CHAPTER XLIV

UNDER A TREE—REACTION

Bathsheba went along the dark road, neither knowing nor caring about

the direction or issue of her flight. The first time that she

definitely noticed her position was when she reached a gate leading

into a thicket overhung by some large oak and beech trees. On looking

into the place, it occurred to her that she had seen it by daylight on

some previous occasion, and that what appeared like an impassable

thicket was in reality a brake of fern now withering fast. She could

think of nothing better to do with her palpitating self than to go in

here and hide; and entering, she lighted on a spot sheltered from the

damp fog by a reclining trunk, where she sank down upon a tangled couch

of fronds and stems. She mechanically pulled some armfuls round her to

keep off the breezes, and closed her eyes.

Whether she slept or not that night Bathsheba was not clearly aware.

But it was with a freshened existence and a cooler brain that, a long

time afterwards, she became conscious of some interesting proceedings

which were going on in the trees above her head and around.

A coarse-throated chatter was the first sound.

It was a sparrow just waking.

Next: “Chee-weeze-weeze-weeze!” from another retreat.

It was a finch.

Third: “Tink-tink-tink-tink-a-chink!” from the hedge.

It was a robin.

“Chuck-chuck-chuck!” overhead.

A squirrel.

Then, from the road, “With my ra-ta-ta, and my rum-tum-tum!”

It was a ploughboy. Presently he came opposite, and she believed from

his voice that he was one of the boys on her own farm. He was followed

by a shambling tramp of heavy feet, and looking through the ferns

Bathsheba could just discern in the wan light of daybreak a team of her

own horses. They stopped to drink at a pond on the other side of the

way. She watched them flouncing into the pool, drinking, tossing up

their heads, drinking again, the water dribbling from their lips in

silver threads. There was another flounce, and they came out of the

pond, and turned back again towards the farm.

She looked further around. Day was just dawning, and beside its cool

air and colours her heated actions and resolves of the night stood out

in lurid contrast. She perceived that in her lap, and clinging to her

hair, were red and yellow leaves which had come down from the tree and

settled silently upon her during her partial sleep. Bathsheba shook her

dress to get rid of them, when multitudes of the same family lying

round about her rose and fluttered away in the breeze thus created,

“like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.”

There was an opening towards the east, and the glow from the as yet

unrisen sun attracted her eyes thither. From her feet, and between the

beautiful yellowing ferns with their feathery arms, the ground sloped

downwards to a hollow, in which was a species of swamp, dotted with

fungi. A morning mist hung over it now—a fulsome yet magnificent

silvery veil, full of light from the sun, yet semi-opaque—the hedge

behind it being in some measure hidden by its hazy luminousness. Up the

sides of this depression grew sheaves of the common rush, and here and

there a peculiar species of flag, the blades of which glistened in the

emerging sun, like scythes. But the general aspect of the swamp was

malignant. From its moist and poisonous coat seemed to be exhaled the

essences of evil things in the earth, and in the waters under the

earth. The fungi grew in all manner of positions from rotting leaves

and tree stumps, some exhibiting to her listless gaze their clammy

tops, others their oozing gills. Some were marked with great splotches,

red as arterial blood, others were saffron yellow, and others tall and

attenuated, with stems like macaroni. Some were leathery and of richest

browns. The hollow seemed a nursery of pestilences small and great, in

the immediate neighbourhood of comfort and health, and Bathsheba arose

with a tremor at the thought of having passed the night on the brink of

so dismal a place.

There were now other footsteps to be heard along the road. Bathsheba’s

nerves were still unstrung: she crouched down out of sight again, and

the pedestrian came into view. He was a schoolboy, with a bag slung

over his shoulder containing his dinner, and a book in his hand. He

paused by the gate, and, without looking up, continued murmuring words

in tones quite loud enough to reach her ears.

“‘O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord, O Lord’:—that I know out o’ book.

‘Give us, give us, give us, give us, give us’:—that I know. ‘Grace

that, grace that, grace that, grace that’:—that I know.” Other words

followed to the same effect. The boy was of the dunce class apparently;

the book was a psalter, and this was his way of learning the collect.

In the worst attacks of trouble there appears to be always a

superficial film of consciousness which is left disengaged and open to

the notice of trifles, and Bathsheba was faintly amused at the boy’s

method, till he too passed on.

By this time stupor had given place to anxiety, and anxiety began to

make room for hunger and thirst. A form now appeared upon the rise on

the other side of the swamp, half-hidden by the mist, and came towards

Bathsheba. The woman—for it was a woman—approached with her face

askance, as if looking earnestly on all sides of her. When she got a

little further round to the left, and drew nearer, Bathsheba could see

the newcomer’s profile against the sunny sky, and knew the wavy sweep

from forehead to chin, with neither angle nor decisive line anywhere

about it, to be the familiar contour of Liddy Smallbury.

Bathsheba’s heart bounded with gratitude in the thought that she was

not altogether deserted, and she jumped up. “Oh, Liddy!” she said, or

attempted to say; but the words had only been framed by her lips; there

came no sound. She had lost her voice by exposure to the clogged

atmosphere all these hours of night.

“Oh, ma’am! I am so glad I have found you,” said the girl, as soon as

she saw Bathsheba.

“You can’t come across,” Bathsheba said in a whisper, which she vainly

endeavoured to make loud enough to reach Liddy’s ears. Liddy, not

knowing this, stepped down upon the swamp, saying, as she did so, “It

will bear me up, I think.”

Bathsheba never forgot that transient little picture of Liddy crossing

the swamp to her there in the morning light. Iridescent bubbles of dank

subterranean breath rose from the sweating sod beside the

waiting-maid’s feet as she trod, hissing as they burst and expanded

away to join the vapoury firmament above. Liddy did not sink, as

Bathsheba had anticipated.

She landed safely on the other side, and looked up at the beautiful

though pale and weary face of her young mistress.

“Poor thing!” said Liddy, with tears in her eyes, “Do hearten yourself

up a little, ma’am. However did—”

“I can’t speak above a whisper—my voice is gone for the present,” said

Bathsheba, hurriedly. “I suppose the damp air from that hollow has

taken it away. Liddy, don’t question me, mind. Who sent you—anybody?”

“Nobody. I thought, when I found you were not at home, that something

cruel had happened. I fancy I heard his voice late last night; and so,

knowing something was wrong—”

“Is he at home?”

“No; he left just before I came out.”

“Is Fanny taken away?”

“Not yet. She will soon be—at nine o’clock.”

“We won’t go home at present, then. Suppose we walk about in this

wood?”

Liddy, without exactly understanding everything, or anything, in this

episode, assented, and they walked together further among the trees.

“But you had better come in, ma’am, and have something to eat. You will

die of a chill!”

“I shall not come indoors yet—perhaps never.”

“Shall I get you something to eat, and something else to put over your

head besides that little shawl?”

“If you will, Liddy.”

Liddy vanished, and at the end of twenty minutes returned with a cloak,

hat, some slices of bread and butter, a tea-cup, and some hot tea in a

little china jug.

“Is Fanny gone?” said Bathsheba.

“No,” said her companion, pouring out the tea.

Bathsheba wrapped herself up and ate and drank sparingly. Her voice was

then a little clearer, and trifling colour returned to her face. “Now

we’ll walk about again,” she said.

They wandered about the wood for nearly two hours, Bathsheba replying

in monosyllables to Liddy’s prattle, for her mind ran on one subject,

and one only. She interrupted with—

“I wonder if Fanny is gone by this time?”

“I will go and see.”

She came back with the information that the men were just taking away

the corpse; that Bathsheba had been inquired for; that she had replied

to the effect that her mistress was unwell and could not be seen.

“Then they think I am in my bedroom?”

“Yes.” Liddy then ventured to add: “You said when I first found you

that you might never go home again—you didn’t mean it, ma’am?”

“No; I’ve altered my mind. It is only women with no pride in them who

run away from their husbands. There is one position worse than that of

being found dead in your husband’s house from his ill usage, and that

is, to be found alive through having gone away to the house of somebody

else. I’ve thought of it all this morning, and I’ve chosen my course. A

runaway wife is an encumbrance to everybody, a burden to herself and a

byword—all of which make up a heap of misery greater than any that

comes by staying at home—though this may include the trifling items of

insult, beating, and starvation. Liddy, if ever you marry—God forbid

that you ever should!—you’ll find yourself in a fearful situation; but

mind this, don’t you flinch. Stand your ground, and be cut to pieces.

That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Oh, mistress, don’t talk so!” said Liddy, taking her hand; “but I knew

you had too much sense to bide away. May I ask what dreadful thing it

is that has happened between you and him?”

“You may ask; but I may not tell.”

In about ten minutes they returned to the house by a circuitous route,

entering at the rear. Bathsheba glided up the back stairs to a disused

attic, and her companion followed.

“Liddy,” she said, with a lighter heart, for youth and hope had begun

to reassert themselves; “you are to be my confidante for the

present—somebody must be—and I choose you. Well, I shall take up my

abode here for a while. Will you get a fire lighted, put down a piece

of carpet, and help me to make the place comfortable. Afterwards, I

want you and Maryann to bring up that little stump bedstead in the

small room, and the bed belonging to it, and a table, and some other

things.... What shall I do to pass the heavy time away?”

“Hemming handkerchiefs is a very good thing,” said Liddy.

“Oh no, no! I hate needlework—I always did.”

“Knitting?”

“And that, too.”

“You might finish your sampler. Only the carnations and peacocks want

filling in; and then it could be framed and glazed, and hung beside

your aunt’s ma’am.”

“Samplers are out of date—horribly countrified. No Liddy, I’ll read.

Bring up some books—not new ones. I haven’t heart to read anything

new.”

“Some of your uncle’s old ones, ma’am?”

“Yes. Some of those we stowed away in boxes.” A faint gleam of humour

passed over her face as she said: “Bring Beaumont and Fletcher’s

_Maid’s Tragedy_, and the _Mourning Bride_, and—let me see—_Night

Thoughts_, and the _Vanity of Human Wishes_.”

“And that story of the black man, who murdered his wife Desdemona? It

is a nice dismal one that would suit you excellent just now.”

“Now, Liddy, you’ve been looking into my books without telling me; and

I said you were not to! How do you know it would suit me? It wouldn’t

suit me at all.”

“But if the others do—”

“No, they don’t; and I won’t read dismal books. Why should I read

dismal books, indeed? Bring me _Love in a Village_, and _Maid of the

Mill_, and _Doctor Syntax_, and some volumes of the _Spectator_.”

All that day Bathsheba and Liddy lived in the attic in a state of

barricade; a precaution which proved to be needless as against Troy,

for he did not appear in the neighbourhood or trouble them at all.

Bathsheba sat at the window till sunset, sometimes attempting to read,

at other times watching every movement outside without much purpose,

and listening without much interest to every sound.

The sun went down almost blood-red that night, and a livid cloud

received its rays in the east. Up against this dark background the west

front of the church tower—the only part of the edifice visible from the

farm-house windows—rose distinct and lustrous, the vane upon the summit

bristling with rays. Hereabouts, at six o’clock, the young men of the

village gathered, as was their custom, for a game of Prisoners’ base.

The spot had been consecrated to this ancient diversion from time

immemorial, the old stocks conveniently forming a base facing the

boundary of the churchyard, in front of which the ground was trodden

hard and bare as a pavement by the players. She could see the brown and

black heads of the young lads darting about right and left, their white

shirt-sleeves gleaming in the sun; whilst occasionally a shout and a

peal of hearty laughter varied the stillness of the evening air. They

continued playing for a quarter of an hour or so, when the game

concluded abruptly, and the players leapt over the wall and vanished

round to the other side behind a yew-tree, which was also half behind a

beech, now spreading in one mass of golden foliage, on which the

branches traced black lines.

“Why did the base-players finish their game so suddenly?” Bathsheba

inquired, the next time that Liddy entered the room.

“I think ’twas because two men came just then from Casterbridge and

began putting up a grand carved tombstone,” said Liddy. “The lads went

to see whose it was.”

“Do you know?” Bathsheba asked.

“I don’t,” said Liddy.