 CHAPTER 40 On Castor Bridge Highway For a considerable time the woman walked on. Her steps became feebler, and she strained her eyes to look far upon the naked road, now indistinct amid the penumbra of night. At length her onward walk dwindled to the nearest totter, and she opened a gate within which was a hay-stack. Underneath this she sat down and presently slept. When the woman awoke it was to find herself in the depths of a moonless and starless night. A heavy, unbroken crust of clouds stretched across the sky, shutting out every speck of heaven, and a distant halo which hung over the town of Castor Bridge was visible against the black concave. The luminosity, appearing the brighter by its great contrast, with the circumscribing darkness. Towards this weak, soft glow the woman turned her eyes. "'If only I could get there,' she said. "'Me them the day after to-morrow. God help me. Perhaps I shall be in my grave before then.' A manor-house clock from the far depths of shadow struck the hour one in a small, attenuated tone. After midnight the voice of a clock seems to lose in breath as much as in length, and to diminish its sonorousness to a thin falsetto. Afterwards a light, two lights arose from the remote shade, and grew larger. A carriage rolled along the road, and passed the gate. It probably contained some late diners out. The beam from one lamp shone for a moment upon the crouching woman, and threw her face into vivid relief. The face was young in the groundwork, old in the finish. The general contours were flexious and childlike, but the finer liniments had begun to be sharp and thin. The pedestrian stood up, apparently with revived determination, and looked around. The road appeared to be familiar to her, and she carefully scanned the fence as she slowly walked along. Presently there became visible a dim white shape. It was another milestone. She drew her fingers across its face to feel the marks. "'Two more,' she said. She leant against the stone as a means of rest for a short interval, then bestirred herself, and again pursued her way. For a slight distance she bore up bravely, afterwards flagging as before. This was beside a lone cops-wood, wherein heaps of white chips strewn upon the leafy ground, show that woodmen had been faggoting and making hurdles during the day. Now there was not a rustle, not a breeze, not a faintest clash of twigs to keep her company. The woman looked over the gate, opened it, and went in. Close to the entrance stood a row of faggots, bound and unbound, together with stakes of all sizes. For a few seconds the waferer stood, with that tense stillness which signifies itself not to be the end, but merely the suspension of a previous motion. Her attitude was that of a person who listens, either to the external world of sound, or to the imagined discourse of thought. A close criticism might have detected signs proving that she was intent on the latter alternative. Moreover, as was shown by what followed, she was oddly exercising the faculty of invention upon the speciality of the clever Jacques-Jos, the designer of automatic substitutes for human limbs. By the aid of the castle-bridge aurora, and by feeling with her hands, the woman selected two sticks from the heaps. These sticks were nearly straight to the height of three or four feet, where each branched into a fork like the letter Y. She sat down, snapped off the small upper twigs, and carried the remainder with her to the road. She placed one of these forks under each arm as a crutch. It tested them, timidly threw her whole weight upon them, so little that it was, and swung herself forward. The girl had made for herself a material aid. The crutches answered well, the part of her feet, and the tap of her sticks upon the highway, were all the sounds that came from the traveller now. She had passed the last milestone by a good long distance, and began to look wistfully towards the bank as if calculating upon another milestone soon. The crutches, though so very useful, had their limits of power. Mechanism only transfers labour, being powerless to supersede it, and the original amount of exertion was not cleared away. It was thrown into the body and arms. She was exhausted, and each swing forward became fainter. At last she swayed sideways and fell. Here she lay, a shapeless heap for ten minutes and more. The morning wind began to boom dully over the flats, and to move afresh dead leaves which had lain still since yesterday. The woman desperately turned round upon her knees, and next rose to her feet. Steadying herself by the help of one crutch, she essayed a step, then another, then a third, using the crutches now as walking sticks only. Thus she progressed till descending Melstock Hill, another milestone appeared, and soon the beginning of an iron railed fence came into view. She staggered across to the first post, clung to it, and looked around. The castle-bridge lights were now individually visible. It was getting towards morning, and vehicles might be hoped for, if not expected soon. She listened. There was not a sound of life, save that acme and sublimation of all dismal sounds. The bark of a fox, its three hollow notes being rendered at intervals of a minute with the precision of a funeral bell. Less than a mile, the woman murmured. No, more, she added after a pause. The mile is only to the county hall, and my resting place is on the other side of Castle-bridge. A little over a mile, and there I am. After an interval she again spoke. Five or six steps to a yard. Six perhaps. I have got to go seventeen hundred yards. A hundred times six. Six hundred. Seventeen times that. Oh, pity me, Lord! Holding to the rail she advanced, thrusting one hand forward upon the rail, then the other, then leaning over it whilst she dragged her feet on beneath. This woman was not given to soliloquy, but extremity of feeling lessens the individuality of the weak, as it increases that of the strong. She said again in the same tone, I'll believe that the end lies five posts forward, and no further, and so gets strength to pass them. This was a practical application of the principle that a half feigned and fictitious faith is better than no faith at all. She passed five posts, and held on to the fifth. I'll pass five more by believing my long first spot is at the next fifth. I can do it. She passed five more. It lies only five further. She passed five more. But it is five further. She passed them. That stone bridge is the end of my journey, she said, when the bridge over the Froome was in view. She crawled to the bridge. During the effort each breath of the woman went into the air, as if never to return again. Now for the truth of the matter, she said sitting down, and the truth is that I have less than half a mile. Self-beguilement with what she had known all the time to be false, had given her strength to come over half a mile that she would have been powerless to face in the lump. The artifice showed that the woman, by some mysterious intuition, had grasped the paradoxical truth that blindness may operate more vigorously than prescience, and the short-sighted effect more than the far-seeing, that limitation and not comprehensiveness is needed for striking a blow. A half-mile now stood before the sick and weary woman like a stolid juggernaut. It was an impassive king of her world. The road here ran across Dernovermoor, open to the road on either side. She surveyed the wide space, the lights, herself, side and lay down against the guard-stone of the bridge. Never was ingenuity exercised so sorely as that traveller here exercised hers. Every conceivable aid, method, stratagem, mechanism, by which these last desperate eight hundred yards could be overpassed by a human being unperceived, was resolved in her busy brain, and dismissed as impracticable. She thought of sticks, wheels, crawling, she even thought of rolling, but the exertion demanded by either of these latter two was greater than to walk erect. The faculty of contrivance was worn out. Hopelessness had come at last. No further. She whispered and closed her eyes. From the stripe of shadow on the opposite side of the bridge a portion of shade seemed to detach itself and move into isolation upon the pale white of the road. It glided noiselessly towards the recumbent woman. She became conscious of something touching her hand. It was softness, and it was warmth. She opened her eyes, and the substance touched her face. A dog was licking her cheek. He was a huge, heavy, and quiet creature, standing darkly against the low horizon, and at least two feet higher than the present position of her eyes. Whether Newfoundland, Mastiff, Bloodhound, or what not, it was impossible to say. He seemed to be of too strange and mysterious in nature to belong to any variety among those of popular nomenclature. Being thus assignable to no breed, he was the ideal embodiment of canine greatness, a generalization from what was common to all. Night, in its sad, solemn, and benevolent aspect, apart from its stealthy and cruel side, was personified in this form. Darkness endows the small and ordinary ones among mankind with poetical power, and even the suffering woman threw her idea into figure. In her reclining position she looked up to him, just as in earlier time she had, when standing, looked up to a man. The animal, who was as homeless as she, respectfully withdrew a step or two when the woman moved, and seeing that she did not repulse him, he licked her hand again. A thought moves within her like lightning. Perhaps I can make use of him. I might do it then. She pointed in the direction of Castor Ridge, and the dog seemed to misunderstand. He trotted on. Then, finding she could not follow, he came back and whined. The ultimate and saddest singularity of woman's effort and invention was reached when, with a quickened breathing, she rose to a stooping posture, and resting her two little arms upon the shoulders of the dog, lent firmly thereon, and murmured stimulating words. Whilst she sorrowed in her heart, she cheered with her voice, and what was stranger than that a strong should need encouragement from the weak, was that cheerfulness should be so well stimulated by such uttered ejection. Her friend moved forward slowly, and she, with small, mincing steps, moved forward beside him, half her weight being thrown upon the animal. Sometimes she sank as she had sunk from walking erect, from the crutches, from the rails. The dog, who now thoroughly understood her desire and her incapacity, was frantic in his distress on these occasions. He would tug at her dress and run forward. She always called him back, and it was now to be observed that the woman listened for human sounds only to avoid them. It was evident that she had an object in keeping her presence on the road, and her forlorn state unknown. That progress was necessarily very slow. They reached the bottom of the town, and the castle-bridge lamps lay before them, like fallen play-ads, as they turned to the left into the dense shade of a deserted avenue of chestnuts, and so skirted the burrow. Thus the town was passed, and the goal was reached. On this much-desired spot outside the town rose a picturesque building. Originally, it had been a mere case to hold people. The shell had been so thin, so devoid of extraessence, and so closely drawn over the accommodation granted that the grim character of what was beneath showed through it, as the shape of a body is visible under a winding sheet. Then nature, as if offended, lent a hand. Masses of ivy grew up completely covering the walls, till the place looked like a nabby, and it was discovered that the view from the front, over the castle-bridge chimneys, was one of the most magnificent in the county. A neighbouring earl once said that he would give up a year's rental to have, at his own door, the view enjoyed by the inmates from theirs, and very probably the inmates would have given up the view for his year's rental. This stone edifice consisted of a central mass and two wings, whereon stood a sentinel's a few slim chimneys, now gurgling sorrowfully to the slow wind. In the wall was a gate, and by the gate a bell-pole formed of a hanging wire. The woman raised herself as high as possible upon her knees, and could just reach the handle. She moved it, and fell forwards in a bowed attitude, her face upon her bosom. It was getting on towards six o'clock, and sounds of movement were to be heard inside the building, which was the haven of rest to this wearied soul. A little door by the large one was opened, and a man appeared inside. He discerned the panting-heap of clothes, went back for a light, and came again. He entered a second time, and returned with two women. These lifted the prostrate figure, and assisted her in through the doorway. The man then closed the door. How did she get here? said one of the women. The Lord knows, said the other. There's a dog outside. murmured the overcomeed traveller. Where is he gone? He helped me. I stoned him away, said the man. The little procession then moved forward, the man in front bearing the light, the two bony women next supporting between them the small and supple one. Thus they entered the house, and disappeared. End of CHAPTER XXXI Bathsheba said very little to her husband all that evening, or the return from market, and he was not disposed to say much to her. He exhibited the unpleasant combination of a restless condition with a silent tongue. The next day, which was Sunday, passed nearly in the same manner as regarded their taciturnity, Bathsheba going to church both morning and afternoon. This was the day before the Budmouth races. 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 wanted badly. The anxiety upon Troy's face was unusual and very marked. It was a culmination of the mood he had been in all the day. Ah, for those races to-morrow. Troy, for the moment, made no reply. Her mistake had its advantages to a man who shrank from having his mind inspected as he did now. Well, suppose I do want it for the races, he said at last. Oh, Frank! Bathsheba replied, and there was such a volume of entreaty in the words. Only such a few weeks ago you said that I was far sweeter than all your other pleasures put together, and that you would give them all up for me, and now you won't give up this one which is more a worry than a pleasure. Do, Frank, come. Let me 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 your wife. Say yes. The tenderest and softest phases of Bathsheba's nature were prominent now, advanced impulsively for his acceptance without any of the disguises and offences, which the weariness of her character, when she was cool, too frequently threw over them. Few men could have resisted the arch yet dignified entreaty of the beautiful face, thrown a little back and sideways in the well-known attitude that expresses more than the words it accompanies, and which seems to have been designed for these special occasions. Had the woman not been his wife, Troy would have succumbed instantly. As it was, he thought he would 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 these mysterious responsibilities, Frank? Troy hesitated. He did not now love her enough to allow himself to be carried too far by her ways, yet it was necessary to be civil. You wronged me by such a suspicious manner, he said. Such straight waist-coating as you treat me to is not becoming in you at so early 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 proceeded a latter. Bathsheba, fun is all very well, but don't go too far, or you may have caused to regret something. She readened. I do that already, she said quickly. What do you regret? That my romance has come to an end. The old romance has ended at marriage. I wish you wouldn't talk like that. You grieve me to my soul by being smart at my expense. You are dull enough at mine. I believe you hate me. Not you. Only your faults. I do hate them. It would 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 for household expenses. If you must have it, take it. Very good. Thank you. I expect I shall have gone away before you are into breakfast tomorrow. And must you go? Ah, there was a time, Frank, when it would have taken 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 how my days are past now. I must go, in spite of sentiment. Try, as he spoke, looked at his watch, and apparently actuated by non-luchendo principles, opened the case at the back, revealing snugly stowed within it a small coil of hair. But she, besides, had been accidentally lifted at that moment, and she saw the action, and she saw the hair. She flushed in pain and surprise, and some words escaped her before she had thought whether or not it was wise to utter them. A woman's curl of hair, she said. Oh, Frank, who's is that? Troy had instantly closed his watch. He carelessly replied, as one who cloaks from feelings that the sight had stirred. Why, yours, of course. Whose should it be? I had quite forgotten that I had it. What a dreadful fib, Frank. I'd 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? I want to know. Very well. I'll tell you. So make no more ado. It is the hair of a young 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 awful affliction. An affliction? What affliction? he inquired quickly. Having hair of that dreadful colour. Ho, ho, I like that, said Troy, recovering himself. Why, her hair has been admired by everybody who's seen her since she has worn it loose, which has not been long. It is beautiful hair. People used to turn their heads to look at it, poor girl. That's nothing. That's nothing, she exclaimed in incipient accents of peak. If I cared for your love so much as I used to, I could say people had turned to look at mine. Bathsheba, don't be so fitful and jealous. You knew what married life would be like, and shouldn't have entered it if you fear these contingencies. Troy had by this time driven her to bitterness. Her heart was big in her throat, and the ducts to her eyes were painfully full. Ashamed as she was to show emotion, at last she burst out. This is all I get for loving you so well. Ah, when I married you, your life was dearer to me than my own. I would have died for you. How truly I can say that I would have died for you. And now you sneer at my foolishness in marrying you. Oh, is it kind to me to throw my mistake in my face? Whatever opinion you may have of my wisdom, you should not tell me it so mercilessly, now that I am in your power. I can't help how things fall out, said Troy. Upon my heart, women will be the death of me. While 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 considerations, even before my consideration, for you. Reparations to be made, ties you know nothing of. If you repent of marrying, so do I. Trembling now, she put her hand upon his arm, saying, in mingled tones of wretchedness and coaxing. I only repented, if you don't love me better than any woman in the world. I don't otherwise, Frank. You don't repent because you already love somebody better than 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 pretty hair. Yes, it is pretty, more beautiful than my miserable black mane. Well, it's no use. I can't help being ugly. You must like her best, if you will. Until today, when I took it from a drawer, I have never looked upon that bit of hair for several months. That I am ready to swear. But just now you said, ties, and then that woman we met. It was the meeting with her that reminded me of the hair. Is it hers, then? Yes. There. Now that you have warmed it out of me, I hope you are content. And what are the ties? Oh, that meant nothing. A mere jest. A mere jest, she said, in mournful astonishment. Can you jest when I am so wretchedly and earnest? Tell me the truth, Frank. I am not a fool, you know. Although I am a woman, and have my woman's moments. Come, treat me fairly, she said, looking honestly and fearlessly into his face. I don't want much. Bare justice. That's all. Ah, once I felt I could be content with nothing less than the highest homage from the husband I should choose. Now, anything short of cruelty will content me. Yes, the independent and spirited Bathsheba has come to this. Bar heaven's sake, don't be so desperate! said Troy 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 she determined to repress all evidences of feeling. She was conquered, but she would never own it as long as she lived. Her pride was indeed brought low by despairing discoveries of her spoilation by marriage with a less pure nature than her own. She chafed to and fro in rebelliousness, like a caged leopard. Her whole soul was in arms, and the blood fired her face. Until she had met Troy Bathsheba had been proud of her position as a woman. It had been a glory to her to know that her lips had been touched by no man's on earth, that her waist had never been encircled by a lover's arm. She hated herself now. In those earlier days she had always nourished a secret contempt for girls who were the slaves of the first good-looking young fellow who should choose to salute them. She had never taken kindly to the idea of marriage in the abstract, as did the majority of women she saw about her. In the turmoil of her anxiety for her lover she had agreed to marry him, but the perception that had accompanied her happiest hours on this account was rather that of self-sacrifice than of promotion and honour. Although she scarcely knew the divinity's name, Diana was the goddess whom Bathsheba instinctively adored. That she had never, by luck, word or sign, encouraged a man to approach her, that she had felt herself sufficient to herself, and had in the independence of her girlish heart fancied there was a certain degradation in renouncing the simplicity of a maiden existence, to become the humbler half of an indifferent matrimonial whole, where facts now bitterly remembered. Oh, if she had never stooped to folly of this kind, respectable as it was, and could only stand again as she had stood on the hill at Norcombe, and dare Troy or any other man to pollute a hair of her head by his interference. The next morning she arose earlier than usual, and had the horse saddle for her ride round the farm in the customary way. When she came in at half-past eight, the usual hour for breakfasting, she was informed that her husband had risen, taken his breakfast, and driven off to Castlebridge with the gig and poppet. After breakfast she was cool and collected, quite herself, in fact, and she rambled to the gate, intending to walk to another quarter of the farm, which she still personally superintendent as well as her duties in the house would permit, continually, however, finding herself preceded in forethought by Gabriel Oak, for whom she had began to entertain the genuine friendship of a sister. Of course she sometimes thought of him in the light of an old lover, and had momentary imaginings of what life with him as a husband would have been like. Also of life with Bouldwood under the same conditions. But Bathsheba, though she could feel, was not much given to futile dreaming, and her musings under this head were short and entirely confined to the times when Troy's neglect was more than ordinarily evident. She saw coming up the road a man like Mr. Bouldwood. It was Mr. Bouldwood. Bathsheba blushed painfully and watched. The farmer stopped went still a long way off, and held up his hand to Gabriel Oak, who was in a footpath across the field. The two men then approached each other, and seemed to engage in earnest conversation. Thus they continued for a long time. Joseph Porgrass now passed near them, wheeling a barrel of apples up the hill to Bathsheba's residence. Bouldwood and Gabriel called to him, spoke to him for a few minutes, and then all three parted, Joseph immediately coming up the hill with his barrel. Bathsheba, who had seen this pantomime with some surprise, experienced great relief when Bouldwood turned back again. Well, what's the message, Joseph? She said. He set down his barrel, and putting upon himself the refined aspect that a conversation with a lady required spoke to Bathsheba over the gate. You'll never see Fanny Robber no more. Use not principle, 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 was from general nishness of constitution. She was such a limbermaid, and it could stand no hardship, even when I know her. And I went like a candle-snuff, so to say. She was took bad in the morning, and, being quite feeble, and worn out, she died in the evening. She belongs by law to our parish, and Mr. Bouldwood is going to send a wagon at three this afternoon to fetch her home here, and bury her. Indeed, I shall not let Mr. Bouldwood do any such thing. I shall do it. Fanny was my uncle servant, and although I only knew her for a couple of days, she belongs to me. How very, very sad this is! The idea of Fanny being in a work-house. Bathsheba had begun to know what suffering was, and she spoke with real feeling. Send across to Mr. Bouldwoods to say that Mrs. Troy will take upon herself the duty of fetching an old servant of the family. We ought not to put her in a wagon. We'll get a hearse. There will hardly be any time, ma'am. Will there? Perhaps not, she said musingly. When did you say we must be at the door, three o'clock? Three o'clock this afternoon, ma'am, so to speak. Very well. You go with it. A pretty wagon is better than an ugly hearse, after all. Joseph, have the new spring wagon with the blue body and red wheels, and wash it very clean. And Joseph? Yes, ma'am. Carry with you some evergreens and flowers to put upon her coffin. Indeed, gather a great many, and completely bury her in them. Get some boughs of loristines, and variegated box, and you, and boys' love, I, and some bunches of chrysanthemum, and let old Pleasant draw her, because she knew him so well. I will, ma'am. We ought to have said that a union, in the form of four labourer men, will meet me when I get to our shortchart gate, and take her and bury her according to the rites of the board of guardians, as by law ordained. Dear me, cast a bridge union, and if Fanny come to this, said Bathsheba musing, I wish I had known it sooner. I thought she was far away. How long has she lived there? Only been 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 to the south of Essex, and since then she has picked up a living at Seamstring, in Melchester, for several months, at the house of a very respectable widow-woman who takes in work of that sort. She only got handy the union-house on Sunday morning, I believe, and to suppose here and there 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 a lie, why I wouldn't tell it. That's the short of the story, ma'am. Ah! No gem ever flashed from a rosy ray to a white one more rapidly, than changed the young wife's countenance whilst this word came from her in a long, drawn breath. Did she walk along our turnpike road? She said in a suddenly restless and eager voice. I believe she did. Ma'am, shall I call Lily. You paint well, ma'am, surely. You look like a Lily, so pale and feinty. No, don't call her, it is nothing. When did she pass Wetherbury? Last Saturday night. That'll do, Joseph. Now you may go. Certainly, ma'am. Joseph, come hither a moment. What was the colour of Fanny Robin's hair? Really, Mistress, now that it's put to me so judge-and-jury-like, I can't call to mind if you'll believe me. Never mind. Go on and do what I told you. Stop. Well, well, no. Go on. She turned herself away from him, that he might no longer notice the mood which had set its sign so visibly upon her, and went indoors with a distressing sense of faintness and a beating brow. About an hour after, she heard the noise of the wagon and went out, still with a painful consciousness of her bewildered and troubled look. Joseph, dressed in his best suit of clothes, was putting in the horse to start. The shrubs and flowers were all piled in the wagon as she had erected, but she by hardly saw them now. Who's sweetheart, did you say, Joseph? I don't know, ma'am. Are you quite sure? Yes, ma'am, quite sure. You're sure of what? I'm sure that all I know is that she arrived in the morning and died in the evening, without further parry. What all come Mr. Baldwin told me was only these few words. Little Fanny Robin is dead, Joseph. Gabriel said, looking in my face in this steady old way. I was very sorry, and I said, Ah, and how did she come to die? Well, she's dead in Castlebridge Union, he said, and perhaps tis a much matter about how she came to die. She reached the Union early Sunday morning and died in the afternoon. That's clear enough. Then I asked what she'd been doing lately, and Mr. Baldwin turned round to me then. He let off spitting a tistle with the end of his stick. He told me about a haven lived by same string in Melchester, as I mentioned to you, and that she walked there from at the 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, and the way they went. Her death might have been brought on by Biden in the night wind, you know, ma'am. For people used to say she'd go off on a decline. She used to cough a good deal in the wintertime. However, tis a much odds to us about that now, for it is all over. Have you heard a different story at all? She looked at him so intently that Joseph's eyes quailed. Not a word mistress, I assure you, he said. Hardly anybody in the parish knows the news yet. I wonder why Gabriel didn't bring the message to me himself. He mostly makes a point of seeing me upon the most trifling errand. These words were merely murmured, and she was looking upon the ground. Perhaps he was busy, ma'am, Joseph suggested, and sometimes he seems to suffer from tingues upon his mind, connected with a time when he was better off than he is now. He's rather curious o' him, but a very understanding shepherd, and learned in books. Did anything seem upon his mind whilst he was speaking to you about this? I cannot but say that I did, ma'am. He was terrible down, and so was Farmer Bouldwood. Thank you, Joseph, that will do. Go on, now, or you'll be late. Bathsheba, still unhappy, went in doors again. In the course of the afternoon she said to Liddy, who had been informed of the occurrence, What was the colour of poor Fanny Robbins' hair? Do you know? I cannot recollect. I only saw her for a day or two. It was light, ma'am, but she wore it rather short, and packed away under a cap, so that you would hardly notice it, while you'd seen her let her hair down when she was going to bed. And it looked beautiful, then, real golden hair. Oh, young man was a soldier, was he not? Yes, in the same regiment as Mr. Troy. He says he knew him very well. 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's young man. He said, oh yes, he knew the young man as well as he knew himself, and that there wasn't a man in the regiment he liked better. Ha! said that, did he? Yes, and he said there was a strong lightness between himself and the other young man, so that sometimes people mistook them. Liddy, for heaven's sake, stop your talking, said Bathsheba, with a nervous petulance that comes from worrying perceptions. End of CHAPTER 41 A wall bound to the site of Casperbridge Union House, except along a portion of the end. Here a high gable stood prominent, and it was covered like the front with a mat of ivy. In this gable was no window, chimney, ornament, or perturbance of any kind. The single feature appertaining to it, beyond the expanse of dark green leaves, was a small door. The situation of the door was peculiar. The sill was three or four feet above the ground, and for a moment one was at a loss for an explanation of this exception and altitude, till ruts immediately beneath suggested that the door was used solely for the passage of articles and persons to and from the level of a vehicle standing on the outside. Upon the hole the door seemed to advertise itself as a species of traitor's gate translated to another sphere. That entry and exit hereby was only at rare intervals, became apparent on noting that tufts of grass were allowed to flourish on the stirrups and the chinks of the sill. As the clock over the South Street Arms House pointed to five minutes to three, a blue spring wagon, picked out with red and containing boughs of flowers, passed the end of the street, and up towards this side of the building. Whilst the chimes were yet stammering out a shattered form of Malbrook, Joseph Porgras rang the bell, and received directions to back his wagon against the high door under the gable. The door then opened, and a plain elm coffin was slowly thrust forth, and laid by two men in fustian along the middle of the vehicle. One of the men then stepped up beside it, took from his pocket a lump of chalk, and wrote upon the cover the name and a few other words in a large, scrawling hand. We believe that they do these things more tenderly now, and provide a plate. He covered the hole with a black cloth, threadbare but decent. The tailboard of the wagon was returned to its place. One of the men handed a certificate of registry to Porgras, and both entered the door, closing it behind them. Their connection with her, short as it had been, was over for ever. Joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and the evergreens around the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the wagon contained. He smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral-car crept down the hill, and along the road to Wetherbury. The afternoon drew on a pace, and looking to the right towards the sea, as he walked beside the horse, Porgras saw strange clouds and scrolls of mist rolling over the long ridges which geared the landscape in that quarter. They came in yet greater volumes, and indolently crept across the intervening valleys, and around the withered papery flags of the moor and river-brinks. Then their dank spongy forms closed in upon the sky. It was a sudden overgrowth of atmospheric fungi which had their roots in the neighbouring sea, and by the time that horse, man, and corpse entered Yalbury Great Wood, these silent workings of an invisible hand had reached them, and they were completely enveloped, this being the first arrival of the autumn fogs, and the first fog of the series. The air was as an eye suddenly struck blind. The wagon and its load rolled no longer on the horizontal division between clearness and opacity, but were embedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallor throughout. There was no perceptible motion in the air, not a visible drop of water fell upon a leaf in the beaches, birches, and furs composing the wood on either side. The trees stood in an attitude of intentness, as if they waited longingly for a wind to come and rock them. A startling quiet overhung all surrounding things, so completely that the crunching of the wagon-wheels was as a great noise, and small rustles which had never obtained a hearing except by night, were distinctly individualized. Joseph Porgras looked round upon his sad burden as it loomed faintly through the flowering lorestines, then at the unfathomable bloom, amid the high trees on each hand, indistinct, shadowless, and specter-like, in their monochrome of grey. He felt anything but cheerful, and wished he had the company of even a child or dog. Stopping the horse, he listened. Not a footstep or wheel was audible anywhere around, and the dead silence was broken only by a heavy particle, falling from a tree through the evergreens, and alighting with a smart wrap upon the coffin of poor Fanny. The fog had by this time saturated the trees, and this was the first dropping of water from the overbrimming leaves. The hollow echo of its fall reminded the wagoner painfully of the grim leveller. Then, hard by, came down another drop, then two or three. Presently there was a continual tapping of these heavy drops upon the dead leaves, the road, and the travellers. The nearby boughs were beaded with a mist to the greyness of aged men, and the rusty red leaves of the beaches were hung with similar drops, like diamonds and arbor and hair. At the roadside hamlet called Roytown, just beyond this wood, was the old inn, Buck's Head. It was about a mile and a half from Weatherbury, and in the meridian times of stagecoach travelling had been the place where many coaches changed and kept their relays of horses. All the old stabbling was now pulled down, and little remained, besides the habitable inn itself, which, standing a little way back from the road, signified its existence to people far up and down the highway by a sign, hanging from the horizontal bow of an elm on the opposite side of the way. Travellers, for the variety tourists had hardly developed into a distinct species at this state, sometimes said in passing, when they cast their eyes up to the sign-bearing tree, that artists were fond of representing the sign-board hanging thus, but that they themselves had never before noticed so perfect an instance in actual working order. It was near this tree that the wagon was standing, into which Gabriel Oak crept on his first journey to Weatherbury, but owing to the darkness, the sign and the inn had been unobserved. The manners of the inn were of the old established type. Indeed, in the minds of its frequenters they existed as an alterable formulae. Example. Wrap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor. For tobacco, shout. In calling for the girl in waiting, say, made. Ditto for the landlady, old soul, etc., etc. It was a relief to Joseph's heart when the friendly sign-board came in view, and stopping this horse immediately beneath it, he proceeded to fulfil an intention made a long time before. His spirits were oozing out of him quite. He turned the horse's head to the green bank, and entered the hostel for a mug of ale. Going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floor of which was a step below the passage, which in its turn was a step below the road outside, what should Joseph see to gladden his eyes but two copper-coloured discs in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the two most appreciative throats in the neighbourhood, within the pale of respectability, were now sitting face to face over a three-legged circular table, having an iron rim to keep the cups and pots from being accidentally elbowed off. They might have been said to resemble the setting sun and the full moon shining vis-a-vis across the globe. Right, his neighbour, poor grass, said Mark Clark. I am sure your face don't praise your mistress's table, Joseph. We had a very pale companion for the last four miles, said Joseph, indulging in a shutter toned down by resignation. And to speak the truth it was beginning to tell upon me. I assure you I hadn't seen the colour of victuals or drinks since breakfast time this morning, and that was no more than a jubbit of field. Then drink, Joseph, and don't restrain yourself, said Coggan, handing him a hooped mug three-quarters full. Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then for a longer time, saying as he lowered a jug, to his pretty drinking, very pretty drinking, and is more than cheerful on my melancholy earnt, so to speak it. True, drink is a pleasant delight, said Jan, as one who repeated a truism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed his passage over his tongue. And lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his head gradually backwards, with eyes closed, that his expectant soul might not be diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevant surroundings. Well, I must be on again, said poor grass. Not but I should like another nippity, but the parish might lose confidence in me if I was seated here. Where you be trading after today, then, Joseph? Back to Wetherbury. I got poor little fanny robin in my wagon outside, and I must be at the churchyard gate at a quarter to five with her. Ah, I've heard of her. And so she's nailed up on parish boards after all. And nobody to pay the bell-chillin and the grave half-crown? The parish pays the grave half-crown, but not the bell-chillin, because the bell's a luxury. But I can't hardly do without a grave, poor body. However, I expect our mistress will pay all. I pre-made as ever I see. But watch your hurry, Joseph! The poor woman's dead, and you can't bring her back to life, and you may as well sit down comfortable and finish another with us. I don't mind taking just the least timbreful you can dream of more witty sunnies, but only a few minutes, because tears are the tears. Of course you'll have another drop. A man's twist a man afterwards. You feel so warm and glorious. And your whop and slap at your work without any trouble, and everything goes on like sticks are breaking. Too much liquor is bad, and leads us to that horned man in the smoky house. But after all, many people having the gift of enjoying away, and since we'd be highly favoured with a power that way, we should make the most of it. True, said Mark Clark, to their talent the Lord has mercifully bestowed upon us, and we ought not to neglect it. But what were the Parsons and the Clarks and school-people and serious tea-parties, the merry old ways of good life have gone to the dogs, upon which carcass they have? Well, really, I must be onward again now, said Joseph. Now, now, Joseph, nonsense. The poor woman is dead, isn't she? And what's your hurry? Well, I hope Providence won't be in a way with me for my doings, said Joseph, sitting down again. I've been troubled with weak moments lately. It's true. I've been drinky once this month already, and I did not go to church a Sunday, and I dropped a course or two yesterday, so I don't want to go too far from my safety. Your next world is your next world, and not to be squandered offhand. I believe you to be a chaplain member, Joseph, that I do. Oh, no, no, I don't go so far as that. For my part, said Coggin, I am staunch Church of England. I am faith so be I, said Mark Clark. I won't say much for myself. We don't wish to, Coggin continued, with a tendency to talk on principles which is characteristic of the barley-corn. But I've never changed a single doctrine. I have stuck like a plaster to the old faith of his born-in. Yes, there's this to be said for the church. A man can belong to the church, and Biden is cheerful old in, and never trouble or worry his mind about doctrines at all. But to be a meet-nger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, and make yourself as frantic as a skit. Not but the chapel members be clever-chaps enough in their way. They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, all about their families and shipwrecks in the newspaper. They can, they can, said Mark Clark, with corroborative feeling. But we churchmen, you see, must have it all printed a forehand, or dang it all, we should no more know what to say to a great gaffer like the Lord and babes unborn. Chapel folk be more hand and love with them above than we, said Joseph thoughtfully. Yes, said Coggin. We know very well that if anybody do go to heaven they will. They've worked hard for it, and they deserve to have it, such as tis. I've been such a fool as to pretend that we who stick to the church have the same chance as they, because we know we have not. But I hate a fellow who changes old ancient doctrines for the sake of getting to heaven. I'd as soon turn king's evidence for the few pounds you get. My neighbours, when every one of my teeties were frosted, our parson thirdly were the man who gave me a sack for seed, though he hardly had one for his own use, and no money to buy him. If it hadn't been for him, I shouldn't have had a teetie to put in my garden. Do you think I'd turn after that? No. I'll stick to my side, and if we be in the wrong, so be it. I'll fall with the fallen. Well said. Very well said, observed Joseph. However, folks, I must be moving on now, upon my life I must. Parson thirdly be waiting at the church gates, and there's a woman abiding outside in the wagon. Joseph Porgrass, don't be so miserable. Parson thirdly won't mind. He's a generous man. He's found me in tracts for years, and I've consumed a good many in the course of a long and shady life, but he's never been the man to cry out at the expense. Sit down. The longer Joseph Porgrass remained, the less his spirit was troubled by the duties which devolved upon him this afternoon. The minutes glided by uncounted, until the evening shades began perceptibly to deepen, and the eyes of the tree were but sparkling points on the surface of darkness. Coggin's repeater struck six from his pocket in the usual still small tones. At that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry, and the door opened to admit the figure of Gabriel Oak, followed by the maid of the inn bearing a candle. He stared sternly at the one lengthy and two round faces of the sitters, which confronted him with the expressions of a fiddle and a couple of warming pans. Joseph Porgrass blinked and shrank several inches into the background. Upon my soul I'm ashamed of you. Tis disgraceful, Joseph. Disgraceful! said Gabriel indignantly. Coggin, call yourself a man, and don't know better than this. Coggin looked up indefinitely at Oak, one or other of his eyes occasionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it were not a member, but a dosy individual with a distinct personality. Don't take on so shepherd, said Mark Clark, looking reproachfully at the candle, which appeared to possess special features of interest for his eyes. Nobody could hurt a dead woman, at length, said Coggin, with the precision of a machine. All that could be done for her is done. She's beyond us, and why should a man put himself in a tear and hurry for life's clay that can neither fail nor see, and don't know what you'd do with her at all? If she'd been alive, I would have been the first to help her. If she now wanted victuals and drinks, I'd pay for it, money down. But she's dead, and no speed of hours will bring her to life. The woman's past us, time spent upon her, is throwed away. Why should we hurry to do what's not required? Drink, shepherd, and be friends, for to-morrow we may be like her. We may, added Mark Clark emphatically at once drinking himself, to run no further risk of losing his chance by the event alluded to, Jan meanwhile merging his additional thoughts of to-morrow in a song. To-morrow, to-morrow, and while peace and plenty I find at my board, with a heart free from sickness and sorrow, with my friends I will share what today may afford, and let them spread the table to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow. Do hold thy horning, Jan, said oak, and turning upon poor grass. As for you, Joseph, who do your wicked deeds in such confoundedly holy ways, you are as drunk as you can stand. No, shepherd oak, no, listen to reason, shepherd. All that's the matter with me is the affliction called a multiply an eye. And that's how it is I look double to you, I mean you look double to me. A multiply an eye is a very bad thing, said Mark Clark. It always comes on when I've been in a public house a little time, said Joseph poor grass meekly. Yes, I see two of every sort, as if I were some holy man living in the times of King Noah and entering to the ark. Yes, he added, becoming much affected by the picture of himself as a person thrown away, and shedding tears. I feel too good for England. I ought to have lived in Genesis by right, like the other men of sacrifice, and then I shouldn't have been called a drunkard in such a way. I wish it show yourself a man of spirit, and not sit whining there. Show myself a man of spirit? Ah, well, let me take the name of drunkard humbly, and let me be a man of contrite knees, let it be. I know that I do always say, please God, before I do anything. From my getting up to my going down are the same, and I'd be willing to take as much disgrace as there is in that holy act. Ha, yes, but not a man of spirit. Have I ever allowed a toe of pride to be lifted against my hindre parts, without groaning manfully that I questioned the right to do so? I inquired a query boldly. We can say that you have, hero poor grass, admitted John. Never have I allowed such treatment to pass unquestioned, yet the shepherd says in the face of that rich testimony, that it be not a man of spirit. Well, let it pass by, and death is a kind friend. Gabriel seeing that neither of the three was in a fit state to take charge of the wagon for the remainder of the journey made no reply, but closing the door again upon them went across to where their vehicle stood, now getting in distinct in the fog and gloom of this mildewy time. He pulled the horse's head from the large patch of turf it had eaten bare, readjusted the boughs over the coffin, and drove along through the unwholesome night. It had gradually become rumoured in the village that the body to be brought and buried that day was all that was left of the unfortunate Fanny Robin, who had followed the eleventh from Castlebridge through Melchester and onwards. But, thanks to Bouldwood's reticence and oak's generosity, the lover she had followed had never been individualised as Troy. Gabriel hoped that the whole truth of the matter might not be published till at any rate the girl had been in her grave for a few days, when the interposing barriers of earth and time, and the sense that the events had been so much shut into oblivion, were dead in the sting that revelation and invidious remark would have for Bathsheba just now. By the time that Gabriel reached the old manor house, her residence, which lay in his way to the church, it was quite dark. A man came from the gate and said through the fog, which hung between them like blown flower. Is that progress with the corpse? Gabriel recognised the voice as that of the parson. The corpse is here, sir, said Gabriel. I had just been to inquire of Mrs. Troy if she could tell me the reason for the delay. I am afraid it is too late now for the funeral to be performed with proper decency. Have you the registrar's certificate? No, said Gabriel. I expect Porgrass has that, and he is at the book's head. I forgot to ask him for it. Then that settles the matter. We'll put off the funeral till tomorrow morning. The body may be brought onto the church, or it may be left here at the farm, and fetched by the bearers in the morning. They waited more than an hour and have now gone home. Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter a most objectionable plan, notwithstanding that Fanny had been an inmate of the farmhouse, for several years in the lifetime of that shebe's uncle. Visions of several unhappy contingencies, which might arise from this delay, flitted before him. But his will was not law, and he went indoors to inquire of his mistress. What were her wishes on the subject? He found her in an unusual mood. Her eyes, as she looked up to him, were suspicious and perplexed, as with some antecedent thought. Troy had not yet returned. At first Bathsheba assented with a mienne of indifference to his proposition that they should go on to the church at once with their burden. But immediately afterwards, following Gabriel to the gate, she swerved to the extreme of solicitude-ness on Fanny's account, and desired that the girl might be brought into the house. Oak argued upon the convenience of leaving her in the wagon, just as she lay now with her flowers and green leaves about her, merely wheeling the vehicle into the coach-house till the morning, but to no purpose. It is unkind and un-Christian, she said, to leave the poor thing in the coach-house all night. Very well, then, said the parson, and I will arrange that the funeral shall take place early to-morrow. Perhaps Mrs. Troy is right in feeling that we cannot treat a dead fellow-creature too thoughtfully. We must remember that though she may have erred grievously in leaving her home, she is still our sister, and it is to be believed that God's uncovenanted mercies are extended towards her and that she is a member of the flock of Christ. The parson's words spread into the heavy air with a sad yet unperturbed cadence, and Gabriel shed an honest tear. Bathsheba seemed unmoved. Mr. Thirdly then left them, and Gabriel lighted a lantern. Fetching three other men to a system, they bore the unconscious, truant indoors, placing the coffin on two benches in the middle of the little sitting-room next to the hall, as Bathsheba directed. Everyone except Gabriel Oak then left the room. He still indecisively lingered beside the body. He was deeply troubled at the wretchedly ironical aspect that circumstances were putting on with regard to Troy's wife, and at his own powerlessness to counteract them. In spite of his careful manoeuvring all this day, the very worst event that could in any way have happened in connection with the burial had happened now. Oak imagined a terrible discovery resulting from this afternoon's work that might cast over Bathsheba's life a shade which the interposition of many lapsing years might but indifferently lighten, and which nothing at all might altogether remove. Suddenly, as in a last attempt to save Bathsheba from, at any rate, immediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked before, at the chalk writing upon the coffin-lid. The scroll was this simple one—Fanny Robin and Child. Gabriel took his handkerchief, and carefully rubbed out the two latter words, leaving visible the inscription, Fanny Robin only. He then left the room and went out quietly by the front door. Do you want me any longer, ma'am? inquired Liddy, at a later hour that same evening, standing by the door with the chamber candle-stick in her hand, and addressing Bathsheba, who sat cheerless and alone in the large parlour beside the first fire of the season. No more to-night, Liddy. I'll sit up for master, if you like, ma'am. I'm not at all afraid of Fanny, if I may sit in my own room and have a candle. She was such a childlike, nest-young thing that her spirit couldn't appear to anybody if it tried, and quite sure. Oh, no, no, you go to bed. I'll sit up for myself till twelve o'clock, and if he is not arrived by that time I shall give him up and go to bed, too. Is that past ten now? Oh, is it? Why don't you sit upstairs, ma'am? Why don't I? said Bathsheba, desultorily. It isn't worthwhile. There's a fire here, Liddy. She suddenly exclaimed in an impulsive and excited whisper. Have you heard anything strange, said of Fanny? The words had no sooner escaped her than an expression of unalterable regret crossed her face, and she burst into tears. No, not a word, said Liddy, looking at the weeping woman with astonishment. What is it makes you cry so, ma'am? Has anything hurt you? She came to Bathsheba's side with a face full of sympathy. No, Liddy, I don't want you any more. I can hardly say why I have taken to crying lately. I never used to cry. Good night. Liddy then left the parlour and closed the door. Bathsheba was lonely and miserable now, not lonelier actually than she had been before her marriage, but her loneliness then was to that of the present time as the solitude of a mountain is to the solitude of a cave, and within the last day or two had come these disquieting thoughts about her husband's past. Her wayward sentiment that evening concerning Fanny's temporary resting-place had been the result of a strange complication of impulses in Bathsheba's bosom. Perhaps it would be more accurately described as a determined rebellion against her prejudices, a revulsion from a lower instinct of uncharitableness, which would have wepheld all sympathy from the dead woman, because in life she had preceded Bathsheba, in the attentions of a man whom Bathsheba had by no means ceased from loving, though her love was sick to death just now with the gravity of a further misgiving. In five or ten minutes there was another tap at the door. Liddy reappeared, and coming in a little way stood hesitating, until at length she said, Mary Ann has just heard something very strange, but I know it isn't true, and we shall be sure to know the rights of it in a day or two. What is it? Oh, nothing connected with you or us, ma'am. It's about Fanny, the same thing that you have heard. I have heard nothing. I mean that a wicked story has got to weatherly within this last hour that Liddy came close to her mistress and whispered the remainder of the sentence slowly into her ear, inclining her head as she spoke in the direction of the room where Fanny lay. Bathsheba trembled from head to foot. I don't believe it, she said excitedly, and there's only one name written on the coffin cover. No, I, ma'am, and a good many others don't, for we should surely have been told more about it, if it had been true. Don't you think so, ma'am? We might, we might not. Bathsheba turned and looked into the fire, that Liddy might not see her face. Finding that her mistress was going to say no more, Liddy glided out, closed the door softly and went to bed. Bathsheba's face, as she continued looking into the fire that evening, might have excited solicitousness on her account even among those who loved her least. The sadness of Fanny Robin's fate did not make Bathsheba's glorious, although she was the ester to this poor Vashti, and their fates might be supposed to stand in some respects as contrasts to each other. When Liddy came into the room a second time, the beautiful eyes which met hers had worn a listless, weary look, and when she went out after telling the story they had expressed wretchedness in full activity. Her simple country nature, fed on old-fashioned principles, was troubled by that which would have troubled a woman of the world very little, both Fanny and her child, if she had one, being dead. Bathsheba had grounds for conjecturing a connection between her own history and the dimly suspected tragedy of Fanny's end, which Oak and Bollwood never for a moment credited her with possessing. The meeting with the lonely woman on the previous Saturday night had been unwitnessed and unspoken of. Oak may have had the best of intentions in withholding for as many days as possible the details of what had happened to Fanny. But had he known that Bathsheba's perceptions had already been exercised in the matter, he would have done nothing to lengthen the minutes of suspense she was now undergoing, when the certainty which was terminated would be the worst fact suspected after all. She suddenly felt a longing desire to speak to someone stronger than herself, and so get strength to sustain her surmised position with dignity and her lurking doubts with stoicism. Where could she find such a friend? Nowhere in the house. She was, by far, the coolest of the women under her roof. Patience and suspension of judgment for a few hours were what she wanted to learn, and there was nobody to teach her. Might she would go to Gabriel Oak? But that could not be. What a way Oak had, she thought, of enduring things. Bouldwood, who seemed so much deeper and higher and stronger in feeling than Gabriel, had not yet learned, any more than she herself, the simple lesson which Oak showed a mastery of by every turn and look he gave, that among the multitude of interests by which he was surrounded, those which affected his personal well-being were not the most absorbing and important in his eyes. Oak meditatively looked upon the horizon of the circumstances without any special regard to his own standpoint in the midst. That was how she would wish to be. But then Oak was not wracked with incertitude upon the inmost matter of his bosom, as she was at this moment. Oak knew all about Fanny that he wished to know. She felt convinced of that. If she were to go to him, now at once, and say no more than these few words, what is the truth of the story? He would feel bound and honoured to tell her. It would be an inexpressible relief. No further speech would need to be uttered. He knew her so well that no eccentricity of behaviour in her would alarm him. She flung a cloak round her, went to the door and opened it. Every blade, every twig, was still. The air was yet thick with moisture, though somewhat less dense than during the afternoon, and a steady smack of drops upon the fallen leaves under the boughs was almost musical in its soothing regularity. It seemed better to be out of the house than within it, and Bathsheba closed the door, and walked slowly down the lane till she came opposite to Gabriel's cottage, where he now lived alone having left Coggan's house through being pinched for room. There was a light in one window only, and that was downstairs. The shutters were not closed, nor was any blind or curtain drawn over the window, neither robbering or observation being a contingency which could do much injury to the occupant of the domicile. Yes, it was Gabriel himself who was sitting up. He was reading. From her standing place on the road she could see him plainly, sitting quite still, his light curly head upon his hand, and only occasionally looking up to snuff the candle which stood beside him. At length he looked at the clock, seemed surprised at the lateness of the hour, closed his book and the rose. He was going to bed, she knew, and if she tapped it must be done at once. Alas! for her resolve. She felt she could not do it. Not for worlds now could she give a hint about her misery to him, much less ask him plainly for information on the cause of Fanny's death. She must suspect and guess and chafe, and bear it all alone. Like a homeless wanderer she lingered by the bank, as if lulled and fascinated by the atmosphere of content which seemed to spread from that little dwelling, and were so sadly lacking in her own. Gabriel appeared in an upper room, placed his light in the window-bench, and then knelt down to pray. The contrast of the picture with her rebellious and agitated existence at this time was too much for her to bear to look upon longer. It was not for her to make a truce with trouble by any such means. She must tread her giddy distracting measure to its last note, as she had begun it. With a swollen heart she went again up the lane, and entered her own door. More fever now by a reaction from the first feeling which Oak's example had raised in her, she paused in the hall, looking at the door of the room wherein Fanny lay. She locked her fingers, threw back her head, and strained her hot-hands rigidly across her forehead, saying with a hysterical sob, Would you God you would speak to me and tell me your secret Fanny? Oh, I hope it is not true that there are two of you. If I could only look upon you for one minute I should know all. A few moments passed, and she added slowly, and I will. Bathsheba in aftertimes could never gauge the mood which carried her through the actions, following this murmured resolution on this memorable evening of her life. She went to the lumber-closet for a screwdriver. At the end of a short, though undefined time, she found herself in the small room, quivering with emotion, a mist before her eyes, and an excruciating pulsation in her brain, standing beside the uncovered coffin of the girl whose conjectured end had so entirely engrossed her, and saying to herself in a husky voice as she gazed within, It was best to know the worst, and I know it now. She was conscious of having brought about this situation by a series of actions, done as by one in an extravagant dream, of following that idea as to method which had burst upon her in the hall with glaring obviousness, by gliding to the top of the stairs, assuring herself by listening to the heavy breathing of her maids that they were asleep, gliding down again, turning the handle of the door within which the young girl lay, and deliberately setting herself to do what, if she had anticipated any such undertaking at night and alone, would have horrified her, but which, when done, was not so dreadful, as was the conclusive proof of her husband's conduct, which came with knowing beyond out the last chapter of Fanny's story. Bathsheba's head sank upon her button, and a breath which had been bated in suspense, curiosity, and interest, was exhaled now in the form of a whispered wail. Oh! she said, and the silent room added length to her moan. Her tears fell fast beside the unconscious pair in the coffin, tears of a complicated origin, of a nature indescribable, almost indefinable, except as other than those of simple sorrow. Assurately their wanted fires must have lived in Fanny's ashes when events were so shaped as to chariot her hither in this natural, unobtrusive yet effectual manner. The one feet alone, that of dying, by which a mean condition could be resolved into a grand one Fanny had achieved, and to that had destiny subjoined this rencounter to-night, which had, in Bathsheba's wild imagining, turned her companion's failure to success, her humiliation to triumph, her lucklessness to ascendancy. It had thrown over herself a garish light of mockery, and set upon all things about her an ironical smile. Fanny's face was framed in by that yellow hair of hers, and there was no longer much room for doubt as to the origin of the curl owned by Troy. In Bathsheba's heated fancy the innocent white countenance expressed a dim triumphant consciousness of the pain she was retaliating for her pain with all the merciless rigor of the mosaic law, burning for burning, wound for wound, strife for strife. Bathsheba indulged in contemplations of escape from her position by immediate death, which, thought she, though it was an inconvenient and awful way, had limits to its inconvenience and awfulness that could not be overpassed, whilst the shames of life were measureless. Yet even this scheme of extinction by death was but tamely copying her rival's method, without the reasons which had glorified it in her rival's case. She glided rapidly up and down the room, as was mostly her habit when excited, her hands hugging clasped in front of her, as she thought and in part expressed in broken words. Oh, I hate her, yet I don't mean that I hate her, for it is grievous and wicked, and yet I hate her a little. Yes, my flesh insists upon hating her, whether my spirit is willing or not. If she had only lived, I could have been angry and cruel towards her with some justification, but to be vindictive towards a poor dead woman recoils upon myself. Oh, God, have mercy! I am miserable at all this. Bathsheba became at this moment so terrified at her own state of mind that she looked round for some sort of refuge from herself. The vision of Oak kneeling down that night recurred to her, and with the imitative instinct which animates women she seized upon the idea, resolved to kneel and, if possible, pray. Gabriel had prayed, so would she. She knelt beside the coffin, covered her face with her hands, and for a time the room was silent as a tomb. Whether from a purely mechanical or from any other cause, when Bathsheba arose it was with a quieted spirit, and a regret for the antagonistic instincts which had seized upon her just before. In her desire to make atonement she took flowers from a vase by the window, and began laying them around the dead girl's head. Bathsheba knew no other way of showing kindness to persons departed than by giving them flowers. She knew not how long she remained engaged thus. She forgot time, life, where she was, what she was doing. A slamming together of the coach-house doors in the yard brought her to herself again. An instant after the front door opened and closed. Steps crossed the hall, and her husband appeared at the entrance to the room, looking in upon her. He beheld it all by degrees. Stared in stupefaction at the scene, as if he thought it an illusion raised by some fiendish incantation. Bathsheba, pallid as a corpse on end, gazed back at him in the same wild way. So little, her instinctive guesses, the fruit of a legitimate induction, that at this moment, as he stood with the door in his hand, Troy never once thought of fanny in connection with what he saw. His first confused idea was that somebody in the house had died. Well, what? said Troy blankly. I must go. I must go! said Bathsheba to herself, more than to him. She came with a delayed eye towards the door, to push past him. What's the matter, in God's name? Who's dead? said Troy. I cannot say. Let me out, I want air. She continued. But no, stay, I insist. He seized her hand, and then Volition seemed to leave her, and she went off into a state of passivity. He, still holding her, came up the room, and thus hand in hand Troy and Bathsheba approached the coffin's side. The candle was standing on a bureau close by them, and the light slanted down, distinctly in kindling the cold features of both mother and babe. Troy looked in, dropped his wife's hand. Knowledge of it all came over him in a lurid sheen, and he stood still. So still he remained that he could be imagined to have left in him no mode of power whatever. The clashes of feelings in all directions confounded one another, produced a neutrality, and there was motion in none. Do you know her? said Bathsheba, in a small and closed echo, as from the interior of a cell. I do, said Troy. Is it she? It is. He had originally stood perfectly erect, and now, in the well-knighting gilding mobility of his frame, could be discerned an incipient movement, as in the darkest night may be discerned light after a while. He was gradually sinking forwards. The lines of his features softened, and this may modulated to illimitable sadness. Bathsheba was regarding him from the other side, still with parted lips and distracted eyes. Capacity for intense feeling is proportionate to the general intensity of the nature, and perhaps, in all fanny sufferings, much greater relatively to her strength. There was never a time when she suffered in an absolute sense what Bathsheba suffered now. What Troy did was to sink upon his knees with an indefinable union of remorse and reverence in his face, and, bending over fanny robin, gently kissed her, as one would kiss an infant asleep to avoid awakening it. At the sight and sound of that, to her unendurable act, Bathsheba sprang towards him. All the strong feeling which had been scattered over her existence, since she knew what feeling was seemed gathered together in one pulsation now. The revulsion from her indignant mood a little earlier, when she had meditated upon compromised honour, for stallment, eclipse in maternity by another, was violent and entire. All that was forgotten in the simple and still strong attachment to wife and husband. She had sighed for herself completeness then, and now she cried aloud against the severance of the union she had deplored. She flung her arms round Troy's neck, exclaiming wildly from the deepest deep of her heart. Don't. Don't kiss them. Oh, Frank, I can't bear it. I can't. I love you better than she did. Kiss me too, Frank. Kiss me. Will you, Frank? Kiss me too. There was something so abnormal and startling in the childlike pain and simplicity of this appeal from a woman of Bathsheba's calibre and independence, that Troy, loosening her tightly clasped arms from his neck, looked at her in bewilderment. It was such an unexpected revelation of all women being alike at heart, even though so different in their accessories as Fanny and this one beside him, that Troy could hardly seem to believe her to be his proud wife Bathsheba. Fanny's own spirit seemed to be animating her frame, but this was the mood of a few instants only. When a momentary surprise had passed, his expression changed to a silencing and imperious gaze. I will not kiss you, he said, pushing her away. Had the wife now but gone no further, yet perhaps under the harrowing circumstances, to speak out was the one wrong act which can be better understood, if not forgiven in her, than the right and politic one, her rival being now but a corpse. All the feelings she had betrayed into showing she drew back to herself again by a strenuous effort of self-command. What of you to say as your reason? she asked, her bitter voice being strangely low, quite that of another woman now. I have to say that I have been a bad, black-hearted man, he answered. And that this woman is your victim, and I not less than she? Ah, don't taunt me, madam. This woman is more to me dead as she is, than ever you were, or are, or can be. If Satan had not tempted me with that face of yours and those cursed coquetteries, I should have married her. I never had another thought till you came in my way, or to God that I had, but it is all too late. He turned to Fanny then. But never mind, darling, he said, in the sight of heaven you are my very, very wife. At these words there arose from Bathsheba's lips a long, low cry of measureless despair and indignation, such a wail of anguish as had never before been heard within those old inhabited walls. It was the terrally awry of her union with Troy. If she is that, what am I? she added, as a continuation of the same cry and subbing pityfully, and the rarity with her of such abandonment only made the condition more dire. You are nothing to me, nothing, said Troy heartlessly. A ceremony before a priest doesn't make a marriage. I am not morally yours. A vehement impulse to flee from them, to run from this place, hide and escape his words at any price, not stopping short of death itself, master Bathsheba now. She waited not an instant, but turned to the door and ran out. Bathsheba went along the dark road, neither knowing nor caring about the direction or issue of her flight. The first time that she definitely noticed her position was when she reached a gate leading into a ticket overhung by some large oak and beech trees. On looking into the place, it occurred to her that she had seen it by daylight on some previous occasion, and that what appeared like an impassable ticket was in reality a break of fern, now withering fast. She could think of nothing better to do with her palpitating self than to go in there and hide, and entering she lighted on a spot sheltered from the damp fog by a reclining trunk where she sank down upon the tangled couch of fronds and stems. She mechanically pulled some armfuls round her to keep off the breezes and close her eyes. Whether she slept or not that night Bathsheba was not clearly aware, but it was with a freshened existence and a cooler brain that a long time afterward she became conscious of some interesting proceedings which were going on in the trees above her head and around. A coarse-throated chatter was the first sound. It was a sparrow, just waking. Next, chi-wee-wee-wee-wees from another retreat. It was a finch. Third, tink-tink-tink-a-chink from the hedge. It was a robin. Chuck-chuck-chuck overhead, a squirrel. Then, from the road, with my rat-a-ta and my rum-tum-tum, it was a plow-boy. Presently he came opposite, and she believed from his voice that he was one of the boys on her own farm. He was followed by a shambling tramp of heavy feet and looking through the ferns, Bathsheba could just discern in the one light of daybreak a team of her own horses. They stopped to drink at a pond on the other side of the way. She watched them flouncing into the pool, drinking, tossing up their heads, drinking again, the water dribbling from their lips in silver threads. There was another flounce, and they came out of the pond and turned back again towards the farm. She looked further around. Day was just dawning, and beside its cool air and colors, her heated actions and resolves of the night stood out in a lurid contrast. She perceived that in her lap and clinging to her hair were red and yellow leaves which had come down from the tree and settled silently upon her during her partial sleep. Bathsheba shook her dress to get rid of them, when multitudes of the same family lying around about her rose and fluttered away in the breeze thus created, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. There was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the as yet unridden sun attracted her eyes thither. From her feet and between the beautiful yellowing ferns with her feathery arms the ground sloped downwards to a hollow, in which was a species of swamp dotted with fungi. A morning mist hung over it now, a fulsome yet magnificent silvery veil, full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque, the hedge behind it being in some measure hidden by his hazy luminousness. Up the sides of this depression grew sheaves of the common rush, and here and there a peculiar species of flag, the blades of which glistened in the emerging sun, like sides. But the general aspect of the swamp was malignant. From its moist and poisonous coat seemed to be exhaled the essences of evil things in the earth, and in the waters under the earth. The fungi grew in all manner of positions from rotting leaves and tree stumps, some exhibiting to her listless gaze their clammy tops, others oozing gills, some were marked with great splotches red as arterial blood, others were saffron yellow, and others tall and attenuated with stems like macaroni, some were leathery and of richest browns. The hollow seemed a nursery of pestilence small and great in the immediate neighbourhood of comfort and health, and Bathsheba arose with a tremor at the taut of having passed the night on the brink of so dismal a place. There were now other footsteps to be heard along the road. Bathsheba's nerves were still on strong, she crouched down out of sight again, and the pedestrian came into view. He was a schoolboy, with a bag slung over his shoulder containing his dinner, and a book in his hand. He paused by the gate, and without looking up continued murmuring words and tones quite loud enough to reach her ears. Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord! That I knows out a book. Give us, give us, give us, give us, give us. That I know. Grace that, grace that, grace that, grace that. That I know. Other words followed to the same effect. The boy was of the dunce class apparently, the book was a Psalter, and this was his way of learning the collect. In the worst attacks of trouble there appears to be always a superficial film of consciousness, which is left disengaged and open to the notice of trifles, and Bathsheba was faintly amused at the boy's method till he too passed on. By this time Stooper had given place to anxiety, and anxiety began to make room for hunger and thirst. A form now appeared on the rise on the other side of the swamp, half hidden by the mist, and came towards Bathsheba. The woman, for it was a woman, approached with her face as scant as if looking earnestly on all sides of her. When she got a little further round to the left, and drew nearer, Bathsheba could see the newcomer's profile against the sunny sky, and knew the wavy sweep from forehead to chin, with neither angle nor decisive line anywhere about it, to be the familiar contour of Liddy's smallery. Bathsheba's heart bounded with gratitude at the thought that she was not altogether deserted, and she jumped up. Oh, Liddy! she said, or attempted to say, but the words had only been framed by her lips. There came no sound. She had lost her voice by exposure to the clogged atmosphere all these hours of night. Oh, Mam! I'm so glad I have found you! said the girl as soon as she saw Bathsheba. You can't come across! Bathsheba said in a whisper, which she vainly endeavoured to make loud enough to reach Liddy's ears. Liddy, not knowing this, stepped down upon the swamp, saying as she did so. It will bear me up, I think. Bathsheba never forgot that transient little picture of Liddy crossing the swamp to her there in the morning light. Iridescent bubbles of dank subterranean breath rose from the sweating sod beside the waiting-maid's feet as she trod, hissing as they burst and expanded away to join the vapoury firmament above. Liddy did not sink as Bathsheba had anticipated. She landed safely on the other side, and looked up at the beautiful, though pale and weary face of a young mistress. "'Poor thing,' said Liddy, with tears in her eyes. "'Do hearten yourself up a little, Mam. However did.' "'I can't speak above a whisper. My voice is gone for the present,' said Bathsheba hurriedly. I suppose the damp air from that hollow has taken it away. Liddy, don't question me mind. Who sent you? Anybody?' "'Nobody. I thought when I found you were not at home that something cruel had happened. I fancy I heard his voice late last night, and so no one something was wrong. Is he at home?' "'No. He left just before I came out.' "'His fanny taken away?' "'Not yet. She soon will be, at nine o'clock.' "'We won't go home at present then. Suppose we walk about in this wood?' "'Liddy, without exactly understanding everything or anything in this episode, assented, and they walked together further among the trees. "'But you would better come in, Mam, and have something to eat. You will die of a jail.' "'I shall not come indoors yet. Perhaps never.' "'Shall I get you something to eat, and something else to put over your head besides that little shawl?' "'If you will, Liddy.' "'Liddy vanished, and at the end of twenty minutes returned with a cloak, hat, some slices of bread and butter, a teacup, and some hot tea in a little china jog.' "'Is Fanny gone?' said Bathsheba.' "'No,' said her companion, pouring out the tea. Bathsheba wrapped herself up and ate and drank sparingly. Her voice was then a little clearer, and trifling colour returned to her face. "'Now we'll walk about again,' she said. They wandered about the wood for nearly two hours, Bathsheba replying in monosyllables to Liddy's prattle, for her mind ran on one subject and one only. She interrupted with, "'I wonder if Fanny is gone by this time?' "'I will go and see.' She came back with the information that the men were just taking away the corpse, that Bathsheba had been inquired for, that she had replied to the effect that her mistress was unwell and could not be seen. Then they think I am in my bedroom.' "'Yes,' Liddy then ventured to add. "'You said, when I first found you, that you might never go home again. You didn't mean it, ma'am. No, I've altered my mind. It is only women with no pride in them who run away from their husbands. There is one position worse than that of being found dead in your husband's house from his ill usage, and that is, to be found alive through having gone away to the house of somebody else. I've thought about it all this morning, and have chosen my course. A runaway wife is an incumbrance to everybody, and a burden to herself, and a by-word, all of which make up a heap of misery greater than any that comes by staying at home. Though this may include the trifling items of insult, beating, and starvation. Liddy, if ever you marry, God forbid that you ever should. You'll find yourself in a fearful situation. But mind this, don't you flinch, stand your ground, and be cut to pieces. That's what I am going to do." "'Oh, mistress, don't talk so,' said Liddy, taking her hand. But I knew you had too much sense to bide away. May I ask what dreadful thing has happened between you and him?' You may ask, but I may not tell. In about ten minutes they return to the house by a circuitous route, entering at the rear. Bathsheba glided up the back stairs to a disused attic, and her companion followed. "'Liddy,' she said with a lighter heart, for youth and hope had begun to reassert themselves. You were to be my confidant for the present. Somebody must be, and I choose you. Well, I shall take up my abode here for a while. Will you get a fire-lighted? Put down a piece of carpet, and help me make the place comfortable. Afterwards I want you and Marianne to bring up that little stump-bedstead in the small room, and the bed belonging to it, and a table and some other things. What shall I do to pass the heavy time away?' Hemming-Hanker chiefs is a very good thing,' said Liddy. "'Oh, no, no. I hate needlework. I always did.' Knitting. And that too. You may finish your sampler, for only carnations and peacocks want filling in, and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside your ants, ma'am.' The samplers are out of date, horribly contrived. No, Liddy, I'll read. Bring up some books, not new ones, I haven't the heart to read any thing new.' Some will be Uncle's old ones, ma'am. Yes, some of those we stowed away in boxes. A faint gleam of humour passed over her face, as she said. Bring Beaumont at Fletcher's maid's tragedy, and the morning-bride, and, let me see, night-thoughts, and the vanity of human wishes. And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife Desdemona, is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now. Now, Liddy, you've been looking into my books without telling me, and I said you were not too. How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn't suit me at all. But if the others do? No, they don't, and I won't read dismal books. Why should I read dismal books, indeed? Bring me love in a village, and maid of the mill, and Dr. Sintax, and some volumes of the spectator. All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic, in a state of barricade, a precaution which proved to be needless as against Troy, for he did not appear in the neighbourhood or troubled them at all. Bathsheba sat at the window till sunset, sometimes attempting to read, at other times watching every movement outside without much purpose, and listening without much interest to every sound. The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud received its rays in the east. Up against this dark background, the west front of the church tower, the only part of the edifice visible from the farmhouse windows, rose distinct and lustrous, the vein upon the summit bristling with rays. Hereabouts, at six o'clock, the young men of the village gathered, as was their custom, for a game of prisoner's base. The spot had been consecrated to this ancient diversion from time immemorial, the old stocks conveniently forming a base facing the boundary of the churchyard, in front of which the ground was trodden hard and bare as a pavement by the players. She could see the brown and black heads of the young lads darting about, right and left, their white shirt-sleeves gleaming in the sun, whilst occasionally a shout and a peel of hearty laughter varied the stillness of the evening air. They continued to play for a quarter of an hour or so, when the game concluded abruptly, and the players leapt over the wall and vanished round to the other side, behind a yew-tree, which was also half behind a beach, now spreading in one mass of golden foliage on which the branches traced black lines. Why did the base players finish their game so suddenly? Bathsheba inquired, the next time that Liddy entered the room. I think it was because two men came just then from Casterbridge, and began putting up a grand carved tombstone, said Liddy. The lads went to see who's it was. Do you know? Bathsheba asked. I don't, said Liddy. End of Chapter 44 When Troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight his first act was to cover the dead from sight. This done he ascended the stairs, and throwing himself down upon the bed, dressed as he was, he waited miserably for the morning. Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four and twenty hours. His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially from his intention regarding it. There was always an inertia to be overcome when striking out a new line of conduct, not more in ourselves it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appeared as if leaked together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration. Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to add to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account, which had been seven pounds ten. With this money, twenty-seven pounds ten in all, he had hastily driven from the gate that morning to keep his appointment with Fanny Robin. On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and at five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end of the town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struck the hour, and no Fanny appeared. In fact, at that moment she was being robed in her grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union Poor House, the first and last tiring women the gentle creature had ever been honoured with. The quarter went. The half-hour. A rush of recollection came upon Troy as he waited. This was the second time she had broken a serious engagement with him. In anger he vowed it should be the last, and at eleven o'clock, when he had lingered and watched the stone of the bridge till he knew every liken upon their face, and heard a chink of the ripples underneath till they oppressed him. He jumped from his seat, went to the inn for his gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning the past and recklessness about the future drove on to Budmouth Races. He reached the race-course at two o'clock, and remained either there or in the town till nine. But Fanny's image, as it had appeared to him in the somber shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his mind, backed up by Bathsheba's reproaches. He vowed he would not bet, and he kept his vow, for unleaving the town at nine o'clock in the evening, he had diminished his cash only to the extent of a few shillings. He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was struck for the first time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by illness from keeping her promise. This time she could have made no mistake. He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and made inquiries. Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse, and came indoors, as we have seen to the fearful shock that awaited him. As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose from the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference to Bathsheba's whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, he stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. His walk was towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he found a newly dug unoccupied grave. The grave dug the day before for Fanny. The position of this having been marked he hastened on to Casterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while, at the hill whereon he had last seen Fanny alive. Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street, and entered a pair of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words Lester, Stone and Marble Mason. Fanny were lying about stones of all sizes and designs, inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons, who had not yet died. Troy was so unlike himself now, in luck, word, and deed, that the want of likeness was perceptible, even to his own consciousness. His method of engaging himself in the business of purchasing a tomb was that of an absolutely unpracticed man. He could not bring himself to consider, calculate, or economise. He waywardly wished for something, and he set about obtaining it like a child in a nursery. I want a good tomb, he said to the man who stood in the little office within the yard. I want as good a one as you can give me for twenty-seven pounds. It was all the money he possessed. That's some to include everything. Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Wetherbury, in direction, and I want it now, at once. We could not get any special work this week. I must have it now. If you would like one of these in stock, it could be got ready immediately. Very well, said Troy impatiently. Let's see what you have. The best I have in stock is this one, said the stone-cutter, going into a shed. Here's a marble headstone, beautifully crooked, with medallions beneath of typical subjects. Here's the footstone, after the same pattern, and here's the coping to enclose the grave. The polishing alone of this set cost me eleven pounds. The slabs are of the best kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frost for a hundred years without flying. And how much? Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Wetherbury, for the sum you mention. Get it done to-day, and I'll pay the money now. The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor, who wore not a shred of mourning. Then Troy wrote the words which were to form the inscription, settled the account, and went away. In the afternoon he came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done. He waited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the cart, and started on its way to Wetherbury, giving directions to the two men who would who accompany it, to inquire of the sexton for the grave of the person named in the inscription. It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He carried rather a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily along the road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon he deposited his burden for a time. Midway on his journey he met returning in the darkness the men and the wagon which had conveyed the tomb. He merely inquired if the work was done, and on being assured that it was passed on again. Troy entered Wetherbury Churchyard about ten o'clock, and went immediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early in the morning. It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened to a great extent from the view of passers along the road, a spot which until lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of alder, but now it was cleared and made orderly for internments, by reason of the rapid filling of the ground elsewhere. Here now stood the tomb, as the men had stated, snow-white and shapely in the gloom, consisting of a head and foot-stone, and a closing border of marble work uniting them. In the midst was mould suitable for plants. Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few minutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the light of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble whilst he read the inscription. He hung his lantern on the lowest bow of the U-tree, and took from his basket the flower-roots of several varieties. There were bundles of snow-drops, hyacinths, and crocus-bulbs, violets, and double-daisies, which were to bloom in early spring, and of carnations, pinks, picketies, lilies of the valley, Get Me Not, Summer Farewell, Meadow Saffron, and others, for the later seasons of the year. Troy lay these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set to work to plant them. The snow-drops were arranged in a line on the outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the grave. The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows, some of the summer flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and Forget Me Nots, over her heart. The remainder were dispersed in the spaces between these. Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity. Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the channel, he showed at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman, with that blindness to the lion, where sentiment, verges, and markishness, characteristic of the French. It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy's lanterns spread into the two old youths with the strange illuminating power, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud above. He felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and presently one came and entered one of the holes of the lantern, whereupon the candle sputtered and went out. Troy was weary, and at being now not far from midnight, and the rain threatening to increase, he resolved to leave the finishing touches of his labour until the day should break. He groped along the wall and over the graves in the dark till he found himself round at the north side. Here he entered the porch, and, reclining upon the bench within, fell asleep.