Far from the Madding Crowd

AK’S ADVANCEMENT—A GREAT HOPE

The later autumn and the winter drew on apace, and the leaves lay thick
upon the turf of the glades and the mosses of the woods. Bathsheba,
having previously been living in a state of suspended feeling which was
not suspense, now lived in a mood of quietude which was not precisely
peacefulness. While she had known him to be alive she could have
thought of his death with equanimity; but now that it might be she had
lost him, she regretted that he was not hers still. She kept the farm
going, raked in her profits without caring keenly about them, and
expended money on ventures because she had done so in bygone days,
which, though not long gone by, seemed infinitely removed from her
present. She looked back upon that past over a great gulf, as if she
were now a dead person, having the faculty of meditation still left in
her, by means of which, like the mouldering gentlefolk of the poet’s
story, she could sit and ponder what a gift life used to be.

However, one excellent result of her general apathy was the
long-delayed installation of Oak as bailiff; but he having virtually
exercised that function for a long time already, the change, beyond the
substantial increase of wages it brought, was little more than a
nominal one addressed to the outside world.

Boldwood lived secluded and inactive. Much of his wheat and all his
barley of that season had been spoilt by the rain. It sprouted, grew
into intricate mats, and was ultimately thrown to the pigs in armfuls.
The strange neglect which had produced this ruin and waste became the
subject of whispered talk among all the people round; and it was
elicited from one of Boldwood’s men that forgetfulness had nothing to
do with it, for he had been reminded of the danger to his corn as many
times and as persistently as inferiors dared to do. The sight of the
pigs turning in disgust from the rotten ears seemed to arouse Boldwood,
and he one evening sent for Oak. Whether it was suggested by
Bathsheba’s recent act of promotion or not, the farmer proposed at the
interview that Gabriel should undertake the superintendence of the
Lower Farm as well as of Bathsheba’s, because of the necessity Boldwood
felt for such aid, and the impossibility of discovering a more
trustworthy man. Gabriel’s malignant star was assuredly setting fast.

Bathsheba, when she learnt of this proposal—for Oak was obliged to
consult her—at first languidly objected. She considered that the two
farms together were too extensive for the observation of one man.
Boldwood, who was apparently determined by personal rather than
commercial reasons, suggested that Oak should be furnished with a horse
for his sole use, when the plan would present no difficulty, the two
farms lying side by side. Boldwood did not directly communicate with
her during these negotiations, only speaking to Oak, who was the
go-between throughout. All was harmoniously arranged at last, and we
now see Oak mounted on a strong cob, and daily trotting the length and
breadth of about two thousand acres in a cheerful spirit of
surveillance, as if the crops all belonged to him—the actual mistress
of the one-half and the master of the other, sitting in their
respective homes in gloomy and sad seclusion.

Out of this there arose, during the spring succeeding, a talk in the
parish that Gabriel Oak was feathering his nest fast.

“Whatever d’ye think,” said Susan Tall, “Gable Oak is coming it quite
the dand. He now wears shining boots with hardly a hob in ’em, two or
three times a-week, and a tall hat a-Sundays, and ’a hardly knows the
name of smockfrock. When I see people strut enough to be cut up into
bantam cocks, I stand dormant with wonder, and says no more!”

It was eventually known that Gabriel, though paid a fixed wage by
Bathsheba independent of the fluctuations of agricultural profits, had
made an engagement with Boldwood by which Oak was to receive a share of
the receipts—a small share certainly, yet it was money of a higher
quality than mere wages, and capable of expansion in a way that wages
were not. Some were beginning to consider Oak a “near” man, for though
his condition had thus far improved, he lived in no better style than
before, occupying the same cottage, paring his own potatoes, mending
his stockings, and sometimes even making his bed with his own hands.
But as Oak was not only provokingly indifferent to public opinion, but
a man who clung persistently to old habits and usages, simply because
they were old, there was room for doubt as to his motives.

A great hope had latterly germinated in Boldwood, whose unreasoning
devotion to Bathsheba could only be characterized as a fond madness
which neither time nor circumstance, evil nor good report, could weaken
or destroy. This fevered hope had grown up again like a grain of
mustard-seed during the quiet which followed the hasty conjecture that
Troy was drowned. He nourished it fearfully, and almost shunned the
contemplation of it in earnest, lest facts should reveal the wildness
of the dream. Bathsheba having at last been persuaded to wear mourning,
her appearance as she entered the church in that guise was in itself a
weekly addition to his faith that a time was coming—very far off
perhaps, yet surely nearing—when his waiting on events should have its
reward. How long he might have to wait he had not yet closely
considered. What he would try to recognize was that the severe
schooling she had been subjected to had made Bathsheba much more
considerate than she had formerly been of the feelings of others, and
he trusted that, should she be willing at any time in the future to
marry any man at all, that man would be himself. There was a substratum
of good feeling in her: her self-reproach for the injury she had
thoughtlessly done him might be depended upon now to a much greater
extent than before her infatuation and disappointment. It would be
possible to approach her by the channel of her good nature, and to
suggest a friendly businesslike compact between them for fulfilment at
some future day, keeping the passionate side of his desire entirely out
of her sight. Such was Boldwood’s hope.

To the eyes of the middle-aged, Bathsheba was perhaps additionally
charming just now. Her exuberance of spirit was pruned down; the
original phantom of delight had shown herself to be not too bright for
human nature’s daily food, and she had been able to enter this second
poetical phase without losing much of the first in the process.

Bathsheba’s return from a two months’ visit to her old aunt at Norcombe
afforded the impassioned and yearning farmer a pretext for inquiring
directly after her—now possibly in the ninth month of her widowhood—and
endeavouring to get a notion of her state of mind regarding him. This
occurred in the middle of the haymaking, and Boldwood contrived to be
near Liddy, who was assisting in the fields.

“I am glad to see you out of doors, Lydia,” he said pleasantly.

She simpered, and wondered in her heart why he should speak so frankly
to her.

“I hope Mrs. Troy is quite well after her long absence,” he continued,
in a manner expressing that the coldest-hearted neighbour could
scarcely say less about her.

“She is quite well, sir.”

“And cheerful, I suppose.”

“Yes, cheerful.”

“Fearful, did you say?”

“Oh no. I merely said she was cheerful.”

“Tells you all her affairs?”

“No, sir.”

“Some of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mrs. Troy puts much confidence in you, Lydia, and very wisely,
perhaps.”

“She do, sir. I’ve been with her all through her troubles, and was with
her at the time of Mr. Troy’s going and all. And if she were to marry
again I expect I should bide with her.”

“She promises that you shall—quite natural,” said the strategic lover,
throbbing throughout him at the presumption which Liddy’s words
appeared to warrant—that his darling had thought of re-marriage.

“No—she doesn’t promise it exactly. I merely judge on my own account.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. When she alludes to the possibility of
marrying again, you conclude—”

“She never do allude to it, sir,” said Liddy, thinking how very stupid
Mr. Boldwood was getting.

“Of course not,” he returned hastily, his hope falling again. “You
needn’t take quite such long reaches with your rake, Lydia—short and
quick ones are best. Well, perhaps, as she is absolute mistress again
now, it is wise of her to resolve never to give up her freedom.”

“My mistress did certainly once say, though not seriously, that she
supposed she might marry again at the end of seven years from last
year, if she cared to risk Mr. Troy’s coming back and claiming her.”

“Ah, six years from the present time. Said that she might. She might
marry at once in every reasonable person’s opinion, whatever the
lawyers may say to the contrary.”

“Have you been to ask them?” said Liddy, innocently.

“Not I,” said Boldwood, growing red. “Liddy, you needn’t stay here a
minute later than you wish, so Mr. Oak says. I am now going on a little
farther. Good-afternoon.”

He went away vexed with himself, and ashamed of having for this one
time in his life done anything which could be called underhand. Poor
Boldwood had no more skill in finesse than a battering-ram, and he was
uneasy with a sense of having made himself to appear stupid and, what
was worse, mean. But he had, after all, lighted upon one fact by way of
repayment. It was a singularly fresh and fascinating fact, and though
not without its sadness it was pertinent and real. In little more than
six years from this time Bathsheba might certainly marry him. There was
something definite in that hope, for admitting that there might have
been no deep thought in her words to Liddy about marriage, they showed
at least her creed on the matter.

This pleasant notion was now continually in his mind. Six years were a
long time, but how much shorter than never, the idea he had for so long
been obliged to endure! Jacob had served twice seven years for Rachel:
what were six for such a woman as this? He tried to like the notion of
waiting for her better than that of winning her at once. Boldwood felt
his love to be so deep and strong and eternal, that it was possible she
had never yet known its full volume, and this patience in delay would
afford him an opportunity of giving sweet proof on the point. He would
annihilate the six years of his life as if they were minutes—so little
did he value his time on earth beside her love. He would let her see,
all those six years of intangible ethereal courtship, how little care
he had for anything but as it bore upon the consummation.

Meanwhile the early and the late summer brought round the week in which
Greenhill Fair was held. This fair was frequently attended by the folk
of Weatherbury.