For answer, she put her face up to his, and slowly, tenderly, hesitatingly, he bent his curly head to hers and their lips met. If ever Bathsheba had doubted that this man could light a fire in her, this kiss gave her assurance that Gabriel’s flame for her burned as brightly as ever after all these years. Indeed, she felt her breath grow short and her head grow dizzy as they sounded each other, tongues entwined, exploring and probing, till she broke off and had to sit down again to recover herself.
He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of his forthcoming tenure of the other farm. They spoke very little of their mutual feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably unnecessary between such tried friends. Theirs 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 interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality. This good-fellowship — camaraderie — usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, 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, beside which the passion usually called by the name is evanescent as steam.
CHAPTER LVII
A FOGGY NIGHT AND MORNING — CONCLUSION
“The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to have.”
Those 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 — O yes, it 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’s door, in Casterbridge. On the way home he heard a heavy tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to be Coggan. They walked together into the village until they came to a little lane behind the church, leading down to the cottage of Laban Tall, who had lately been installed as 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, goodnight, Coggan,” said Oak, “I’m going down this way.”
“Oh!” said Coggan, surprised; “what’s going on tonight then, make so bold Mr. Oak?”
It seemed rather ungenerous not to tell Coggan, under the circumstances, for Coggan had been true as steel all through the time of Gabriel’s unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, “You can keep a secret, Coggan?”
“You’ve proved me, and you know.”
“Yes, I have, and I do know. Well, then, mistress and I mean to get married tomorrow morning.”
“Heaven’s high tower! And yet I’ve thought of such a thing from time to time; true, I have. But keeping it so close! Well, there, ‘tis no consarn of of mine, and I wish ‘ee joy o’ her. Marriage, in short, is what we are all best fitted for, and I am sure you won’t have no regrets.”
“Thank you, Coggan. But I assure ‘ee that this great hush is not what I wished 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 the parish shall not be in church, looking at her — she’s shy-like and nervous about it, in fact — so I be doing this to humour her.”
“Ay, I see: quite right, too, I suppose I must say. And you be now going down to the clerk.”
“Yes; you may as well come with me.”
“I am afeard your labour in keeping it close will be throwed away,” said Coggan, as they walked along. “Labe Tall’s old woman will horn it all over parish in half-an-hour.”
“So she will, upon my life; I never thought of that,” said Oak, pausing. “Yet I must tell him tonight, I suppose, for he’s working so far off, and leaves early.”
“I’ll tell ‘ee how we could tackle her,” said Coggan. “I’ll knock and ask to speak to Laban outside the door, you standing in the background. Then he’ll come out, and you can tell yer tale. She’ll never guess what I want en for; and I’ll make up a few words about the farm-work, as a blind.”
This scheme was considered feasible; and Coggan advanced boldly, and rapped at Mrs. Tall’s door. Mrs. Tall herself opened it.
“I wanted to have a word with Laban.”
“He’s not at home, and won’t be this side of eleven o’clock. He’ve been forced to go over to Yalbury since shutting out work. I shall do quite as well.”
“I hardly think you will. Stop a moment;” and Coggan stepped round the corner of the porch to consult Oak.
“Who’s t’other man, then?” said Mrs. Tall.
“Only a friend,” said Coggan.
“Say he’s wanted to meet mistress near church-hatch tomorrow morning at ten,” said Oak, in a whisper. “That he must come without fail, and wear his best clothes.”
“The clothes will floor us as safe as houses!” said Coggan.
“It can’t be helped,” said Oak. “Tell her.”
So Coggan delivered the message. “Mind, het or wet, blow or snow, he must come,” added Jan. “’Tis very particular, indeed. The fact is, ‘tis to witness her sign some law-work about taking shares wi’ another farmer for a long span o’ years. There, that’s what ‘tis, and now I’ve told ‘ee, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn’t ha’ done if I hadn’t loved ‘ee so hopeless well.”
Coggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they called at the vicar’s 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 tomorrow, In case I shouldn’t wake.”
“But you always do wake afore 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 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 I who 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. “Farmer Oak is coming here to dine with me to-day!”
“Farmer Oak — and nobody else? — 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. Then Liddy stared and exclaimed, “Souls 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 hill side
With that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking in search of a bride,
and knocked Bathsheba’s door. Ten minutes later a large and a smaller umb
rella might have been seen moving from the same door, and through the mist 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-in-arm for the first time in their lives, Oak in a greatcoat extending to his knees, and Bathsheba in a cloak that reached her clogs. Yet, 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 incarnadined 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 parson, and in a remarkably short space of time the deed was done, and they were man and wife in the sight of God.
After Liddy and Tall had left them, Gabriel and Bathsheba took a walk, for the damp fog and misty rain of the early morning had given way to a soft mildness, which, while not as violent as the heat of summer, for two farming folk well used to the outdoor life, was as welcome as blossom in May.
Bathsheba followed happily where Oak led her, glad beyond words at the steady, solid presence of her curly-headed new husband, and on the bank of the river that had long been the sole and silent witness to his earthly delights till now, they sat down, and he took the pins one by one from her hair, as gently and kindly as if she had been a new lamb and he the shepherd coaxing it into its first breath. With her hair spread out over her shoulders, she held up her face to be kissed, and was rewarded with the brief trembling of a tear in his eye as he laid gentle lips upon hers.
“Whenever I look up, there will you be,” she whispered, remembering in some amazement that far distant day in times past, when Gabriel had plighted his troth and she had, with scarce a thought, thrown it back at him. He smiled and pointed down at the river, where, with the brief sparkle of emerald, a kingfisher swooped upon a minnow and was gone again in a flash of orange, white and turquoise.
“Now I have you, as surely as he has that fish he risked all for,” he said. “Will I tell you a secret thing about myself?”
She nodded, in wonder that there would be no end to the depths of Oak, and he stood up, and stripped off his bridegroom’s gear and displayed himself before her, naked and unashamed.
“We are one now,” he said quietly, “and I have done with my old ways. But here on this bank, many and many’s the day I have thought of you, and only you, as I took to the waters, and with their rough caresses they in their turn proved my comfort and my joy, for what is natural and in the open air is best for man and beast — and for woman too, perhaps. And though today be wintry, yet am I glad to be standing thus before you, under the sky, to show you with my body what I cannot say in words.”
There was no denying the evidence of his arousal, for he did not turn away to hide himself from her, but stood, erect and proud, seemingly with no haste to complete the act that would truly make them man and wife.
A blush came to her cheek, for as yet they had only kissed, yet in spite of the greyness of the day, Bathsheba felt something hot stirring within her, and in one impulsive move, she too threw off her wedding clothes, and stood as bare and white as he, beside him.
“Here am I by your side, Gabriel, and no powders or paints, no soft candlelight or lantern, shall hide from you what I am and whose I am.”
He laughed with joy, that his natural urge was twinned by her wild heat.
“Will we make our marriage bed here?” he asked her, softly stroking her breast.
For answer, she lay naked on her back before him, and stretched out her white bare arms to pull him down upon her. They needed no teasing or tickling to bring them both to a full readiness, and as they lay together for the first time on God’s earth, feeling the cold grass grow warm, they joined, body, soul, and hearts for ever. Slow, gentle and easy was their love making, coming by degrees to a peak of pleasure, and at the final moment she cried out in her fulfilment, and he groaned softly and shuddered, and they felt joy in the rightness of their union.
He made ready to help her dress, but she stopped him.
“My dearest darling,” she murmured, “you, who have waited so long for me, and have given me such pleasure in this riverside union, deserve yet more. I am here for your pleasure, my husband. Tell me or show me what it is you want. Let me now make those long years of dreaming into reality.
Gabriel lay on the green sward, amazed. She let her abundant black ropes of hair brush over his body with long, slow sweeps. The feel of her hair was just as he had imagined, and her sweet face bending to kiss his belly, then lower, aroused in him the fullest sensations of exquisite pleasure. She kissed his hardness, the sweet moisture of her mouth bringing it to a stand, then gently, and oh, so slowly, took him into her mouth and sucked as gently as a new lamb suckles its mother.
“Dear heaven,” he whispered, stroking that head, tangling his hands in her hair as he felt the soft brush of her breasts, fuller now, more rounded and softer than he had ever imagined, “this is paradise to me.”
For answer, she sucked a little harder, then drew back to mouth and tease his tip with lips and tongue, until he could no longer contain himself. Quickly and eagerly she was astride him, taking his stiff length deeply into that wet hot place where her velvet caressed his hardness until he spent himself in undreamt of ecstasies. Her face glowed with joy, and she came with waves of gasping pleasure, then collapsed upon him, her face hot against his breast; they remained thus joined for a long while, stroking each others arms and face, until the coolness of the day stirred them to slowly, with reluctance, pull apart.
“Let us be together always innocent as beasts, and as kind as angels.”
Was it she who spoke that thought aloud, or he? It mattered not; it was as simple a message as the beating of their two hearts in unison, and what was shared in their thoughts and feelings would in the future be naturally demonstrated by the embraces of their physical bodies.
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 there to live, 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 the front of the house.
“There!” said Oak, laughing, “I knew those fellows were up to something, by the 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 in 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, clarionet, serpent, hautboy, tenor-viol, and double-bass — the only remaining relics of the true and original Weatherbury 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 played 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 wi’ me and my wife.”
“Not tonight,” said Mr. Clark, with evident 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 ye could send a drop of som’at down to Warren’s, why so it is. Here’s long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and hi
s comely bride!”
“Aye, faith, here’s to all wives!” cried Jan, whose nimble wife had taught him tricks he never dreamed of, in all his creeping-up.
“Thank ye; thank ye all,” said Gabriel. “A bit and a drop shall be sent to Warren’s for ye at once. I had a thought that we might very likely get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was saying so to my wife but now.”
“Faith,” said Coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his companions, “the man hev learnt to say ‘my wife’ in a wonderful naterel way, considering how very youthful he is in wedlock as yet — hey, neighbours all?”
“I never heerd a skilful old married feller of twenty years’ standing pipe ‘my wife’ in a more used note than ‘a did,” said Jacob Smallbury. “It might have been a little more true to nater if’t had been spoke a little chillier, but that wasn’t to be expected just now.”
“That improvement will come wi’ time,” said Jan, twirling his eye.
Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readily now), and their friends turned to go.
“Yes; I suppose that’s the size o’t,” said Joseph Poorgrass with a cheerful sigh as they moved away; “and I wish him joy o’ her; though I were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in my scripture manner, which is my second nature, ‘Ephraim is joined to idols: let him alone.’ But since ’tis as ’tis, why, it might have been worse, and I feel my thanks accordingly.”
About the Collaborating Author
Pan Zador currently lives in rural Wales. The downs, farmlands, coast, and rivers of Dorset, in England — Hardy’s original model for the Wessex countryside he describes so enchantingly in this novel — are familiar to her from frequent visits there to friends and family.
For five years she was a novice sheep farmer in the south west of Ireland, in between her other career as playwright. Hardy’s descriptions of the trials and terrors of sheep farming are, she assures the reader, completely authentic.
In preparing this book for the Wild & Wanton imprint, it has been always her intention to support Hardy in his thwarted wish to be more explicit in the love scenes. Alas, poor Hardy did not have the encouragement of his editor in this direction — unlike his more fortunate co-writer, who was not confined by editorial notions of Victorian morality, but rather, encouraged to go further and be ever more adventurous.
Literary Love Page 57
