think you would come at all. It was a wonder you found me here. I am orderly to-morrow.”
“You said I was to come.”
“Well — I said that you might.”
“Yes, I mean that I might. You are glad to see me, Frank?”
“Oh yes — of course.”
“Can you — come to me!”
My dear Fan, no! The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are closed, and I have no leave. We are all of us as good as in the county gaol till to-morrow morning.”
“Then I shan’t see you till then!” The words were in a faltering tone of disappointment.
“How did you get here from Weatherbury?”
“I walked — some part of the way — the rest by the carriers.”
“I am surprised.”
“Yes — so am I. And Frank, when will it be?”
“What?”
“That you promised.”
“I don’t quite recollect.”
“O you do! Don’t speak like that. It weighs me to the earth. It makes me say what ought to be said first by you.”
“Never mind — say it.”
“O, must I? — it is, when shall we be married, Frank?”
“Oh, I see. Well — you have to get proper clothes.”
“I have money. Will it be by banns or license?”
“Banns, I should think.”
“And we live in two parishes.”
“Do we? What then?”
“My lodgings are in St. Mary’s, and this is not. So they will have to be published in both.”
“Is that the law?”
“Yes. O Frank — you think me forward, I am afraid! Don’t, dear Frank — will you — for I love you so. And you said lots of times you would marry me, and and — I— I— I—--”
“Don’t cry, now! It is foolish. If I said so, of course I will.”
“And shall I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?”
“Yes”
“To-morrow?”
“Not tomorrow. We’ll settle in a few days.”
“You have the permission of the officers?”
“No, not yet.”
“O— how is it? You said you almost had before you left Casterbridge.”
“The fact is, I forgot to ask. Your coming like this is so sudden and unexpected.”
“Yes — yes — it is. It was wrong of me to worry you. I’ll go away now. Will you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twills’s, in North Street? I don’t like to come to the Barracks. There are bad women about, and they think me one.”
“Quite, so. I’ll come to you, my dear. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Frank — good-night!”
And the noise was again heard of a window closing. The little spot moved away. When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was heard inside the wall.
“Ho — ho — Sergeant — ho — ho!” An expostulation followed, but it was indistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was hardly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools outside.
Chapter 12
Farmers — A Rule — In Exception
The first public evidence of Bathsheba’s decision to be a farmer in her own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following market-day in the cornmarket at Casterbridge.
The low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars, and latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged with hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the speaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditor’s face and concentrating his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during delivery. The greater number carried in their hands ground-ash saplings, using them partly as walking-sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. During conversations each subjected his sapling to great varieties of usage — bending it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two hands, overweighting it on the ground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth and a handful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was flung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to half-a-dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the building unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of their anticipations with a high-stretched neck and oblique eye.
Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of her sex that the room contained. She was prettily and even daintily dressed. She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard after them as a romance after sermons, was felt among them like a breeze among furnaces. It had required a little determination — far more than she had at first imagined — to take up a position here, for at her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned rigidly fixed there.
Two or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba, and to these she had made her way. But if she was to be the practical woman she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. Bathsheba too had her sample-bags, and by degrees adopted the professional pour into the hand — holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect Casterbridge manner.
Something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and in the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted lips, she somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with a tall man, suggested that there was potentiality enough in that lithe slip of humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring enough to carry them out. But her eyes had a softness — invariably a softness — which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness; as they were, it lowered an expression that might have been piercing to simple clearness.
Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigor, she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers. In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But there was an
