Twenty Nine: Far From The Madding Crowd: Thomas Hardy: The Twilight Walk

Bathsheba loved Troy, and she abandoned her self reliance.  His embellishments surfaced and tha attracted her, while  the weaknesses went deep and unnoticed.  Bathsheba opened her heart to Liddy about her respect for Boldwood.  But her love of Troy was kept close to her breast. Gabriel could see the troubled waters and the absence of Boldwood from the house.

An opportunity occured one evening when she had gone for a short walk by a path through the neighbouring corn fields.  It was dusk when Oak who had not been far afield that day, took the same path and met her returning, quite pensively. 

The wheat was tall, and the path was narrow; the way was quite a sunken groove between the embrowning thicket on either side.  Two persons cannot walk abreast without damaging the crop.  Oak stood aside to let her pass. 

"Oh, it is Gabriel?" she said; you are taking a walk too, goodnight."

"I thought I would come to meet you,"

Oak said, turning and following at her heels when she had brushed quickly by him.  

"Thank you, indeed, but I am not very fearful."

"Oh, no; but there are bad characters around."

"I never meet them."

Oak was planning to introduce Troy as a bad character. But he found that the plan broke down. He tried another way.

"And the man who would come to meet you is away from home, too --- I mean Farmer Boldwood --- why, I think I will go," said he.

"Ah, yes." She walked on without turning her head, and for many steps nothing further was heard from her than the rustle of her dress against the heavy corn ears.  Then she said sarcastically, "I don't understand what you mean, --- Mr Boldwood naturally come to meet me?" 

"The wedding likely to take place between you and Mr Boldwood," 

"It is not true. --- No marriage is likely to take place between us." 

"Well, Miss Everdene, I never in my life saw courting, it his is not a courting of you."

Bathsheba was clear that she was in a weak position, and to better it she began to argue, "Since this subject has been mentioned," she said emphatically, "I am glad of the opportunity of clearing up a mistaken perception.  I didn't definitely promise Mr Boldwood anything.  I have never cared for him. I respect him.  He had urged me to marry him.  I have given him no distinct answer.  As soon as he returns I shall do so; and the answer will be that I cannot think of marrying him."

"People are full of mistakes, it seems."

"The other day they said you were trifling with him, and you almost proved that you were not; lately they say you are not, and you straightway begin to show ---" 

"That I am, I suppose you mean."

"Well, I suppose they speak the truth."

"They do, but wrongly applied.  I don't trifle with him, but then I have nothing to do with him."

"I wish you had never met that young sergeant Troy, miss," he sighed.

Bathsheba's steps became faintly spasmodic.  "Why?" She asked.

"He is not good enough for you."

" Did anyone tell you to speak to me like that?"

"Nobody at all."

"Then it appears to me that sergeant Troy does not concern us here." she said stubbornly.  "Yes I must say that sergeant Troy is an educated man and quite worthy of any woman.  He is well born."

"His learning and birth and the rank of soldier is anything but proof of worth.  It shows his course to be downward."

"I cannot see what this has to do with our conversation.  Mr Troy's course is not by any means downward; and his superiority is a proof of his worth." 

"I have my reason to believe that he has no conscience at all, and I cannot help begging you, miss, to have nothing to do with him.  Listen to me, please, I don't say he is a bad man.  I pray to God he is not.  Since we don't exactly know what he is, why not behave as if he might be bad, simply for your own safety?  Don't trust him mistress; I ask you not to trust him so."

"Why, pray?"

"I like soldiers, but this one I do not like," he said sturdily.  "The nature of his calling might have tempted him astray, and what is mirth to the neighbours is ruin to the woman.  When he tries to talk to you again, why not turn away with a short 'Good day'; and when you see him coming one way, turn the other.  When he says anything laughable, fail to see the point and don't smile, and speak of him before those who will report your talk as 'that fantastical man' or 'that sergeant what's his name, that man of a family that has come to the dogs.' Don't be unmannerly towards him, but harmless uncivil, and so get rid of the man."

Bathsheba throbbed like a Christmas robin detained by a window pane.

"I say --- I say again --- that it doesn't become you to talk about him.  Why he should be mentioned here. It is quite irrelevant!" she exclaimed desperately.  I know this, th-th-that he is a thoroughly conscientious man -- blunt sometimes even to rudeness -- but always speaking his mind about you plain on your face!" 

"Oh!" 

"He is as good as anybody in the parish. He is very particular too about going to church -- yes, he is." 

"I am afraid nobody has ever seen him there.  I never did." 

"The reason of that is," she said eagerly, "that he goes in privately by old tower door, just when the service 

commences, and sits at the back of gallery.  He told me so." 

The thirteenth stroke of a crazy clock, thought Gabriel.

"You know, mistress, that I love you, and shall always love you.  I would wish no.harm to you.  But Bathsheba, I beg you to consider that to keep yourself well honoured among the workfolk, and in common generosity to an honourable man who loves you as well as I, you should be more discreet in your bearing towards this soldier."

"Don't --- don't!" she exclaimed in a choking voice.

"Are you not more to me than my own affairs, and even life?" Gabriel went on, Come, listen to me! I do beg you to consider before it is too late -- how safe you would be in Boldwood' hands!"

"I wish you to go elsewhere," said Bathsheba in trembling words, "Do not remain on this farm any longer.  I don't want you -- I beg you to go." 

"That's nonsense," said Oak calmly.  This is the second time you have pretended to dismiss me, and what's the use of it?"

"Pretended?  You shall go, sir --- your lecture I will not hear!  I am mistress here." 

"Go, indeed -- what folly will you say next?  Treating me like Dick, Tom, and Harry when you know that a short time ago my position was as good as yours.  Upon my life Bathsheba, it is too barefaced.  You know that I can't go without putting things in such a strait, as you wouldn't get out of, I can't tell when.  Unless indeed you will promise to have an understanding man as bailiff, or manager or something.  I will go at once if you will promise that."

"I shall have no bailiff, I shall continue to be my own manager," she said decisively.

"Very well, then; you should be thankful to me for staying.  How would the farm go on with nobody to mind it with expert hand? But mind this, I don't wish you to feel to owe me anything.  I don't like your farm going to ruin."

Bathsheba unconsciously respected him for his fidelity.  She murmured something to the effect that he may stay if he wished.  But she asked distinctly, "Will you leave me alone now?  I don't order it as a mistress -- I ask it as a friend, and I expect you not to be uncorteous as to refuse."

"Certainly I will, Miss Everdene," said Gabriel gently.  He stood still and allowed her to get far ahead of him

till he could only see her form upon the sky.

A figure apparently rose from the earth beside her.  Beyond all doubt IT was sergeant Troy.

Gabriel went home by way of the churchyard.  He thought of what she had said about Sergeant's habit of entering the church unnoticed at the beginning of the service.  Believing that the little gallery door was quite disused, he ascended the external flight of steps at the top and examined it.  The pale sunlight in the northwestern sky was sufficient to show that a sprig of ivy had grown from the wall across the door to a length of more than a foot delicately tying the panel to the stone jamb.  The door had not been opened since Troy came back to Weatherbury.

           END OF THE CHAPTER