by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XLI
SUSPICION--FANNY IS SENT FOR
Bathsheba said very little to her husband all that evening of theirreturn from market, and he was not disposed to say much to her. Heexhibited the unpleasant combination of a restless condition with asilent tongue. The next day, which was Sunday, passed nearly in thesame manner as regarded their taciturnity, Bathsheba going to churchboth morning and afternoon. This was the day before the Budmouthraces. In the evening Troy said, suddenly--
"Bathsheba, could you let me have twenty pounds?"
Her countenance instantly sank. "Twenty pounds?" she said.
"The fact is, I want it badly." The anxiety upon Troy's face wasunusual and very marked. It was a culmination of the mood he hadbeen in all the day.
"Ah! for those races to-morrow."
Troy for the moment made no reply. Her mistake had its advantagesto a man who shrank from having his mind inspected as he did now."Well, suppose I do want it for races?" he said, at last.
"Oh, Frank!" Bathsheba replied, and there was such a volume ofentreaty in the words. "Only such a few weeks ago you said that Iwas far sweeter than all your other pleasures put together, and thatyou would give them all up for me; and now, won't you give up thisone, which is more a worry than a pleasure? Do, Frank. Come, letme fascinate you by all I can do--by pretty words and pretty looks,and everything I can think of--to stay at home. Say yes to yourwife--say yes!"
The tenderest and softest phases of Bathsheba's nature were prominentnow--advanced impulsively for his acceptance, without any of thedisguises and defences which the wariness of her character when shewas cool too frequently threw over them. Few men could have resistedthe arch yet dignified entreaty of the beautiful face, thrown alittle back and sideways in the well known attitude that expressesmore than the words it accompanies, and which seems to have beendesigned for these special occasions. Had the woman not been hiswife, Troy would have succumbed instantly; as it was, he thought hewould not deceive her longer.
"The money is not wanted for racing debts at all," he said.
"What is it for?" she asked. "You worry me a great deal by thesemysterious responsibilities, Frank."
Troy hesitated. He did not now love her enough to allow himselfto be carried too far by her ways. Yet it was necessary to becivil. "You wrong me by such a suspicious manner," he said. "Suchstrait-waistcoating as you treat me to is not becoming in you at soearly a date."
"I think that I have a right to grumble a little if I pay," she said,with features between a smile and a pout.
"Exactly; and, the former being done, suppose we proceed to thelatter. Bathsheba, fun is all very well, but don't go too far, oryou may have cause to regret something."
She reddened. "I do that already," she said, quickly.
"What do you regret?"
"That my romance has come to an end."
"All romances end at marriage."
"I wish you wouldn't talk like that. You grieve me to my soul bybeing smart at my expense."
"You are dull enough at mine. I believe you hate me."
"Not you--only your faults. I do hate them."
"'Twould be much more becoming if you set yourself to cure them.Come, let's strike a balance with the twenty pounds, and be friends."
She gave a sigh of resignation. "I have about that sum here forhousehold expenses. If you must have it, take it."
"Very good. Thank you. I expect I shall have gone away before youare in to breakfast to-morrow."
"And must you go? Ah! there was a time, Frank, when it would havetaken a good many promises to other people to drag you away from me.You used to call me darling, then. But it doesn't matter to you howmy days are passed now."
"I must go, in spite of sentiment." Troy, as he spoke, looked at hiswatch, and, apparently actuated by _non lucendo_ principles, openedthe case at the back, revealing, snugly stowed within it, a smallcoil of hair.
Bathsheba's eyes had been accidentally lifted at that moment, and shesaw the action and saw the hair. She flushed in pain and surprise,and some words escaped her before she had thought whether or not itwas wise to utter them. "A woman's curl of hair!" she said. "Oh,Frank, whose is that?"
Troy had instantly closed his watch. He carelessly replied, as onewho cloaked some feelings that the sight had stirred. "Why, yours,of course. Whose should it be? I had quite forgotten that I hadit."
"What a dreadful fib, Frank!"
"I tell you I had forgotten it!" he said, loudly.
"I don't mean that--it was yellow hair."
"Nonsense."
"That's insulting me. I know it was yellow. Now whose was it? Iwant to know."
"Very well--I'll tell you, so make no more ado. It is the hair of ayoung woman I was going to marry before I knew you."
"You ought to tell me her name, then."
"I cannot do that."
"Is she married yet?"
"No."
"Is she alive?"
"Yes."
"Is she pretty?"
"Yes."
"It is wonderful how she can be, poor thing, under such an awfulaffliction!"
"Affliction--what affliction?" he inquired, quickly.
"Having hair of that dreadful colour."
"Oh--ho--I like that!" said Troy, recovering himself. "Why, her hairhas been admired by everybody who has seen her since she has worn itloose, which has not been long. It is beautiful hair. People usedto turn their heads to look at it, poor girl!"
"Pooh! that's nothing--that's nothing!" she exclaimed, in incipientaccents of pique. "If I cared for your love as much as I used to Icould say people had turned to look at mine."
"Bathsheba, don't be so fitful and jealous. You knew what marriedlife would be like, and shouldn't have entered it if you feared thesecontingencies."
Troy had by this time driven her to bitterness: her heart was big inher throat, and the ducts to her eyes were painfully full. Ashamedas she was to show emotion, at last she burst out:--
"This is all I get for loving you so well! Ah! when I married youyour life was dearer to me than my own. I would have died foryou--how truly I can say that I would have died for you! And nowyou sneer at my foolishness in marrying you. O! is it kind to me tothrow my mistake in my face? Whatever opinion you may have of mywisdom, you should not tell me of it so mercilessly, now that I amin your power."
"I can't help how things fall out," said Troy; "upon my heart, womenwill be the death of me!"
"Well you shouldn't keep people's hair. You'll burn it, won't you,Frank?"
Frank went on as if he had not heard her. "There are considerationseven before my consideration for you; reparations to be made--tiesyou know nothing of. If you repent of marrying, so do I."
Trembling now, she put her hand upon his arm, saying, in mingledtones of wretchedness and coaxing, "I only repent it if you don'tlove me better than any woman in the world! I don't otherwise,Frank. You don't repent because you already love somebody betterthan you love me, do you?"
"I don't know. Why do you say that?"
"You won't burn that curl. You like the woman who owns that prettyhair--yes; it is pretty--more beautiful than my miserable black mane!Well, it is no use; I can't help being ugly. You must like her best,if you will!"
"Until to-day, when I took it from a drawer, I have never looked uponthat bit of hair for several months--that I am ready to swear."
"But just now you said 'ties'; and then--that woman we met?"
"'Twas the meeting with her that reminded me of the hair."
"Is it hers, then?"
"Yes. There, now that you have wormed it out of me, I hope you arecontent."
"And what are the ties?"
"Oh! that meant nothing--a mere jest."
"A mere jest!" she said, in mournful astonishment. "Can you jestwhen I am so wretchedly in earnest? Tell me the truth, Frank. Iam not a fool, you know, although I am a woman, and have my woman'smoments. Come! tre
at me fairly," she said, looking honestly andfearlessly into his face. "I don't want much; bare justice--that'sall! Ah! once I felt I could be content with nothing less than thehighest homage from the husband I should choose. Now, anythingshort of cruelty will content me. Yes! the independent and spiritedBathsheba is come to this!"
"For Heaven's sake don't be so desperate!" Troy said, snappishly,rising as he did so, and leaving the room.
Directly he had gone, Bathsheba burst into great sobs--dry-eyed sobs,which cut as they came, without any softening by tears. But shedetermined to repress all evidences of feeling. She was conquered;but she would never own it as long as she lived. Her pride wasindeed brought low by despairing discoveries of her spoliation bymarriage with a less pure nature than her own. She chafed to and froin rebelliousness, like a caged leopard; her whole soul was in arms,and the blood fired her face. Until she had met Troy, Bathsheba hadbeen proud of her position as a woman; it had been a glory to her toknow that her lips had been touched by no man's on earth--that herwaist had never been encircled by a lover's arm. She hated herselfnow. In those earlier days she had always nourished a secretcontempt for girls who were the slaves of the first good-lookingyoung fellow who should choose to salute them. She had never takenkindly to the idea of marriage in the abstract as did the majority ofwomen she saw about her. In the turmoil of her anxiety for her lovershe had agreed to marry him; but the perception that had accompaniedher happiest hours on this account was rather that of self-sacrificethan of promotion and honour. Although she scarcely knew thedivinity's name, Diana was the goddess whom Bathsheba instinctivelyadored. That she had never, by look, word, or sign, encouraged a manto approach her--that she had felt herself sufficient to herself,and had in the independence of her girlish heart fancied there wasa certain degradation in renouncing the simplicity of a maidenexistence to become the humbler half of an indifferent matrimonialwhole--were facts now bitterly remembered. Oh, if she had neverstooped to folly of this kind, respectable as it was, and could onlystand again, as she had stood on the hill at Norcombe, and dare Troyor any other man to pollute a hair of her head by his interference!
The next morning she rose earlier than usual, and had the horsesaddled for her ride round the farm in the customary way. When shecame in at half-past eight--their usual hour for breakfasting--shewas informed that her husband had risen, taken his breakfast, anddriven off to Casterbridge with the gig and Poppet.
After breakfast she was cool and collected--quite herself infact--and she rambled to the gate, intending to walk to anotherquarter of the farm, which she still personally superintended aswell as her duties in the house would permit, continually, however,finding herself preceded in forethought by Gabriel Oak, for whom shebegan to entertain the genuine friendship of a sister. Of course,she sometimes thought of him in the light of an old lover, and hadmomentary imaginings of what life with him as a husband would havebeen like; also of life with Boldwood under the same conditions.But Bathsheba, though she could feel, was not much given to futiledreaming, and her musings under this head were short and entirelyconfined to the times when Troy's neglect was more than ordinarilyevident.
She saw coming up the road a man like Mr. Boldwood. It was Mr.Boldwood. Bathsheba blushed painfully, and watched. The farmerstopped when still a long way off, and held up his hand to GabrielOak, who was in a footpath across the field. The two men thenapproached each other and seemed to engage in earnest conversation.
Thus they continued for a long time. Joseph Poorgrass now passednear them, wheeling a barrow of apples up the hill to Bathsheba'sresidence. Boldwood and Gabriel called to him, spoke to him for afew minutes, and then all three parted, Joseph immediately comingup the hill with his barrow.
Bathsheba, who had seen this pantomime with some surprise,experienced great relief when Boldwood turned back again. "Well,what's the message, Joseph?" she said.
He set down his barrow, and, putting upon himself the refined aspectthat a conversation with a lady required, spoke to Bathsheba over thegate.
"You'll never see Fanny Robin no more--use nor principal--ma'am."
"Why?"
"Because she's dead in the Union."
"Fanny dead--never!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What did she die from?"
"I don't know for certain; but I should be inclined to think it wasfrom general neshness of constitution. She was such a limber maidthat 'a could stand no hardship, even when I knowed her, and 'a wentlike a candle-snoff, so 'tis said. She was took bad in the morning,and, being quite feeble and worn out, she died in the evening. Shebelongs by law to our parish; and Mr. Boldwood is going to send awaggon at three this afternoon to fetch her home here and bury her."
"Indeed I shall not let Mr. Boldwood do any such thing--I shall doit! Fanny was my uncle's servant, and, although I only knew herfor a couple of days, she belongs to me. How very, very sad thisis!--the idea of Fanny being in a workhouse." Bathsheba had begun toknow what suffering was, and she spoke with real feeling.... "Sendacross to Mr. Boldwood's, and say that Mrs. Troy will take uponherself the duty of fetching an old servant of the family.... Weought not to put her in a waggon we'll get a hearse."
"There will hardly be time, ma'am, will there?"
"Perhaps not," she said, musingly. "When did you say we must be atthe door--three o'clock?"
"Three o'clock this afternoon, ma'am, so to speak it."
"Very well--you go with it. A pretty waggon is better than an uglyhearse, after all. Joseph, have the new spring waggon with the bluebody and red wheels, and wash it very clean. And, Joseph--"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Carry with you some evergreens and flowers to put upon hercoffin--indeed, gather a great many, and completely bury her inthem. Get some boughs of laurustinus, and variegated box, and yew,and boy's-love; ay, and some bunches of chrysanthemum. And let oldPleasant draw her, because she knew him so well."
"I will, ma'am. I ought to have said that the Union, in the form offour labouring men, will meet me when I gets to our churchyard gate,and take her and bury her according to the rites of the Board ofGuardians, as by law ordained."
"Dear me--Casterbridge Union--and is Fanny come to this?" saidBathsheba, musing. "I wish I had known of it sooner. I thought shewas far away. How long has she lived there?"
"On'y been there a day or two."
"Oh!--then she has not been staying there as a regular inmate?"
"No. She first went to live in a garrison-town t'other side o'Wessex, and since then she's been picking up a living at seampsteringin Melchester for several months, at the house of a very respectablewidow-woman who takes in work of that sort. She only got handy theUnion-house on Sunday morning 'a b'lieve, and 'tis supposed here andthere that she had traipsed every step of the way from Melchester.Why she left her place, I can't say, for I don't know; and as to alie, why, I wouldn't tell it. That's the short of the story, ma'am."
"Ah-h!"
No gem ever flashed from a rosy ray to a white one more rapidly thanchanged the young wife's countenance whilst this word came from herin a long-drawn breath. "Did she walk along our turnpike-road?" shesaid, in a suddenly restless and eager voice.
"I believe she did.... Ma'am, shall I call Liddy? You bain't well,ma'am, surely? You look like a lily--so pale and fainty!"
"No; don't call her; it is nothing. When did she pass Weatherbury?"
"Last Saturday night."
"That will do, Joseph; now you may go."
"Certainly, ma'am."
"Joseph, come hither a moment. What was the colour of Fanny Robin'shair?"
"Really, mistress, now that 'tis put to me so judge-and-jury like, Ican't call to mind, if ye'll believe me!"
"Never mind; go on and do what I told you. Stop--well no, go on."
She turned herself away from him, that he might no longer notice themood which had set its sign so visibly upon her, and went indoorswith a distressing sense of faintness and a beating brow. Abo
ut anhour after, she heard the noise of the waggon and went out, stillwith a painful consciousness of her bewildered and troubled look.Joseph, dressed in his best suit of clothes, was putting in the horseto start. The shrubs and flowers were all piled in the waggon, asshe had directed; Bathsheba hardly saw them now.
"Died of what? did you say, Joseph?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, ma'am, quite sure."
"Sure of what?"
"I'm sure that all I know is that she arrived in the morning and diedin the evening without further parley. What Oak and Mr. Boldwoodtold me was only these few words. 'Little Fanny Robin is dead,Joseph,' Gabriel said, looking in my face in his steady old way.I was very sorry, and I said, 'Ah!--and how did she come to die?''Well, she's dead in Casterbridge Union,' he said, 'and perhaps'tisn't much matter about how she came to die. She reached theUnion early Sunday morning, and died in the afternoon--that's clearenough.' Then I asked what she'd been doing lately, and Mr. Boldwoodturned round to me then, and left off spitting a thistle with the endof his stick. He told me about her having lived by seampstering inMelchester, as I mentioned to you, and that she walked therefrom atthe end of last week, passing near here Saturday night in the dusk.They then said I had better just name a hint of her death to you, andaway they went. Her death might have been brought on by biding inthe night wind, you know, ma'am; for people used to say she'd go offin a decline: she used to cough a good deal in winter time. However,'tisn't much odds to us about that now, for 'tis all over."
"Have you heard a different story at all?" She looked at him sointently that Joseph's eyes quailed.
"Not a word, mistress, I assure 'ee!" he said. "Hardly anybody inthe parish knows the news yet."
"I wonder why Gabriel didn't bring the message to me himself. Hemostly makes a point of seeing me upon the most trifling errand."These words were merely murmured, and she was looking upon theground.
"Perhaps he was busy, ma'am," Joseph suggested. "And sometimes heseems to suffer from things upon his mind, connected with the timewhen he was better off than 'a is now. 'A's rather a curious item,but a very understanding shepherd, and learned in books."
"Did anything seem upon his mind whilst he was speaking to you aboutthis?"
"I cannot but say that there did, ma'am. He was terrible down, andso was Farmer Boldwood."
"Thank you, Joseph. That will do. Go on now, or you'll be late."
Bathsheba, still unhappy, went indoors again. In the course of theafternoon she said to Liddy, who had been informed of the occurrence,"What was the colour of poor Fanny Robin's hair? Do you know? Icannot recollect--I only saw her for a day or two."
"It was light, ma'am; but she wore it rather short, and packed awayunder her cap, so that you would hardly notice it. But I have seenher let it down when she was going to bed, and it looked beautifulthen. Real golden hair."
"Her young man was a soldier, was he not?"
"Yes. In the same regiment as Mr. Troy. He says he knew him verywell."
"What, Mr. Troy says so? How came he to say that?"
"One day I just named it to him, and asked him if he knew Fanny'syoung man. He said, 'Oh yes, he knew the young man as well as heknew himself, and that there wasn't a man in the regiment he likedbetter.'"
"Ah! Said that, did he?"
"Yes; and he said there was a strong likeness between himself and theother young man, so that sometimes people mistook them--"
"Liddy, for Heaven's sake stop your talking!" said Bathsheba, withthe nervous petulance that comes from worrying perceptions.
