ones entering the house. The three soon drew near the malt house, approaching it from the adjoining orchard and not by way of the street. The pane of glass was illuminated as usual. Smallbury was a little in advance of the rest, when, pausing, he turned suddenly to his companions and said, "'Hist, see there!' The light from the pane was now perceived to be shining not upon the ivy-dwall as usual, but upon some object close to the glass. It was a human face. "'Let's come closer,' whispered Samway, and they approached on tiptoe. There was no disbelieving the report any longer. Troy's face was almost close to the pane, and he was looking in. Not only was he looking in, but he appeared to have been arrested by a conversation which was in progress in the malt house. The voices of the interlocutors, being those of Oak and the Malster. "'The spree is all in her honour, isn't it, hey?' said the old man, although he may believe he's only keeping up a Christmas.' "'I cannot say,' replied Oak. "'Aww! It is true enough, Faith. I cannot understand far more boldward being such a fool at his time of life as to hoe and hanker after this woman in the way you do, and she not care a bit about them.' The men, after recognising Troy's features, withdrew across the orchard as quietly as they had come. The air was big with that sheba's fortunes to-night. Every word everywhere concerned her. When they were quite out of earshot, all by one instinct paused. "'It gave me quite a turn,' his face said tall, breathing. "'And so it did me,' said Samway, "'what's to be done? I don't see that his any business of ours, small, but he murmured dubiously.' "'But it is, to the thing which is everybody's business,' said Samway. We know very well that the master's on the wrong track, and that she's quite in the dark, and we should let him know at once. Laban, you know her best. You'd better go when I ask to speak to her.' "'Are you being fit for any such thing?' said Laban nervously. "'I should think William ought to do it of anybody. He's oldest.' "'I shall have nothing to do with it,' said Smallbury, to the ticklish business altogether. Why, he'll go on to her himself in a few minutes, you'll see. We don't know that he will. Come, Laban.' "'Very well. If I must, I must, I suppose,' tall reluctantly answered. What must I say?' "'Just ask to see master.' "'Oh, no, I shan't speak to Mr. Bouldwood. If I tell anybody, it will be mistress.' "'Very well,' said Samway.' Laban then went to the door. When he opened it, the hum of bustle rolled out as a wave upon a still strand, the assemblage being immediately inside the hall, and was deadened to a murmur as he closed it again. Each man waited intently, and looked around at the dark treetops gently rocking against the sky, and occasionally shivering in a slight wind, as if he took interest in the scene, which neither did. One of them began walking up and down, and then came to where he started from, and stopped again, with the sense that walking was a thing not worth doing now. "'I should think Laban must have seen Mistress by this time,' said Smallbury, breaking the silence. Perhaps you won't come and speak to him.' The door opened, tall appeared, and joined them. "'Well,' said both. "'I didn't like to ask her after all,' Laban faltered out. They were all in such a store, trying to put a little spirit into the party. Somehow the fun seems to hang fire, though everything's there that a heart can desire, and I couldn't from my soul interfere and throw damp upon it.  Perhaps I may have a chance of saying a word to Master.' So the men entered the hall, which was the room selected and arranged for the gathering because of its size. The younger men and maids were at last just beginning to dance. Bathsheba had been perplexed how to act, for she was not much more than a slim young maid herself, and the weight of stateliness that heavy upon her. Sometimes she thought she ought not to have come under any circumstances. Then she considered what cold unkindness that would have been, and finally resolved upon the middle course of staying for about an hour only, and gliding off unobserved, having from the first made up her mind that she could on no account dance, sing, or take any active part in the proceedings. Her allotted hour having been passed in chatting and looking on, Bathsheba told Liddy not to hurry herself, and went on to the small parlor to prepare for departure, which, like the hall, was decorated with holly and ivy, and well lighted up. Nobody was in the room, but she had hardly been there a moment when the Master of the house entered. "'You are not going,' he said. "'We've hardly begun.' "'If you'll excuse me, I should like to go now.' Her manner was restive, for she remembered her promise and imagined what he was about to say. "'But as it is not late,' she added, I can walk home and leave my man and Liddy to come when they choose.' "'I've been trying to get an opportunity of speaking to you,' said Bollwood. "'You know perhaps what I long to say.' Bathsheba silently looked on the floor. "'You do give it,' he said eagerly. "'What?' she whispered. "'Now that's evasion. Why, the promise, I don't want to intrude upon you at all, or to let it become known to anybody, but do give your word. A mere business compact, you know, between two people who are beyond the influence of passion.' Bollwood knew how false his picture was as regarded himself, but he had proved that it was the only tone in which she would allow him to approach her. "'A promise to marry me at the end of five years and three quarters. You owe it to me.' "'I feel that I do,' said Bathsheba. "'That is, if you demand it. But I am a changed woman, an unhappy woman, and not—not.' "'You are still a very beautiful woman,' said Bollwood. "'Honestly and pure conviction suggested the remark, unaccompanied by any perception, that it might have been adopted by Blunt Flattery to soothe and win her. However it had not much effect now, for she said in a passionous murmur, which was in itself a proof of her words. I have no feeling in the matter at all. And I don't at all know what is right to do in my difficult position, and I have nobody to advise me. But I give my promise, if I must. I give it as the rendering of a debt, conditionally, of course, on my being a widow. "'You'll marry me, between five and six years hence?' "'Don't press me too hard. I'll marry nobody else.' "'But surely you will name the time, or there's nothing in the promise at all.' "'Oh, I don't know. Pray let me go,' she said, her bosom beginning to rise. "'And I am afraid what to do. I want to be just to you. And to be that seems to be wronging myself, and perhaps it is breaking the commandments. There is considerable doubt of his death. And then it is dreadful. Let me ask a solicitor, Mr. Bouldwood, if I ought, or no.' "'Say the words, dear one, and the subject shall be dismissed. Have blissful, loving intimacy of six years, and then marriage. Oh, but she must say them.' He begged in a husky voice, unable to sustain the forms of mere friendship any longer. "'Promise yourself to me. I deserve it. Indeed I do. For I have loved you more than anybody in the world. And if I said hasty words and showed uncalled for heat of manner toward you, believe me, dear, I did not mean to distress you. I was in agony, Bathsheba, and I did not know what I said.  Could you but know it? Sometimes I shrink from your knowing what I have felt for you, and sometimes I am distressed that all of it you never will know. Be gracious, and give up a little to me, when I would give up my life for you.' The trimmings of her dress as they quivered against the light showed how agitated she was, and at last she burst out crying. "'And you'll not press me about anything more? If I say in five or six years she sobbed when she had the power to frame the words?' "'Yes, then I'll leave it to time.' She waited a moment. "'Very well. I'll marry you in six years from this day, if we both live,' she said solemnly. And you take this as a token from me.' Boldwood had come close to her side, and now he clasped one of her hands in both of his, and lifted it to his breast. "'What is it? Oh, I cannot wear a ring,' she exclaimed, and seeing what he held. "'Besides, I wouldn't have a soul know that it's an engagement, and perhaps it isn't proper. Besides, we are not engaged in the usual sense, are we? Don't insist, Mr. Boldwood, don't.' In her trouble had not been able to get her hand away from him at once. She stamped passionately on the floor with one foot, and tears crowded to her eyes again. It means a simple pledge, no sentiment, the seal of a practical compact, he said more quietly, but still retaining her hand in a firm grasp. Come now, and Boldwood slipped the ring on her finger. "'I cannot wear it,' she said, weeping as if her heart would break. You frighten me almost. So wild a scheme. Please let me go home.' "'Only to-night, wear it just to-night, to please me.'  At length she said in a sort of hopeless whisper, "'Very well, then. I will to-night, if you wish it so earnestly. Now loosen my hand. I will, indeed, I will wear it to-night.' And it shall be the beginning of a pleasant secret courtship of six years, with a wedding at the end. "'It must be, I suppose, since you will have it so,' she said, fairly beaten into non-resistance. Boldwood pressed her hand, and allowed it to drop in her lap. "'I am happy now,' he said, "'God bless you.' He left the room, and when he thought she might be sufficiently composed, sent one of the maids to her. Bathsheba cloaked the effects of the late scene that she best could, followed the girl, and in a few moments came downstairs with her hat and cloak on, ready to go. To get to the door it was necessary to pass through the hall, and before doing so she paused on the bottom of the staircase, which descended into one corner, to take a last look at the gathering. There was no music or dancing in progress just now, at the lower end which had been arranged for the work-folk specially, a group conversed in whispers, and with clouded looks. Boldwood was standing by the fireplace, and he, too, though so absorbed in visions arising from her promise that he scarcely saw anything, seemed at that moment to observe their peculiar manner, and their looks as scants. "'What is it, you are in doubt about men?' he said. One of them turned and replied uneasily. It was something lay been heard of, that's all, sir. "'News? Anybody married or engaged? Born or dead?' inquired the farmer gaily. "'Tell it to us, tall. One would think from your looks and mysterious ways that it was something very dreadful indeed.' "'Oh, no, sir. Nobody is dead,' said Tall. "'I wish somebody was,' said Samway, in a whisper. "'What do you say, Samway?' asked Boldwood so much sharply. "'If you have anything to say, speak out. If not, get up another dance.' "'Mrs. Troy has come downstairs,' said Samway, to Tall. "'If you want to tell her, you would better do it now.' "'Do you know what they mean?' the farmer asked Bathsheba across the room. "'I don't, in the least,' said Bathsheba. There was a smart wrapping at the door. One of the men opened it instantly and went outside. "'Mrs. Troy is wanted,' he said, on returning. "'Quite ready,' said Bathsheba, though I didn't tell them to send. "'Is a stranger, ma'am,' said the man by the door. "'A stranger?' she said. "'Ask them to come in,' said Boldwood. The message was given, and Troy, wrapped up to his eyes as we have seen him, stood in the doorway. There was an unearthly silence, all looking towards the newcomer. Those who had just learnt that he was in the neighbourhood recognized him instantly. Those who did not were perplexed. Nobody knows him Bathsheba. She was leaning on the stairs. Her brow had heavily contracted.  Boldwood was one of those who did not notice that he was Troy. "'Come in, come in,' he repeated cheerfully. And drain a Christmas beaker with us, stranger.' Troy, next advanced into the middle of the room, took off his cap, turned down his collar, and looked Boldwood in the face. Even then Boldwood did not recognize that the impersonator of Heaven's persistent irony towards him, who had once before broken in upon his bliss, scourged him, and snatched his delight away, had come to do these things a second time. Troy began to laugh, a mechanical laugh. Boldwood recognized him now. Troy turned to Bathsheba. The poor girl's wretchedness at this time was beyond all fancy or narration. She had sunk down on the lowest stair, and there she sat, her mouth blue and dry, and her dark eyes fixed vacantly upon him, as if she wondered whether it were not all a terrible illusion. Then Troy spoke, "'Bathsheba, I have come for you.' She made no reply. Come home with me. Come.' Bathsheba moved her feet a little, but did not rise. Troy went across to her. "'Come, madam, do you hear what I say?' he said, preemptorily. A strange voice came from the fireplace, a voice sounding far off and confined, as if from a dungeon. Hardly a soul in the assembly recognized the thin tones to be those of Boldwood. One despair had transformed him. "'Bathsheba, go with your husband.' Nevertheless she did not move. The truth was that Bathsheba was beyond the pale of activity, and yet not in a swoon. She was in a state of mental gutta serena. Her mind was for the minute totally deprived of light. At the same time no obscuration was apparent from without. Troy stretched out his hand to pull her towards him when she quickly shrank back. This visible dread of him seemed to irritate Troy, and he seized her by the arm and pulled it sharply. Whether his grasp pinched her, or whether his mere touch with the cause, was never known, but at the moment of his seizure she writhed, and gave a quick, low scream. The scream had been heard but a few seconds, when it was followed by a sudden deafening report that echoed through the room and stupefied them all. The oak partition shook with a concussion, and the place was filled with grey smoke. In bewilderment they turned their eyes to Boldwood. At his back, as he stood before the fireplace, was a gun-rack, as is usual in farmhouses, constructed to hold two guns. When Bathsheba had cried out in her husband's grasp, Boldwood's face of gnashing despair had changed. The veins had swollen, and a frenzied look had gleamed in his eye. He had turned quickly, taken one of the guns, cocked it, and at once discharged it at Troy. Troy fell. The distance apart of the two men was so small that the charge of shot did not spread in the least, but passed like a bullet into his body. He uttered a long, guttural sigh. There was a contraction, an extension. Then his muscles relaxed, and he lay still. Boldwood was seen through the smoke to be now again engaged with the gun. It was double-barreled, and he had, meanwhile, in some way fastened his handkerchief to the trigger, and with his foot on the other end was in the act of turning the second barrel upon himself. Samway his man was the first to see this, and in the midst of the general horror darted up to him. Boldwood had already twitched the handkerchief, and the gun exploded a second time, sending its contents, by a timely blow from Samway, into the beam which crossed the ceiling. Well, it makes no difference. Boldwood gasped. There is another way for me to die. Then he broke from Samway, crossed the room to Bathsheba, and kissed her hand. He put on his hat, opened the door, and went into the darkness, nobody thinking of preventing him. End of Chapter 53 Boldwood passed into the high-road, and turned in the direction of Castor Bridge. Here he walked at an even steady pace over Yalbury Hill, along the dead level beyond, mounted Melstock Hill, and between eleven and twelve o'clock crossed the moor into the town. The streets were nearly deserted now, and the waving lamp flames only lighted up rows of grey shop-shutters, and strips of white paving upon which his step echoed as he passed along. He turned to the right, and halted before an archway of heavy stonework, which was closed by an iron-studded pair of doors. This was the entrance to the gale, and over it a lamp was fixed, the light enabling the wretched traveller to find a bell-pull. The small wicked was at last opened, and a porter appeared. Boldwood stepped forward, and said something in a low tone, when after a delay another man came. Boldwood entered, and the door was closed behind him, and he walked the world no more. Long before this time, Wetherbury had been thoroughly aroused, and the wild deed which had terminated Boldwood's merry-making became known to all. Of those out of the house, Oak was one of the first to hear of the catastrophe, and when he entered the room, which was about five minutes after Boldwood's exit, the scene was terrible. All the female guests were huddled aghast against the walls like sheep in a storm, and the men were bewildered as to what to do. As for Bathsheba, she had changed. She was sitting on the floor beside the body of Troy, his head pillowed in her lap, where she had herself lifted it. With one hand she held a handkerchief to his breast, and covered the wound, though scarcely a single drop of blood had flowed, and with the other she tightly clasped one of his. The household convulsion had made her herself again. The temporary coma had ceased, and activity had come with the necessity for it. Things of endurance, which seemed ordinary in philosophy, are rare in conduct, and Bathsheba was astonishing all around her now, for her philosophy was her conduct, and she seldom thought practicable what she could not practise. She was of the stuff of which great men's mothers are made. She was indispensable to high generation, hated at tea parties, feared in shops, and loved at crises. Troy, recumbent in his wife's lap, formed now the soul's spectacle in the middle of the spacious room. "'Gabriel,' she said automatically, when he entered the room, turning up a face of which only the well-known lines remained to tell him it was hers, all else in the picture having faded quite. Right to Casperidge instantly for a surgeon, and that is, I believe, useless but go, Mr. Bouldwood has shot my husband.' Her statement of the fact, in such quiet and simple words, came with more force than a tragic declamation, and had somewhat the effect of setting the distorted images in each mind present into proper focus. Oak, almost before he had comprehended anything beyond the briefest abstract of the event, hurried out of the room, and saddled a horse, and rolled away. Not till he had ridden more than a mile did it occur to him that he would have done better by sending some other man on this errand, remaining himself in the house. What had become of Bouldwood? He should have been looked after. Was he mad? Had there been a quarrel? Then how had Troy got there? Where had he come from? How did this remarkable reappearance affect itself when he was aboed by many to be at the bottom of the sea? Oak hadn't some slight measure been prepared for the presence of Troy by hearing a rumour of his return just before entering Bouldwood's house, but before he had weighed that information this fatal event had been superimposed. However it was too late now to think of sending another messenger, and he rode on, in the excitement of these self-inquiries not discerning, when about three miles from Castor Bridge, a square-figured pedestrian passing along under the dark hedge in the same direction as his own. The miles necessary to be traversed, and other hindrances incidental to the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, delay the arrival of Mr. Altridge, the surgeon, and more than three hours pass between the time at which the shot was fired and that of his entering the house. Oak was additionally detained in Castor Bridge through having to give notice to the authorities of what had happened, and he then found that Bouldwood had also entered the town and delivered himself up. In the meantime the surgeon having hastened to the hall at Bouldwood's, found it in darkness and quite deserted. He went on to the back of the house, where he discovered in the kitchen an old man, of whom he made inquiries. She had him took away to her own house, sir, said his informant. Who has? said the doctor. Mrs. Troy, I was quite dead, sir. This was astonishing information. And she had no right to do that, said the doctor, and there will have to be an inquest that she should have waited to know what to do. Yes, sir, it was hinted to her that she had better wait till the law was known, but she said law was nothing to her, and she wouldn't let her dear husband's corpse by neglected for folks to stare at for all the crowners in England. Mr. Altridge drove at once back again up the hill to Bathshebas. The first person he met was poor Liddy, who seemed literally to have dwindled smaller in these few latter hours. What has been done? He said, I don't know, sir, said Liddy with suspended breath, but my mistress has done it all. Where is she? Upstairs with him, sir. When he was brought home and taken upstairs, she said she wanted no further help from the men. And then she called me, and made me fill the bath, and after that told me I had better go and lie down because I looked so ill. Then she locked herself into the room alone with him, and would not let a nurse come in, or anybody at all. But I thought I'd wait in the next room in case she should want me. I heard her moving about inside for more than an hour, but she only came out once, and that was for more candles because hers had burnt down into the socket. She said we were to let her know when you or Mr. Hardley came, sir. Oak entered with a parson at this moment, and they all went upstairs together, preceded by Liddy's small-breed. Everything was silent as the grave when they paused on the landing. Liddy knocked, and that sheba's dress was heard rustling across the room. The key turned in the lock, and she opened the door. Her looks were calm and nearly rigid, like a slightly animated bust of Melpomene. Oh! Mr. Altrich, you have come at last. She murmured from her lips merely, and threw back the door. Ah! And Mr. Altrich? Well, all is done, and anybody in the world may see him now. She then passed by him, crossed the landing, and entered another room. Looking into the chamber of death she had vacated, they saw by the light of the candles which were on the drawers a tall, straight shape lying at the further end of the bedroom, wrapped in white. Everything around was quite orderly. The doctor went in, and after a few minutes returned to the landing again, where Oak and the parson still waited. It is all done, indeed, as she says, remarked Mr. Altrich in a subdued voice. The body had been undressed and promptly laid out in grave clothes. Gracious heaven, this mere girl! She must have the nerve of a stoic. The heart of a wife merely, floated in a whisper about the ears of the three, and turning they saw Bathsheba in the midst of them. Then, as if at that instant to prove that her fortitude had been more of will than spontaneity, she silently sank down between them, and was a shapeless heap of drapery on the floor. The simple consciousness that superhuman strain was no longer required had at once put a period to her power to continue it. They took her away to a further room, and the medical attendance which had been useless in Troy's case was invaluable in Bathsheba's, who fell into a series of fainting-fits that had a serious aspect for a time. The sufferer was got to bed, and Oak finding from the bulletins that nothing really dreadful was to be apprehended on her score, left the house. Liddy kept watch in Bathsheba's chamber, where she heard her mistress moaning and whispers through the dull, slow hours of that wretched night. Oh! it's my fault! How can I live? Oh, heaven! How can I live? End of Chapter 54 Chapter 55 of Far From the Madding Crowd. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. We pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day without sunshine, frost or dew, on Yalbury Hill, about midway between Weatherbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over the crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of the greater number being freaky, and the eyes of the greater number of people who were in the middle of the road, and numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of the greater number being frequently stretched afar in an orderly direction. The groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of javelin men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one of which contained the high sheriff. With the idlers, many of whom had mounted to the top of the cutting formed for the road, were several Weatherbury men and boys, among others, Porgrass, Coggan, and Cain Ball. At the end of half an hour, a faint dust was seen in the expected quarter, and shortly after, a travelling carriage, bringing one of the two judges on the western circuit, came up the hill and halted on the top. The judge changed carriages, whilst a flourish was blown by the big cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being formed of the vehicles and javelin men, they all proceeded towards the town, accepting the Weatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off, returned again home to their work. "'Joseph, I see you're squeezing close to the carriage,' said Coggan, as they walked. "'Did you notice my Lord Judge's face?' "'I did,' said Porgrass, "'I looked hard at him, as if I would read his very soul, and that was messy in his eyes, or to speak with the exact truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was towards me.' "'Well, I hope for the best,' said Coggan, though bad that must be. However, I shan't go to the trial, and I'd advise the rest of you that paint wanted to buy the way, till the store was mine more than anything to see as they are staring at him as if he were a show.' "'The very thing I said this morning,' observed Joseph, "'justice has come to weigh him in their balances. I said in my reflexes' way, and if he's found wanting so be it unto him.' And a boy's standard said, here, here, a man who can talk like that ought to be heard, but I don't like dwelling upon it, for my few words and my few words are not much, though the speech of some men is rumoured abroad, as though by nature formed for such.' And so tis Joseph, and now neighbours, as I said, every man weighed at home. The resolution was adhered to, and all waited anxiously for the news next day. The suspense was diverted, however, by a discovery which was made in the afternoon, throwing more light on Bouldwood's conduct and condition than any details which had preceded it. That he had been from the time of Greenhill Fair until the fatal Christmas Eve in excited and unusual moods was known to those who had been intimate with him. But nobody imagined that they had shown in him unequivocal symptoms of the mental derangement which Bathsheba and oak, alone of all others at different times, had momentarily suspected. In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary collection of articles. There were several sets of ladies' dresses in the piece, of sundry expensive materials, silks and satins, poplins and velvets. All of colours, which, from Bathsheba's style of dress, might have been judged to be her favourites. There were two moths, Sable and Irmin. Of all there was a case of jewellery containing four heavy gold bracelets and several lockets and rings, all of fine quality and manufacture. These things had been bought in Bath and other towns from time to time, and brought home by stealth. They were all carefully packed in paper, and each package was labelled Bathsheba Bouldwood, a date being subjoined six years in advance in every instance. These somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed with care and love were the subject of discourse in Warren's malt house when Oak entered, from carcerage with tidings of sentence. He came in the afternoon, and his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale sufficiently well. Bouldwood, as every one now supposed he would do, had pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death. The conviction that Bouldwood had not been morally responsible for his latter acts, now became general. These elicited previous to the trial had pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had not been of sufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination into the state of Bouldwood's mind. It was astonishing, now that a presumption of insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances were remembered, to which a condition of mental disease seemed to afford the only explanation, among others the unprecedented neglect of his corn stacks in the previous summer. A petition was addressed to the home secretary, advancing the circumstances which appear to justify a request for a reconsideration of the sentence. It was not numerously signed by the inhabitants of carcer bridge, as is usual in such cases, for Bouldwood had never made many friends over the counter. The shops thought it very natural of a man who, by importing direct from the producer, had daringly set aside the first great principle of provincial existence, namely that God had made country villages to supply customers to country towns should have confused ideas about the decalogue. The prompters were a few merciful men who had, perhaps, too, feelingly considered the facts latterly unearthed, and the result was that evidence was taken which it was hoped might remove the crime in the moral point of view out of the category of willful murder, and lead it to be regarded as a sheer outcome of madness. The upshot of the petition was waited for in Wetherbury with solicitous interest. The execution had been fixed for eight o'clock on a Saturday morning about a fortnight after the sentence was passed, and up to Friday afternoon no answer had been received. At that time Gabriel came from carcer bridge Gale, whither he had been to wish Bouldwood good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the town. When he passed the last house he heard a hammering, and lifted his bowed head as he looked back for a moment. Over the chimneys he could see the upper part of the Gale entrance, rich and glowing in the afternoon sun, and some moving figures were there. There were carpenters, lifting a post into vertical position within the parapet. He withdrew his eyes quickly, and hastened on. It was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to meet him. No tidings, said Gabriel wearily. None I'm afraid there's no hope. I've been with him more than two hours. Do you think he really was out of his mind when he did it, said Smallbury? I can't honestly say that I do, oak replied. However, that we can talk of another time. Has there been any change in mistress this afternoon? None at all. Is she downstairs? No, and getting on so nicely as she was, too. She's but very little better now again than she was at Christmas. She keeps on asking if you'd be come. And if there's news, till one's wearied out with an answer in her, shall I go and say you've come? No, said oak. There's a chance yet. But I couldn't stay in town any longer, after seeing him, too. So Laban. Laban is here, isn't he? Yes, said Tall. Whatever range there is, that you shall ride to town the last thing to-night. Leave here about nine, and wait a while there, getting home about twelve. And if nothing has been received by eleven o'clock to-night, they say there's no chance at all. I do so hope his life will be spared, said Liddy. If it's not, she'll go out of her mind, too. Poor thing! Our sufferings have been dreadful. She deserves anybody's pity. Is she ordered much? Said Coggan. If you haven't seen poor Mistress since Christmas, you wouldn't know her, said Liddy.  Only two years ago she was a romping-girl, and now she's this. Laban departed as directed, and at eleven o'clock that night seven of the villagers strolled along the road to Castlebridge, and waited his arrival. Among the mok, and nearly all the rest of Bathsheba's men. Gabriel's anxiety was great that Bouldwood might be saved, even though in his conscience he felt that he ought to die, for there had been qualities in the farmer which Oak loved. At last, when they all were weary, the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance. First dead, as if on Turfitt Road, then clattering on the village road, in another pace than forth he rode. We shall soon know now, one way or other, said Coggan, and they all stepped down from the bank on which they had been standing, into the road, and the rider pranced into the midst of them. "'Is that you, Laban?' said Gabriel. "'Yes, it is calm. He's not to die. It is confinement during our Majesty's pleasure.' "'Hooray!' said Coggan, with a swelling heart. God's above the devil yet.' End of Chapter 55 Chapter 56 of Far From the Madding Crowd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tyge Hines. Far From the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy. Chapter 56 Beauty and Loneliness. After All Bathsheba revived with the spring, the other prostration that had followed her low fever from which she had suffered, diminished perceptibly when all uncertainty upon every subject had come to an end. But she remained alone now for the greater part of her time, and stayed in the house, or at furthest, went into the garden. She shunned everyone, even Liddy, and could be brought to make no confidences, and to ask for no sympathy. As the summer drew on, she passed more and more of her time in the open air, and began to examine into farming matters from sheer necessity, though she never rode out or personally superintended as at former times. One Friday evening in August she walked a little way along the road, and entered the village for the first time since the somber events of the preceding Christmas. None of the old colour had as yet come to her cheek, and its absolute paleness was heightened by the jet-black of her gown till it appeared preternatural. When she reached a little shop at the other end of the place, which stood nearly opposite to the churchyard, Bathsheba heard singing inside the church, and she knew that the singers were practising. She crossed the road, opened the gate, and entered the graveyard. The high sills of the church windows effectively screened her from the eyes of those gathered within. Her stealthy walk was to the nook wherein Troy had worked at planting flowers upon Fanny Robbins' grave, and she came to the marble tombstone.  First came the words of Troy himself. Created by Francis Troy in beloved memory of Fanny Robbins, who died October 9th, 18 something, aged twenty years. Underneath this was now inscribed in new letters. In the same grave lie the remains of the aforesaid Francis Troy, who died December 24th, 18 something, aged twenty-six years. Whilst she stood and read and meditated, the tones of the organ began again in the church, and she went with the same light step round to the porch and listened. The door was closed, and the choir was learning a new hymn. Bathsheba was stirred by emotions which laterly she had assumed to be altogether dead within her. The little attenuated voices of the children brought to her ear in distinct utterance the words they sang without thought or comprehension. Lead kindly light amid the encircling gloom. Lead thou me on. Bathsheba's feeling was always to some extent dependent upon a whim, as is the case with many other women. Something big came into her throat and an uprising to her eyes, and she thought that she would allow the imminent tears to flow as they wished. They did flow, and plentiously, and one fell upon the stone bench beside her. Once that she had begun to cry, for she hardly knew what, she could not leave off a crowding thought she knew too well. She would have given anything in the world to be, as those children were, unconcerned at the meaning of their words, because too innocent to feel the necessity for any such expression. All the impassioned scenes of her brief experience seemed to revive without an emotion at that moment, and those scenes which had been without emotion during enactment had emotion then. That grief came to her rather as a luxury than as a scourge of former times. Owing to Bathsheba's face being buried in her hands, she did not notice a form which came quietly into the porch, and on seeing her first moved as if to retreat, then pause and regarded her.  How long have you been here? A few minutes, ma'am, said Oak respectfully. Are you going in? said Bathsheba, and there came from within the church as from a prompter. I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, pride ruled my well. Remember not past years. I was, said Gabriel. I am one of the base-singers, you know. I have sung base for several months. Indeed, I wasn't aware of that. I'll leave you, then. Which I have loved long since, and lost a while, sang the children. Don't let me drive you away, mistress. I think I won't go in to-night. Oh, no, you don't drive me away. Then they stood in a state of some embarrassment, Bathsheba trying to wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without his noticing her.  But he feared to bring distressing memories back and interrupt themselves with, were you going into the church? No, she said. I came to see the tombstone privately, to see if they had cut the inscription as I wished. Mr. Oak, you need mine speaking to me, if you wish to, on the matter which is in both of our minds at this moment. And have they done it as you wished? said Oak. Yes, come and see it, if you have not already. So together they went and read the tomb. Eight months ago Gabriel murmured when he saw the date. It seemed that yesterday to me—and to me as if it were years ago, long years, and I had been dead between—and now I am going home, Mr. Oak. Oak walked after her.  He said, with hesitation, merely about business, and I think I may just mention it now, if you'll allow me. Oh, yes, certainly. It is that I may soon have to give up the management of your farm, Mrs. Troy. The fact is, I am thinking of leaving England. I am not yet, you know, next spring. Leaving England? She said in surprise and genuine disappointment. Why, Gabriel, what are you going to do that for? Well, I thought it best—Oak stammered out—California is a spot I have had in mind to try—but it is understood everywhere that you are going to take poor Mr. Boulders' farm on your own account. I have had the refusal of it, it is true, but nothing is settled yet, and I have reasons for giving up. I shall finish out my year there as manager for the trustees, but no more. And what shall I do without you? Oh, Gabriel, I don't think you ought to go away. You've been with me so long, through bright times and dark times, such old friends as we are, that it seems unkind almost. I had fancied that if you leased the other farmers' master, you might still give a helping look across at mine, and now, going away. I would have willingly. Yet now that I am more helpless than ever, you go away? Yes, that's the ill fortune of it," said Gabriel in a distressed tone. And it is because of that very helplessness that I feel bound to go. Good afternoon, ma'am," he concluded, in evident anxiety to get away, and at once went out of the churchyard by a path she could follow on no pretense whatever. Bathsheba went home. Her mind, occupied with the new trouble, which, being rather harassing than deadly, was calculated to do good by diverting her from the chronic gloom of her life. She was set thinking a great deal about oak, and of his wish to shun her, and there occurred to Bathsheba several incidents of her latter intercourse with him, which, trivial when singly reviewed, amounted together to a perceptible disinclination for her society. It broke upon her at length as a great pain that her last old disciple was about to forsake her and flee. He who had believed in her and argued on her side when all the rest of the world was against her, had at last, like the others, become weary and neglectful of the old cause, and was leaving her to fight her battles alone. Three weeks went on, and more evidence of his want of interest in her was forthcoming. She noticed that instead of entering the small parlour or office where the farm accounts were kept, and waiting or leaving a memorandum as he had hitherto done during her seclusion, oak never came at all when she was likely to be there, only entering at unseasonable hours when her presence in that part of the house was least to be expected. Whenever he wanted directions he sent a message, or note with neither heading nor signature, to which she was obliged to reply in the same off-hand style. Poor Bathsheba began to suffer now from the most torturing sting of all, a sensation that she was despised. The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these melancholy conjectures, and Christmas Day came, completing a year of her legal widowhood, and two years and a quarter of her life alone. On examining her heart it appeared beyond measure strange that the subject of which the season might have supposed suggestive, the event in the hall at Bouldwoods, was not agitating her at all, but instead an agonizing conviction that everybody abjured her for what she could not tell, and that oak was the ring-leader of the recusants. Coming out of the church that day she looked round and hoped that oak, whose bass voice she had heard rolling out from the gallery overhead in a most unconcerned manner, might chance to linger in her path in the old way. There he was, as usual, coming down the path behind her, but on seeing Bathsheba turn he looked aside, and as soon as he got beyond the gate, and there was the barest excuse for a divergence, he made one and vanished. The next morning brought the culminating stroke. She had been expecting it long. It was a formal notice by letter from him that he should not renew his engagement with her for the following lady-day. Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter most bitterly. She was aggrieved and wounded, that the possession of hopeless love from Gabriel, which she had grown to regard as her inalienable right for life, should have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in this way. She was bewildered too by the prospect of having to rely on her own resources again. It seemed to herself that she never could again acquire energy sufficient to go to market, barter, and sell. Since Troy's death, oak had attended all sales and fairs for her, acting her business at the same time with his own. What should she do now? Her life was becoming a desolation. So desolate was Bathsheba this evening, that in an absolute hunger for pity and sympathy, and miserable in that she appeared to have outlived the only true friendship she had ever owned, she put on her bonnet and cloak, and went down to oak's house just after sunset, guided on her way by the pale primrose rays of a crescent moon a few days old. A lively firelight shone from the window, but nobody was visible in the room. She tapped nervously, and then thought it doubtful if it were right for a single woman to call upon a bachelor who lived alone, although he was our manager, and she might be supposed to call on business without any real impropriety. Gabriel opened the door, and the moon shone upon his forehead. Mr. Oak, said Bathsheba, faintly.  I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall I, Gabriel?  Well, no, I suppose, but come in, ma'am, oh, and I get the light. Oak replied with some awkwardness. No, not on my account. It is so seldom that I get a lady visited at him afraid I haven't proper accommodation. Will you sit down, please? Here's a chair, and there's one too. I'm sorry that my chair is all of wood seats, and I rather hard, but I was thinking of getting some new ones. Oak placed two or three for her. They are quite easy enough for me. So down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dancing in their faces and upon the old furniture. All is sheening with long years of handling. Oak formed an array of household possessions which sent back a dancing reflection in reply. It was very odd to these two persons, who knew each other, passing well, that the mere circumstance of their meeting in a new place and in a new way should make them so awkward and constrained. In the fields or at her house there had never been any embarrassment, but now that Oak had become the entertainer, their lives seemed to be moved back again, to the days when there were strangers. You'll think it's strange that I have come, but—oh, no, not at all. But I thought, Gabriel, I have been uneasy in the belief that I have offended you, and that you were going away on that account. It grieves me very much, and I couldn't help coming. Offended me, as if you could do that, that sheba. Haven't I? She asked, gladly. But what are you going away for else? I have not gone to emigrate now, you know. I wasn't aware that you would wish me not to, when I told you, or I shouldn't have thought of doing it, he said, simply. I have arranged for a little weathery farm, and shall have it in my own hands that lady-day. You know I have had a share in it for some time. Still, that wouldn't prevent my attendant to your business as before, hadn't it been that things have been said about us? What? said Bathsheba in surprise. Things said about you and me. What are they? I cannot tell you. It would be wiser if you were to, I think. You have played the part of Mentor to me many times, and I don't see why you should fear to do it now. It is nothing that you have done this time. The top and tail of it is this, that I am sniffing about here, and waiting for poor Bouldwood's farm, with the thought of getting you some day. Getting me? What does that mean? Marrying of me, and playing Braysh, you asked me to tell, so you mustn't blame me. Bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if a cannon had been discharged by her ear, which was what Oak had expected. Marrying me? I didn't know it was what you meant, she said quietly. Such a thing as that is too absurd, too soon to think of by far. Yes, of course, it's too absurd. I don't desire any such thing. I used to think that was plain enough by this time. Surely. You be the last person in the world, I think, of Marion. It's too absurd, as you say. Too soon, were the words I used. I must beg your pardon for correcting you, but you said, too absurd. And so do I. I beg your pardon, too, she returned with tears in her eyes. Too soon, that's what I said, but it doesn't matter a bit. Not at all. But I only meant too soon. Indeed, I didn't, Mr. Oak, and you must believe me. Gabriel looked along in the face, but the firelight being faint, there was not much to be seen. Bathsheba, he said, tenderly, and in surprise, and coming closer. If I only knew one thing, whether you would allow me to love you and win you and marry you after all, if I only knew that. But you never will know, she murmured. Why? Because you never ask. Oh! oh! said Gabriel, with a low laugh of joyousness, my own dear! You ought not to have sent me that harsh letter this morning, she interrupted. It shows you didn't care a bit about me, and were ready to desert me like all the rest of them. It was very cruel of you, considering I was the first sweetheart that you ever had, and that you were the first I ever had, and I shall not forget it. Now, Bathsheba, was ever anybody so provoking? He said, laughing. You know it was purely that I, as an unmarried man, carrying on a business for you as a very taking young woman, had a proper hard part to play. More particular, that people knew I had a sort of feeling for you, and I fancied, from the way we were mentioned together, that it might injure your good name. Nobody knows the heat and fret I have been caused by it. And was that all? All. Oh, how glad I am I came! She exclaimed, thankfully, as she rose from her seat. I thought so much more of you, since I fancied you did not even want to see me again. But I must be going now, or I shall be missed. Why, Gabriel, she said with a slight laugh, as they went to the door. It seems exactly as if I had come courting you. How dreadful! And quite right, too, said Oak, I have danced at your skittish hails, my beautiful Bathsheba, for many a long mile, and many a long day. And it is hard to begrudge me this one visit. He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of his forthcoming tenure on the other farm. They spoke very little of their mutual feeling, pretty phrases and warm expressions, being probably unnecessary between such tried friends. There was that substantial affection which arises, if any arises at all, when the two who are thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each other's character, and not the best till further on, the romance growing up in the intercesses of a mass of hard prosaic reality. This good fellowship, a camaraderie, usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom super-added to love between the sexes, because men and women associate not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. There, however, happy circumstance permits its development. The compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love which is strong as death, that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, besides which the passion usually called by the name is evanescent as steam. End of Chapter 56 The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to have. This had been Bathsheba's words to Oak one evening, some time after the event of the preceding chapter, and he meditated a full hour by the clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter. A license—oh, yes, there must be a license—he said to himself at last. Very well, then, first a license. On a dark night, a few days later, Oak came with mysterious steps from the surrogate door and cast a bridge. On the way home he heard a heavy tread in front of him, and overtaking the man, found him to be cogon. They walked together into the village until they came to a little lane behind a church, leading down to the cottage of Laban Tall, who had lately been installed as a clerk of the parish, and was yet in mortal terror at church on Sundays when he heard his lone voice among certain hard words of the Psalms, whither no man ventured to follow him. Well, good-night, cogon, said Oak, I'm going down this way. Oh! said cogon, surprised. What's going on to nighten? Make so bold, Mr. Oak! It seemed rather ingenuous not to tell cogon, under the circumstances, for cogon had been true as steel all through the time of Gabriel's unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, You can keep a secret, cogon. You've proved me, and you know. Yes, I have, and I do know. Well, then, Mr. Sineye mean to get married to mornin' morning. Evans hide tower, and yet I've thought of such a thing from time to time, true I have, but keepin' is so close. Well, there, there's no concern o' mine, and I wish ye joy o'er. Thank you, cogon, but I assure ye that this gray hush is not what I wish for at all, or what either of us would have wished if it hadn't been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seem hardly the thing. Bathsheba has a great wish that all in the parish shall not be in the church looking at her. She's shy-like, and nervous about it. In fact, so I'd be doin' this to humour her. Aye, I see, quite right, too, I suppose I must say, and ye be now goin' down to the clerk. Yes, ye may as well come with me. I'm afraid you're labourin' keepin' it close if ye throw the way," said cogon as they walked along. She'd told the old woman o' horn it all over the parish in half an hour. So she will, upon my life I never thought o' that," said oak, pausing. Yet I must tell him to-night, I suppose, for he's workin' so far off, and leaves early. I'll tell ye how he could tackle her," said cogon.  Then he'll come out, and ye can tell your tale. She'll ever guess what I wantin' for, and I'll make up a few words about the farm-work as a blind. This scheme was considered feasible, and cogon advanced boldly and wrapped at Mrs. Tall's door. Mrs. Tall herself opened it. I wanted to have a word with Leibin. He's not at home, and won't be this late of eleven o'clock. He's been forced to go over to Yalbury since shuttin' out work. Shall I do quite as well? They hardly think ye well, and stop a moment, and cogon stepped round the corner of the porch to consult Oak. "'Who's told a man, then?' said Mrs. Tall. "'Only a friend,' said cogon. "'Say he's wanted to meet Mistress near Church-Hatch to-morrow mornin' at ten,' said Oak, in a whisper, that he must come without fail, and wear his best clothes.' "'The clothes'll floor us as safe as houses,' said cogon. "'It can't be helped,' said Oak. "'Tell her.' So cogon delivered the message. "'Mind, head or wet, blow or snow, he must come,' added Jan. "'Tis very particular, indeed. The fact is, it is to witness or sign some law-walk about takin' shares with another farmer for a long span of years. There, that's what it is, and now we've told ye, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn't have done if I hadn't loved ye so hopeless well.' Cogon retired before she could ask any further, and next they called at the vickers in a manner which excited no curiosity at all. Then Gabriel went home, and prepared for the morrow. "'Liddy,' said Bathsheba, on going to bed that night. "'I want you to call me at seven o'clock to-morrow, in case I shouldn't wake.' "'But you always do wake a-four, then, ma'am?' "'Yes, but I have something important to do, which I'll tell you of when the time comes, and it's best to make sure.' Bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she, by any contrivance, get back to sleep again. About six, being quite positive that her watch had stopped during the night, she could wait no longer. She went and tapped at Liddy's door, and after some labour awoke her. "'But I thought it was all ye had to call you,' said the bewildered Liddy, and it isn't six yet. "'Indeed it is. How can you tell such a story, Liddy? I know it must be ever so much past seven. Come to my room as soon as you can. I want you to give my hair a good brushing.' When Liddy came to Bathsheba's room her mistress was already waiting. Liddy could not understand this extraordinary promptness. "'Whatever is going on, ma'am?' she said. "'Well, I'll tell you,' said Bathsheba, with a mischievous smile in her bright eyes.  You two alone?' "'Yes.' "'But is it safe, ma'am? After what's been said,' asked her companion dubiously, a woman's good name is such a perishable article that—' Bathsheba laughed with a flushed cheek, and whispered in Liddy's ear, although there was nobody present.' Liddy stared and exclaimed, "'Soul's alive, what news? It makes my heart go quite bumpity-bump. It makes mine rather furious, too,' said Bathsheba. However, there's no getting out of it now.' It was a damp, disagreeable morning. Nevertheless at twenty minutes to ten o'clock oak came out of his house, and went up the hillside with that sort of stride a man puts out when walking in search of a bride, and knocked at Bathsheba's door. Ten minutes later a large and a smaller umbrella might have been seen moving from the same door, and through the mists along the road to the church. The distance was not more than a quarter of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemed it unnecessary to drive. An observer must have been very close indeed to discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those of oak and Bathsheba arm and arm for the first time in their lives—oak in a great coat extending to his knees, and Bathsheba in a cloak that reached her clogs. But though so plainly dressed there was a certain rejuvenated appearance about her, as though a rose should shut and be a bud again. Repose had again incarnity in her cheeks, and having at Gabriel's request arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago on Norcombe Hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like a girl of that fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now only three or four and twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful. In the church were Tall, Liddy, and the Parsons, and in a remarkably short space of time the deed was done. The two sat down very quietly to tea in Bathsheba's parlour in the evening of the same day, for it had been arranged that Farmer oak should go to live there, since he had as yet neither money, house, nor furniture worthy of the name, though he was on a sure way towards them, whilst Bathsheba was comparatively in a plethora of all three. Just as Bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears were greeted by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like a tremendous blowing of trumpets in front of the house. There said oak laughing, and he knew those fellas were up to something but a look on their faces. Oak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by Bathsheba with a shawl over her head. The rays fell upon a group of male figures gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw the newly married couple on the porch, set up a loud hurrah, and at the same moment bang again went the cannon in the background, followed by a hideous clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarinet, serpent, hot boy, tenor viol, and double bass, the only remaining relics of the true and original Wetherbury band. Venerable worm-eaten instruments which had celebrated in their own persons the victories of Marlborough under the fingers of the forefathers of those who play them now. The performers came forward, and marched up to the front. Those bright boys, Mark, Clark, and Jan, are at the bottom of all this, said Oak, come in, souls, and have something to eat and drink with me and my wife. Not tonight, said Mr. Clark, with evidence self-denial. Thank ye all the same, but we'll call at a more seemly time. However, we couldn't think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration of some sort. If you could send a drop of some without a warrants, why, so it is. Here's long life and happiness to neighbour Oak, and his comely bride. Thank ye, thank ye all, said Gabriel. A bit and a drop shall be sent to warrants for ye at once. I had a thought that we might be very likely to get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was saying so to my wife, but now. Fate, said Coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his companions. The man I've learned to say my wife in a wonderful natural way, considering how youthful he is in wedlock as yet, eh, neighbours all? I never heard a skillful old married fellow of twenty years standing, pipe my wife in a more used note than it did, said Jacob Smallbury. It might have been a little more truer to nature if I had been spoke a little chillier, and but that wasn't to be expected just now. That improved me a comely time, said Jan, twirling his eye. Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled, for she never laughed readily now, and her friends turned to go. Yes, I suppose that's the size of it, said Joseph Porgrass, with a cheerful sigh as they moved away. And I wish him joy o'er, though I were once or twice upon sayin' to-day with Holy Hosea, in my scripture manner, which is in my second nature. Ephraim is joined to idols, let him alone. But, since tis as tis, it might have been worse, and I feel my tanks accordingly. End of Chapter Fifty-Seven End of Far From the Manning Crowd