Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  His tone was so excited that she almost feared him at this moment, even whilst she sympathized. It was a simple physical fear — the weak of the strong; there was no emotional aversion or inner repugnance. She said, with some distress in her voice, for she remembered vividly his outburst on the Yalbury Road, and shrank from a repetition of his anger, “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 you will be my wife? Unexpected accidents we’ll not mention, because those, of course, must be given way to. Now, this time I know you will 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’t love you, and I much fear that I never shall love you as much as a woman ought to love a husband. If you, sir, know that, and I can yet give you happiness by a mere promise to marry at the end of six years, if my husband should not come back, it is a great honour to me. And if you value such an act of friendship from a woman who doesn’t esteem herself as she did, and has little love left, why I — 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 say no more to you about it till that time.”

  Bathsheba was in a very peculiar state of mind, which showed how entirely the soul is the slave of the body, the ethereal spirit dependent for its quality upon the tangible flesh and blood. It is hardly too much to say that she felt coerced by a force stronger than her own will, not only into the act of promising upon this singularly remote and vague matter, but into the emotion of fancying that she ought to promise. And, after all, was she not a widow who had known the passionate heat of connection with a husband who was able to drive her into frenzies and leave her spent, exhausted, and gasping? How was that aching void within her to be filled? Or was she never again to know the feel of a man’s hard cock gently inserted into her, the insistent, mounting rhythms of the act of conjugal union?

  How differently the night ended for her three revelling farm folk. Having gained entrance to an unused shepherd’s hut on a field near Bathsheba’s farm, the two men were about to draw lots for their roles in the forthcoming drama, but Maryann would have none of it.

  “I’ll take you, Jan Coggan,” she said, undoing his trouser waistband with a brisk hand, “and you, Matthew, stand further off, at the end of the bed and watch. Only watch, mind, I’ll have no speeches about my performance. Nor suggestions neither.”

  Moon was in that nervous state between pleasure and terror, and needed no further instruction. The times he had sat with his companions in the maltster’s inn, hearing tales of Maryann and her amorous skills, he had never dreamed he would take part in such a jaunt as this. Why, she had Jan stripped to the buff in a twinkling! She was taking his man’s part in her hands, moulding it like a loaf of bread till it began to rise. Jan was lying on the bed, groaning. Maryann loosed her bodice, letting her full breasts bounce free. Matthew could hardly keep himself from reaching out and touching one of these durable wonders. Now, Maryann was taking Jan’s hand, bringing it up to stroke her breast! She made a sound, it was a gasping kind of sound, and Jan, taking a more active part, raised up his head and found her nipple with his mouth, and as she held his head to her, he sucked like a baby, and his member swelled till it looked near bursting.

  “O Lord,” Matthew Moon said suddenly, feeling a rush of fluid from his own tool, which took him so by surprise that he lost his balance and sank to the floor. With clumsy hands he freed his member from its restrictive clothing, and began stroking it in a state of dreamy excitement as the two on the bed, having kissed and twisted their limbs together in a most tantalising configuration, commenced to thrust and heave one against the other; their eyes were shut, their faces contused with their exertions, and Matthew, finding himself inadvertently moving in a similar thrusting motion, spent himself upon the air with a loud cry, while Jan, almost seeming to expire with holding back his urgency, rent the air with such a bellow of relief that it must have been heard all the way to Weatherbury, and Maryann, her needs at last assauged, clenched her whole body for two or three convulsions of ecstasy, and finally allowed her legs, fast entwined around the trunk of her amour, to relax to their natural position.

  “Well, Matthew Moon, and how did you like this sport?” she enquired, as soon as her breathing slowed enough to speak.

  “Oh, well enough … well, indeed,” replied the hapless Matthew, trying in vain to conceal the swelling of his organ from Jan Coggan, who lay chuckling, naked as the day he was born.

  Maryann raised herself on her elbow, and took in his readiness at a glance.

  “Handsomely done, my man,” she said, tipping Jan out of the narrow bed and onto the floor. “Come you in here along of me, now, Matthew Moon, lest you do yourself further mischief.”

  Matthew needed no second exhortation, but scrambled to the warm place so recently occupied by his friend. Bathed in the warm juices of her recent congress, Maryann took Moon lazily in her hand and played up and down the length of his erection with slow and easy movements, using her long fingers in a way that no mortal woman had ever touched him before; he felt his breath quickening as her lips, that he had never seen at such invitingly close quarters, mouthed a kiss at him, and her free arm pulled him closer, till she could plant her mouth on his, and sound him with a deep and searching tongue.

  Jan still lay on the floor, his hands fastened tight to his prick, trying to stop its inevitable outrush before he had had time to take in the view in front of his eyes. For the life of him, he could not say which was the more exciting — to be lying between those thighs, feeling them moving beneath him, and to have his member gripped so hard by the rhythmic contractions of a woman’s part that he had never before imagined to have such muscular strength, or to watch with absorption the expression on the face of his drinking companion, going from amazement to wonder to an overwhelming urge for release, and to watch the two wrestling and heaving to their climax — it undid his composure to such extent that he remained on the floor, hunched over his organ, which pounded forth its vital juices with such vigour he felt himself to be a man endowed with supernatural powers.

  For their careworn mistress, the night was not so gay and sprightly, for Boldwood’s promise to leave off wooing until Christmas meant that she dreaded the arrival of that festive time.

  When the weeks intervening between the night of her last conversation with him and Christmas day began perceptibly to diminish, her anxiety and perplexity increased.

  One day she was led by an accident into an oddly confidential dialogue with Gabriel about her difficulty. It afforded her a little relief — of a dull and cheerless kind. They were auditing accounts, and something occurred in the course of their labours which led Oak to 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 expecting her assent. “The most mournful reason of all for my agreeing to it,” she said sadly, “and the true reason 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 as yet — I believe that if I don’t give my word, he’ll go out of his mind.”

  “Really, do ye?” said Gabriel, gravely.

  “I believe this,” she continued, with reckless frankness; “and Heaven knows I say it in a spirit the very reverse of vain, for I am grieved and troubled to my soul about it — I believe I hold that man’s future in my hand. His career depends entirely upon my treatment of him. O Gabriel, I tremble at my respo
nsibility, 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; but I can’t suppose — I hope that 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 odd-like, why don’t ye give the conditional promise? I think I would.”

  “But is it right? Some rash acts of my past life have taught me that a watched woman must have very much circumspection to retain only a very 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 if Mr. Troy does not come back again, which he may not impossibly do! Such thoughts give a sort of 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 a man and woman to make: 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 marry en under any condition, that is, your not caring about him — for I may suppose — ”

  “Yes, you may suppose that love is wanting,” she said 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 thing that takes away harm from such an agreement with him. If wild heat had to do wi’ it, making ye long to overcome the awkwardness about your husband’s vanishing, it mid be wrong; but a cold-hearted agreement to oblige a man seems different, somehow. The real sin, ma’am in my mind, lies in thinking of ever wedding wi’ a man you don’t love honest and true.”

  “That I’m willing to pay the penalty of,” said Bathsheba, firmly. “You know, Gabriel, this is what I cannot get off my conscience — that I once seriously injured him in sheer idleness. If I had never played a trick upon him, he would never have wanted to marry me. Oh if I could only pay some heavy damages in money to him for the harm I did, and so get the sin off my soul that way! Well, there’s the debt, which can only be discharged in one way, and I believe I am bound to do it if it honestly lies in my power, without any consideration of my own future at all. When a rake gambles away his expectations, the fact that it is an inconvenient debt doesn’t make him the less liable. I’ve been a rake, and the single point I ask you is, considering that my own scruples, and the fact that in the eye of the law my husband is only missing, will keep any man from marrying me until seven years have passed — am I free to entertain such an idea, even though ‘tis a sort of penance — for it will be that? I hate the act of marriage under such circumstances, and the class of women I should seem to belong to by doing it!”

  “It seems to me that all depends upon whether you think, as everybody else do, that your husband is dead.”

  “Yes — I’ve long ceased to doubt that. I well know what would have brought 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 why don’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 in the subject professionally. So I like the parson’s opinion on law, the lawyer’s on doctoring, the doctor’s on business, and my business-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 grave smile.

  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 reply from Gabriel more satisfactory than that she had obtained. Yet in the centremost parts of her complicated heart there existed at this minute a little pang of disappointment, for a reason she would not allow herself to recognize. Oak had not once wished her free that he might marry her himself — had not once said, “I could wait for you as well as he.” That was the insect sting. Not that she would have listened to any such hypothesis. O no — for wasn’t she saying all the time that such thoughts of the future were improper, and wasn’t Gabriel far too poor a man to speak sentiment to her? Yet he might have just hinted about that old love of his, and asked, in a playful offhand way, if he might speak of it. The words he had spoken about the ‘wild heat’ that she might be expected to feel, had had the effect of a fan of osprey feathers, brushing gently over her naked breasts; her bodice had become tight and restraining against the hardening of her nipples. How appropriate it would then have been for Oak to make his declaration to her again. It would have seemed pretty and sweet, if no more; and then she would have shown how kind and inoffensive a woman’s “No” can sometimes be. But to give such cool advice — the very advice she had asked for — it ruffled our heroine all the afternoon.

  CHAPTER LII

  CONVERGING COURSES

  Christmas-eve came, and a party that Boldwood was to give in the evening was the great subject of talk in Weatherbury. It was not that the rarity of Christmas parties in the parish made this one a wonder, but that Boldwood should be the giver. The announcement had had an abnormal and incongruous sound, as if one should hear of croquet-playing in a cathedral aisle, or that some much-respected judge was going upon the stage. That the party was intended to be a truly jovial one there was no room for doubt. A large bough of mistletoe had been brought from the woods that day, and suspended in the hall of the bachelor’s home. Holly and ivy had followed in armfuls. From six that morning till past noon the huge wood fire in the kitchen roared and sparkled at its highest, the kettle, the saucepan, and the three-legged pot appearing in the midst of the flames like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego; moreover, roasting and basting operations were continually carried on in front of the genial blaze.

  As it grew later the fire was made up in the large long hall into which the staircase descended, and all encumbrances were cleared out for dancing. The log which was to form the back-brand of the evening fire was the uncleft trunk of a tree, so unwieldy that it could be neither brought nor rolled to its place; and accordingly two men were to be observed dragging and heaving it in by chains and levers as the hour of assembly drew near.

  In spite of all this, the spirit of revelry was wanting in the atmosphere of the house. Such a thing had never been attempted before by its owner, and it was now done as by a wrench. Intended gaieties would insist upon appearing like solemn grandeurs, the organization of the whole effort was carried out coldly, by hirelings, and a shadow seemed to move about the rooms, saying that the proceedings were unnatural to the place and the lone man who lived therein, and hence not good.

  II

  Bathsheba was at this time in her room, dressing for the event. She had called for candles, and Liddy entered and placed one on each side of her mistress’s glass.

  “Don’t go away, Liddy,” said Bathsheba, almost timidly. “I am foolishly agitated — I cannot tell why. I wish I had not been obliged to go to this dance; but there’s no escaping now. I have not spoken to Mr. Boldwood since the autumn, when I promised to see him at Christmas on business, but I had no idea there was to be anything of this kind.”

  “But I would go now,” said Liddy, who was going with her; for Boldwood had been indiscriminate in his invitations.

  “Yes, I shall make my appearance, of course,” said Bathsheba. “But I am the cause of the party, and that upsets me! — Don’t tell, Liddy.”

  “Oh no, ma’am. You the cause of it, ma’am?”

  “Yes. I am the reason of the party — I. If it had not been for me, there would never have been one. I can’t explain any more — there’s no more to be explained. I wish I had neve
r seen Weatherbury.”

  “That’s wicked of you — to wish to be worse off than you are.”

  “No, Liddy. I have never been free from trouble since I have lived here, and this party is likely to bring me more. Now, fetch my black silk dress, and see how it sits upon me.”

  “But you will leave off that, surely, ma’am? You have been a widow-lady fourteen months, and ought to brighten up a little on such a night as this.”

  “Is it necessary? No; I will appear as usual, for if I were to wear any light dress people would say things about me, and I should seem to be rejoicing when I am solemn all the time. The party doesn’t suit me a bit; but never mind, stay and help to finish me off.”

  III

  Boldwood was dressing also at this hour. A tailor from Casterbridge was with him, assisting him in the operation of trying on a new coat that had just been brought home.

  Never had Boldwood been so fastidious, unreasonable about the fit, and generally difficult to please. The tailor walked round and round him, tugged at the waist, pulled the sleeve, pressed out the collar, and for the first time in his experience Boldwood was not bored. Times had been when the farmer had exclaimed against all such niceties as childish, but now no philosophic or hasty rebuke whatever was provoked by this man for attaching as much importance to a crease in the coat as to an earthquake in South America. Boldwood at last expressed himself nearly satisfied, and paid the bill, the tailor passing out of the door just as Oak came in to report progress for the day.