Far from the Madding Crowd

OMING HOME—A CRY

On the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, and about
three miles from the former place, is Yalbury Hill, one of those steep
long ascents which pervade the highways of this undulating part of
South Wessex. In returning from market it is usual for the farmers and
other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up.

One Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba’s vehicle was
duly creeping up this incline. She was sitting listlessly in the second
seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in a farmer’s marketing suit
of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made young man. Though
on foot, he held the reins and whip, and occasionally aimed light cuts
at the horse’s ear with the end of the lash, as a recreation. This man
was her husband, formerly Sergeant Troy, who, having bought his
discharge with Bathsheba’s money, was gradually transforming himself
into a farmer of a spirited and very modern school. People of
unalterable ideas still insisted upon calling him “Sergeant” when they
met him, which was in some degree owing to his having still retained
the well-shaped moustache of his military days, and the soldierly
bearing inseparable from his form and training.

“Yes, if it hadn’t been for that wretched rain I should have cleared
two hundred as easy as looking, my love,” he was saying. “Don’t you
see, it altered all the chances? To speak like a book I once read, wet
weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our
country’s history; now, isn’t that true?”

“But the time of year is come for changeable weather.”

“Well, yes. The fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of everybody.
Never did I see such a day as ’twas! ’Tis a wild open place, just out
of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like liquid misery.
Wind and rain—good Lord! Dark? Why, ’twas as black as my hat before the
last race was run. ’Twas five o’clock, and you couldn’t see the horses
till they were almost in, leave alone colours. The ground was as heavy
as lead, and all judgment from a fellow’s experience went for nothing.
Horses, riders, people, were all blown about like ships at sea. Three
booths were blown over, and the wretched folk inside crawled out upon
their hands and knees; and in the next field were as many as a dozen
hats at one time. Ay, Pimpernel regularly stuck fast, when about sixty
yards off, and when I saw Policy stepping on, it did knock my heart
against the lining of my ribs, I assure you, my love!”

“And you mean, Frank,” said Bathsheba, sadly—her voice was painfully
lowered from the fulness and vivacity of the previous summer—“that you
have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful
horse-racing? O, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take away
my money so. We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the end of
it!”

“Humbug about cruel. Now, there ’tis again—turn on the waterworks;
that’s just like you.”

“But you’ll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting, won’t
you?” she implored. Bathsheba was at the full depth for tears, but she
maintained a dry eye.

“I don’t see why I should; in fact, if it turns out to be a fine day, I
was thinking of taking you.”

“Never, never! I’ll go a hundred miles the other way first. I hate the
sound of the very word!”

“But the question of going to see the race or staying at home has very
little to do with the matter. Bets are all booked safely enough before
the race begins, you may depend. Whether it is a bad race for me or a
good one, will have very little to do with our going there next
Monday.”

“But you don’t mean to say that you have risked anything on this one
too!” she exclaimed, with an agonized look.

“There now, don’t you be a little fool. Wait till you are told. Why,
Bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you formerly had,
and upon my life if I had known what a chicken-hearted creature you
were under all your boldness, I’d never have—I know what.”

A flash of indignation might have been seen in Bathsheba’s dark eyes as
she looked resolutely ahead after this reply. They moved on without
further speech, some early-withered leaves from the trees which hooded
the road at this spot occasionally spinning downward across their path
to the earth.

A woman appeared on the brow of the hill. The ridge was in a cutting,
so that she was very near the husband and wife before she became
visible. Troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and whilst putting
his foot on the step the woman passed behind him.

Though the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide enveloped
them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the
extreme poverty of the woman’s garb, and the sadness of her face.

“Please, sir, do you know at what time Casterbridge Union-house closes
at night?”

The woman said these words to Troy over his shoulder.

Troy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he seemed to
recover presence of mind sufficient to prevent himself from giving way
to his impulse to suddenly turn and face her. He said, slowly—

“I don’t know.”

The woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined the side
of his face, and recognized the soldier under the yeoman’s garb. Her
face was drawn into an expression which had gladness and agony both
among its elements. She uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down.

“Oh, poor thing!” exclaimed Bathsheba, instantly preparing to alight.

“Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!” said Troy, peremptorily
throwing her the reins and the whip. “Walk the horse to the top: I’ll
see to the woman.”

“But I—”

“Do you hear? Clk—Poppet!”

The horse, gig, and Bathsheba moved on.

“How on earth did you come here? I thought you were miles away, or
dead! Why didn’t you write to me?” said Troy to the woman, in a
strangely gentle, yet hurried voice, as he lifted her up.

“I feared to.”

“Have you any money?”

“None.”

“Good Heaven—I wish I had more to give you! Here’s—wretched—the merest
trifle. It is every farthing I have left. I have none but what my wife
gives me, you know, and I can’t ask her now.”

The woman made no answer.

“I have only another moment,” continued Troy; “and now listen. Where
are you going to-night? Casterbridge Union?”

“Yes; I thought to go there.”

“You shan’t go there; yet, wait. Yes, perhaps for to-night; I can do
nothing better—worse luck! Sleep there to-night, and stay there
to-morrow. Monday is the first free day I have; and on Monday morning,
at ten exactly, meet me on Grey’s Bridge just out of the town. I’ll
bring all the money I can muster. You shan’t want—I’ll see that, Fanny;
then I’ll get you a lodging somewhere. Good-bye till then. I am a
brute—but good-bye!”

After advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the hill,
Bathsheba turned her head. The woman was upon her feet, and Bathsheba
saw her withdrawing from Troy, and going feebly down the hill by the
third milestone from Casterbridge. Troy then came on towards his wife,
stepped into the gig, took the reins from her hand, and without making
any observation whipped the horse into a trot. He was rather agitated.

“Do you know who that woman was?” said Bathsheba, looking searchingly
into his face.

“I do,” he said, looking boldly back into hers.

“I thought you did,” said she, with angry hauteur, and still regarding
him. “Who is she?”

He suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit neither of the
women.

“Nothing to either of us,” he said. “I know her by sight.”

“What is her name?”

“How should I know her name?”

“I think you do.”

“Think if you will, and be—” The sentence was completed by a smart cut
of the whip round Poppet’s flank, which caused the animal to start
forward at a wild pace. No more was said.