Far from the Madding Crowd

IGHT—HORSES TRAMPING

The village of Weatherbury was quiet as the graveyard in its midst, and
the living were lying well-nigh as still as the dead. The church clock
struck eleven. The air was so empty of other sounds that the whirr of
the clock-work immediately before the strokes was distinct, and so was
also the click of the same at their close. The notes flew forth with
the usual blind obtuseness of inanimate things—flapping and rebounding
among walls, undulating against the scattered clouds, spreading through
their interstices into unexplored miles of space.

Bathsheba’s crannied and mouldy halls were to-night occupied only by
Maryann, Liddy being, as was stated, with her sister, whom Bathsheba
had set out to visit. A few minutes after eleven had struck, Maryann
turned in her bed with a sense of being disturbed. She was totally
unconscious of the nature of the interruption to her sleep. It led to a
dream, and the dream to an awakening, with an uneasy sensation that
something had happened. She left her bed and looked out of the window.
The paddock abutted on this end of the building, and in the paddock she
could just discern by the uncertain gray a moving figure approaching
the horse that was feeding there. The figure seized the horse by the
forelock, and led it to the corner of the field. Here she could see
some object which circumstances proved to be a vehicle, for after a few
minutes spent apparently in harnessing, she heard the trot of the horse
down the road, mingled with the sound of light wheels.

Two varieties only of humanity could have entered the paddock with the
ghostlike glide of that mysterious figure. They were a woman and a
gipsy man. A woman was out of the question in such an occupation at
this hour, and the comer could be no less than a thief, who might
probably have known the weakness of the household on this particular
night, and have chosen it on that account for his daring attempt.
Moreover, to raise suspicion to conviction itself, there were gipsies
in Weatherbury Bottom.

Maryann, who had been afraid to shout in the robber’s presence, having
seen him depart had no fear. She hastily slipped on her clothes,
stumped down the disjointed staircase with its hundred creaks, ran to
Coggan’s, the nearest house, and raised an alarm. Coggan called
Gabriel, who now again lodged in his house as at first, and together
they went to the paddock. Beyond all doubt the horse was gone.

“Hark!” said Gabriel.

They listened. Distinct upon the stagnant air came the sounds of a
trotting horse passing up Longpuddle Lane—just beyond the gipsies’
encampment in Weatherbury Bottom.

“That’s our Dainty—I’ll swear to her step,” said Jan.

“Mighty me! Won’t mis’ess storm and call us stupids when she comes
back!” moaned Maryann. “How I wish it had happened when she was at
home, and none of us had been answerable!”

“We must ride after,” said Gabriel, decisively. “I’ll be responsible to
Miss Everdene for what we do. Yes, we’ll follow.”

“Faith, I don’t see how,” said Coggan. “All our horses are too heavy
for that trick except little Poppet, and what’s she between two of
us?—If we only had that pair over the hedge we might do something.”

“Which pair?”

“Mr. Boldwood’s Tidy and Moll.”

“Then wait here till I come hither again,” said Gabriel. He ran down
the hill towards Farmer Boldwood’s.

“Farmer Boldwood is not at home,” said Maryann.

“All the better,” said Coggan. “I know what he’s gone for.”

Less than five minutes brought up Oak again, running at the same pace,
with two halters dangling from his hand.

“Where did you find ’em?” said Coggan, turning round and leaping upon
the hedge without waiting for an answer.

“Under the eaves. I knew where they were kept,” said Gabriel, following
him. “Coggan, you can ride bare-backed? there’s no time to look for
saddles.”

“Like a hero!” said Jan.

“Maryann, you go to bed,” Gabriel shouted to her from the top of the
hedge.

Springing down into Boldwood’s pastures, each pocketed his halter to
hide it from the horses, who, seeing the men empty-handed, docilely
allowed themselves to be seized by the mane, when the halters were
dexterously slipped on. Having neither bit nor bridle, Oak and Coggan
extemporized the former by passing the rope in each case through the
animal’s mouth and looping it on the other side. Oak vaulted astride,
and Coggan clambered up by aid of the bank, when they ascended to the
gate and galloped off in the direction taken by Bathsheba’s horse and
the robber. Whose vehicle the horse had been harnessed to was a matter
of some uncertainty.

Weatherbury Bottom was reached in three or four minutes. They scanned
the shady green patch by the roadside. The gipsies were gone.

“The villains!” said Gabriel. “Which way have they gone, I wonder?”

“Straight on, as sure as God made little apples,” said Jan.

“Very well; we are better mounted, and must overtake ’em”, said Oak.
“Now on at full speed!”

No sound of the rider in their van could now be discovered. The
road-metal grew softer and more clayey as Weatherbury was left behind,
and the late rain had wetted its surface to a somewhat plastic, but not
muddy state. They came to cross-roads. Coggan suddenly pulled up Moll
and slipped off.

“What’s the matter?” said Gabriel.

“We must try to track ’em, since we can’t hear ’em,” said Jan, fumbling
in his pockets. He struck a light, and held the match to the ground.
The rain had been heavier here, and all foot and horse tracks made
previous to the storm had been abraded and blurred by the drops, and
they were now so many little scoops of water, which reflected the flame
of the match like eyes. One set of tracks was fresh and had no water in
them; one pair of ruts was also empty, and not small canals, like the
others. The footprints forming this recent impression were full of
information as to pace; they were in equidistant pairs, three or four
feet apart, the right and left foot of each pair being exactly opposite
one another.

“Straight on!” Jan exclaimed. “Tracks like that mean a stiff gallop. No
wonder we don’t hear him. And the horse is harnessed—look at the ruts.
Ay, that’s our mare sure enough!”

“How do you know?”

“Old Jimmy Harris only shoed her last week, and I’d swear to his make
among ten thousand.”

“The rest of the gipsies must ha’ gone on earlier, or some other way,”
said Oak. “You saw there were no other tracks?”

“True.” They rode along silently for a long weary time. Coggan carried
an old pinchbeck repeater which he had inherited from some genius in
his family; and it now struck one. He lighted another match, and
examined the ground again.

“’Tis a canter now,” he said, throwing away the light. “A twisty,
rickety pace for a gig. The fact is, they over-drove her at starting;
we shall catch ’em yet.”

Again they hastened on, and entered Blackmore Vale. Coggan’s watch
struck one. When they looked again the hoof-marks were so spaced as to
form a sort of zigzag if united, like the lamps along a street.

“That’s a trot, I know,” said Gabriel.

“Only a trot now,” said Coggan, cheerfully. “We shall overtake him in
time.”

They pushed rapidly on for yet two or three miles. “Ah! a moment,” said
Jan. “Let’s see how she was driven up this hill. ’Twill help us.” A
light was promptly struck upon his gaiters as before, and the
examination made.

“Hurrah!” said Coggan. “She walked up here—and well she might. We shall
get them in two miles, for a crown.”

They rode three, and listened. No sound was to be heard save a millpond
trickling hoarsely through a hatch, and suggesting gloomy possibilities
of drowning by jumping in. Gabriel dismounted when they came to a
turning. The tracks were absolutely the only guide as to the direction
that they now had, and great caution was necessary to avoid confusing
them with some others which had made their appearance lately.

“What does this mean?—though I guess,” said Gabriel, looking up at
Coggan as he moved the match over the ground about the turning. Coggan,
who, no less than the panting horses, had latterly shown signs of
weariness, again scrutinized the mystic characters. This time only
three were of the regular horseshoe shape. Every fourth was a dot.

He screwed up his face and emitted a long “Whew-w-w!”

“Lame,” said Oak.

“Yes. Dainty is lamed; the near-foot-afore,” said Coggan slowly,
staring still at the footprints.

“We’ll push on,” said Gabriel, remounting his humid steed.

Although the road along its greater part had been as good as any
turnpike-road in the country, it was nominally only a byway. The last
turning had brought them into the high road leading to Bath. Coggan
recollected himself.

“We shall have him now!” he exclaimed.

“Where?”

“Sherton Turnpike. The keeper of that gate is the sleepiest man between
here and London—Dan Randall, that’s his name—knowed en for years, when
he was at Casterbridge gate. Between the lameness and the gate ’tis a
done job.”

They now advanced with extreme caution. Nothing was said until, against
a shady background of foliage, five white bars were visible, crossing
their route a little way ahead.

“Hush—we are almost close!” said Gabriel.

“Amble on upon the grass,” said Coggan.

The white bars were blotted out in the midst by a dark shape in front
of them. The silence of this lonely time was pierced by an exclamation
from that quarter.

“Hoy-a-hoy! Gate!”

It appeared that there had been a previous call which they had not
noticed, for on their close approach the door of the turnpike-house
opened, and the keeper came out half-dressed, with a candle in his
hand. The rays illumined the whole group.

“Keep the gate close!” shouted Gabriel. “He has stolen the horse!”

“Who?” said the turnpike-man.

Gabriel looked at the driver of the gig, and saw a woman—Bathsheba, his
mistress.

On hearing his voice she had turned her face away from the light.
Coggan had, however, caught sight of her in the meanwhile.

“Why, ’tis mistress—I’ll take my oath!” he said, amazed.

Bathsheba it certainly was, and she had by this time done the trick she
could do so well in crises not of love, namely, mask a surprise by
coolness of manner.

“Well, Gabriel,” she inquired quietly, “where are you going?”

“We thought—” began Gabriel.

“I am driving to Bath,” she said, taking for her own use the assurance
that Gabriel lacked. “An important matter made it necessary for me to
give up my visit to Liddy, and go off at once. What, then, were you
following me?”

“We thought the horse was stole.”

“Well—what a thing! How very foolish of you not to know that I had
taken the trap and horse. I could neither wake Maryann nor get into the
house, though I hammered for ten minutes against her window-sill.
Fortunately, I could get the key of the coach-house, so I troubled no
one further. Didn’t you think it might be me?”

“Why should we, miss?”

“Perhaps not. Why, those are never Farmer Boldwood’s horses! Goodness
mercy! what have you been doing—bringing trouble upon me in this way?
What! mustn’t a lady move an inch from her door without being dogged
like a thief?”

“But how was we to know, if you left no account of your doings?”
expostulated Coggan, “and ladies don’t drive at these hours, miss, as a
jineral rule of society.”

“I did leave an account—and you would have seen it in the morning. I
wrote in chalk on the coach-house doors that I had come back for the
horse and gig, and driven off; that I could arouse nobody, and should
return soon.”

“But you’ll consider, ma’am, that we couldn’t see that till it got
daylight.”

“True,” she said, and though vexed at first she had too much sense to
blame them long or seriously for a devotion to her that was as valuable
as it was rare. She added with a very pretty grace, “Well, I really
thank you heartily for taking all this trouble; but I wish you had
borrowed anybody’s horses but Mr. Boldwood’s.”

“Dainty is lame, miss,” said Coggan. “Can ye go on?”

“It was only a stone in her shoe. I got down and pulled it out a
hundred yards back. I can manage very well, thank you. I shall be in
Bath by daylight. Will you now return, please?”

She turned her head—the gateman’s candle shimmering upon her quick,
clear eyes as she did so—passed through the gate, and was soon wrapped
in the embowering shades of mysterious summer boughs. Coggan and
Gabriel put about their horses, and, fanned by the velvety air of this
July night, retraced the road by which they had come.

“A strange vagary, this of hers, isn’t it, Oak?” said Coggan,
curiously.

“Yes,” said Gabriel, shortly.

“She won’t be in Bath by no daylight!”

“Coggan, suppose we keep this night’s work as quiet as we can?”

“I am of one and the same mind.”

“Very well. We shall be home by three o’clock or so, and can creep into
the parish like lambs.”

Bathsheba’s perturbed meditations by the roadside had ultimately
evolved a conclusion that there were only two remedies for the present
desperate state of affairs. The first was merely to keep Troy away from
Weatherbury till Boldwood’s indignation had cooled; the second to
listen to Oak’s entreaties, and Boldwood’s denunciations, and give up
Troy altogether.

Alas! Could she give up this new love—induce him to renounce her by
saying she did not like him—could no more speak to him, and beg him,
for her good, to end his furlough in Bath, and see her and Weatherbury
no more?

It was a picture full of misery, but for a while she contemplated it
firmly, allowing herself, nevertheless, as girls will, to dwell upon
the happy life she would have enjoyed had Troy been Boldwood, and the
path of love the path of duty—inflicting upon herself gratuitous
tortures by imagining him the lover of another woman after forgetting
her; for she had penetrated Troy’s nature so far as to estimate his
tendencies pretty accurately, but unfortunately loved him no less in
thinking that he might soon cease to love her—indeed, considerably
more.

She jumped to her feet. She would see him at once. Yes, she would
implore him by word of mouth to assist her in this dilemma. A letter to
keep him away could not reach him in time, even if he should be
disposed to listen to it.

Was Bathsheba altogether blind to the obvious fact that the support of
a lover’s arms is not of a kind best calculated to assist a resolve to
renounce him? Or was she sophistically sensible, with a thrill of
pleasure, that by adopting this course for getting rid of him she was
ensuring a meeting with him, at any rate, once more?

It was now dark, and the hour must have been nearly ten. The only way
to accomplish her purpose was to give up her idea of visiting Liddy at
Yalbury, return to Weatherbury Farm, put the horse into the gig, and
drive at once to Bath. The scheme seemed at first impossible: the
journey was a fearfully heavy one, even for a strong horse, at her own
estimate; and she much underrated the distance. It was most venturesome
for a woman, at night, and alone.

But could she go on to Liddy’s and leave things to take their course?
No, no; anything but that. Bathsheba was full of a stimulating
turbulence, beside which caution vainly prayed for a hearing. She
turned back towards the village.

Her walk was slow, for she wished not to enter Weatherbury till the
cottagers were in bed, and, particularly, till Boldwood was secure. Her
plan was now to drive to Bath during the night, see Sergeant Troy in
the morning before he set out to come to her, bid him farewell, and
dismiss him: then to rest the horse thoroughly (herself to weep the
while, she thought), starting early the next morning on her return
journey. By this arrangement she could trot Dainty gently all the day,
reach Liddy at Yalbury in the evening, and come home to Weatherbury
with her whenever they chose—so nobody would know she had been to Bath
at all. Such was Bathsheba’s scheme. But in her topographical ignorance
as a late comer to the place, she misreckoned the distance of her
journey as not much more than half what it really was.

This idea she proceeded to carry out, with what initial success we have
already seen.