Thirty Nine: Far From The Madding Crowd: Thomas Hardy - Coming Home - A Cry

On the turn-pike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, there was a long steep ascent. In returning from market it is usual for the farmers and other gig users to alight at the bottom and walk up. 

The month of October. A Saturday evening.  Bathsheba's vehicle was creeping up the ascent. She was sitting listlessly in the second seat, while sergeant Troy was walking beside the gig in a farmer's marketing suit of unusually fashionable cut.  Though on foot he held the reins and whip, and occasionally aimed light cuts at the horse's ear with the end of lash as a pastime.  Sergeant Troy had bought his discharge with Bathsheba's money, and was transforming himself to a farmer of spirited and very modern school.  People still called him sergeant and he retained his well shaped moustache of his military days.

"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 once I read, wet weather is a narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our country's history; now, isn't that true?" 

"But the time of the 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 it was!  It is a wild open place, not far from the sands, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like liquid misery.  Wind and rain ---- Good lord!  Dark? Why it was as black as my hat before the last race was run.  It was five o'clock and I couldn't see the horses, till they were almost in, leave alone colours.  The ground was heavy as lead, and all judgement from a fellow's experience went for nothing.  Horses, riders, people were all blown out like ships at sea.  Three booths were blown over, and the wretched folks inside crawled out upon their hands and knees; and in the next field were as many as a dozen hats at one time.

Aye, 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!" [1]

"And you mean Frank," said  Bathsheba, sadly, --- her voice was low and painful, "that you are lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful horse-racing?

Oh, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take my money so.  We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the end of it!"

"Humbug about cruel.  Now, there it's again -- turn on the waterworks; that's just like you."

"But you'll promise me not to go to Budmouth races next week, won't you?" she implored.  Bathsheba was at full depth for tears, but she maintained dry eyes.

"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 will go a hundred miles the other way.  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 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 agonised 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 would never have --- I know what."

A flash of indignation was seen in Bathsheba's eyes, as she looked ahead resolutely after this reply.  They moved on without further speech.  Some early withered leaves

from the beach trees, which hooded the road at this spot occasionally spinning downward across their path.

A woman appeared on the brow of the hill.  The ridge was so abrupt that she was very near the husband and wife, but they did not take notice of her.  Troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and while putting his foot on the step the woman passed behind him. Though it was eventide , and the path was overshadowed by trees, Bathsheba could 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 recovered his presence of mind, and without turning his face to her said slowly, "I don't know." 

 The woman heard him speak, and quickly looked up, and examined the side of his face; she recognised the soldier under the yeoman's [2]garb.  There, at first came gladness in her face, and then agony.  She uttered a hysterical cry, and fell down.

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

"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 gentle, but 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 tonight?  Casterbridge Union?" 

"Yes, I am thinking so." 

"You shan't go there; yet wait.  Yes, perhaps for tonight.  I can do nothing better -- worse luck.  Sleep there tonight and stay there tomorrow. Monday is the first free day I have; and on Monday morning, at ten exactly meet me on Caster Bridge.  I will bring all the money I can muster.  I will see to that Fanny.  I will get you a lodging somewhere.  Goodbye till then.  I am a brute --- but goodby!" 

After advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the hill, Bathsheba turned her head.  The woman was upon her feet, and was withdrawing from Troy, and going feebly down the hill.  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 pale.

"Do you know who that woman was?" asked Bathsheba looking searchingly into his face.

"I do," he said looking boldly into herself.

"I thought you did," said she with angry haeuteur , 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 whip round Poppet's flank, which caused the animal to start forward at a wild pace.

No more was said.

        END OF THE CHAPTER 

Notes:-

1. Pimpernel and Policy are two racing horses.

2. Yeoman: A class of freeholders below the gentry but above labourers.