Far from the Madding Crowd

AIN—ONE SOLITARY MEETS ANOTHER

It was now five o’clock, and the dawn was promising to break in hues of
drab and ash.

The air changed its temperature and stirred itself more vigorously.
Cool breezes coursed in transparent eddies round Oak’s face. The wind
shifted yet a point or two and blew stronger. In ten minutes every wind
of heaven seemed to be roaming at large. Some of the thatching on the
wheat-stacks was now whirled fantastically aloft, and had to be
replaced and weighted with some rails that lay near at hand. This done,
Oak slaved away again at the barley. A huge drop of rain smote his
face, the wind snarled round every corner, the trees rocked to the
bases of their trunks, and the twigs clashed in strife. Driving in
spars at any point and on any system, inch by inch he covered more and
more safely from ruin this distracting impersonation of seven hundred
pounds. The rain came on in earnest, and Oak soon felt the water to be
tracking cold and clammy routes down his back. Ultimately he was
reduced well-nigh to a homogeneous sop, and the dyes of his clothes
trickled down and stood in a pool at the foot of the ladder. The rain
stretched obliquely through the dull atmosphere in liquid spines,
unbroken in continuity between their beginnings in the clouds and their
points in him.

Oak suddenly remembered that eight months before this time he had been
fighting against fire in the same spot as desperately as he was
fighting against water now—and for a futile love of the same woman. As
for her—But Oak was generous and true, and dismissed his reflections.

It was about seven o’clock in the dark leaden morning when Gabriel came
down from the last stack, and thankfully exclaimed, “It is done!” He
was drenched, weary, and sad, and yet not so sad as drenched and weary,
for he was cheered by a sense of success in a good cause.

Faint sounds came from the barn, and he looked that way. Figures
stepped singly and in pairs through the doors—all walking awkwardly,
and abashed, save the foremost, who wore a red jacket, and advanced
with his hands in his pockets, whistling. The others shambled after
with a conscience-stricken air: the whole procession was not unlike
Flaxman’s group of the suitors tottering on towards the infernal
regions under the conduct of Mercury. The gnarled shapes passed into
the village, Troy, their leader, entering the farmhouse. Not a single
one of them had turned his face to the ricks, or apparently bestowed
one thought upon their condition.

Soon Oak too went homeward, by a different route from theirs. In front
of him against the wet glazed surface of the lane he saw a person
walking yet more slowly than himself under an umbrella. The man turned
and plainly started; he was Boldwood.

“How are you this morning, sir?” said Oak.

“Yes, it is a wet day.—Oh, I am well, very well, I thank you; quite
well.”

“I am glad to hear it, sir.”

Boldwood seemed to awake to the present by degrees. “You look tired and
ill, Oak,” he said then, desultorily regarding his companion.

“I am tired. You look strangely altered, sir.”

“I? Not a bit of it: I am well enough. What put that into your head?”

“I thought you didn’t look quite so topping as you used to, that was
all.”

“Indeed, then you are mistaken,” said Boldwood, shortly. “Nothing hurts
me. My constitution is an iron one.”

“I’ve been working hard to get our ricks covered, and was barely in
time. Never had such a struggle in my life.... Yours of course are
safe, sir.”

“Oh yes,” Boldwood added, after an interval of silence: “What did you
ask, Oak?”

“Your ricks are all covered before this time?”

“No.”

“At any rate, the large ones upon the stone staddles?”

“They are not.”

“Them under the hedge?”

“No. I forgot to tell the thatcher to set about it.”

“Nor the little one by the stile?”

“Nor the little one by the stile. I overlooked the ricks this year.”

“Then not a tenth of your corn will come to measure, sir.”

“Possibly not.”

“Overlooked them,” repeated Gabriel slowly to himself. It is difficult
to describe the intensely dramatic effect that announcement had upon
Oak at such a moment. All the night he had been feeling that the
neglect he was labouring to repair was abnormal and isolated—the only
instance of the kind within the circuit of the county. Yet at this very
time, within the same parish, a greater waste had been going on,
uncomplained of and disregarded. A few months earlier Boldwood’s
forgetting his husbandry would have been as preposterous an idea as a
sailor forgetting he was in a ship. Oak was just thinking that whatever
he himself might have suffered from Bathsheba’s marriage, here was a
man who had suffered more, when Boldwood spoke in a changed voice—that
of one who yearned to make a confidence and relieve his heart by an
outpouring.

“Oak, you know as well as I that things have gone wrong with me lately.
I may as well own it. I was going to get a little settled in life; but
in some way my plan has come to nothing.”

“I thought my mistress would have married you,” said Gabriel, not
knowing enough of the full depths of Boldwood’s love to keep silence on
the farmer’s account, and determined not to evade discipline by doing
so on his own. “However, it is so sometimes, and nothing happens that
we expect,” he added, with the repose of a man whom misfortune had
inured rather than subdued.

“I daresay I am a joke about the parish,” said Boldwood, as if the
subject came irresistibly to his tongue, and with a miserable lightness
meant to express his indifference.

“Oh no—I don’t think that.”

“—But the real truth of the matter is that there was not, as some
fancy, any jilting on—her part. No engagement ever existed between me
and Miss Everdene. People say so, but it is untrue: she never promised
me!” Boldwood stood still now and turned his wild face to Oak. “Oh,
Gabriel,” he continued, “I am weak and foolish, and I don’t know what,
and I can’t fend off my miserable grief!... I had some faint belief in
the mercy of God till I lost that woman. Yes, He prepared a gourd to
shade me, and like the prophet I thanked Him and was glad. But the next
day He prepared a worm to smite the gourd and wither it; and I feel it
is better to die than to live!”

A silence followed. Boldwood aroused himself from the momentary mood of
confidence into which he had drifted, and walked on again, resuming his
usual reserve.

“No, Gabriel,” he resumed, with a carelessness which was like the smile
on the countenance of a skull: “it was made more of by other people
than ever it was by us. I do feel a little regret occasionally, but no
woman ever had power over me for any length of time. Well, good
morning; I can trust you not to mention to others what has passed
between us two here.”