feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/gradesaver/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_8_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 54-57
feat_summary_id: chapters 54-57
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapters 54-Conclusion", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210108004047/https://www.gradesaver.com/far-from-the-madding-crowd/study-guide/summary-chapters-54-conclusion", "summary": "After his arrest, Boldwood pleads guilty and is sentenced to death. However, it is discovered that in his house there are many dresses and jewelry purchased for Bathsheba and set aside for their eventual marriage. Many of the local townspeople argue that he should be found insane, and thus not criminally responsible. In March, the judges meet to determine whether or not the sentence should be commuted, and Boldwood is sentenced to life in prison. Bathsheba recovers very slowly from the traumatic events of Christmas. In August, she encounters Gabriel while she is visiting Troy's grave; she has had him buried in the same grave with Fanny. Gabriel surprises her by saying that he is planning to move to California in the spring, and she objects that she will be lost without his help at the farm. She becomes more and more distraught to think of losing him as the months pass, and in the winter, he gives her formal notice that he will be leaving before the end of March. That night she goes to his cottage and asks if he is leaving because she has offended him. He explains that he is not going to leave England, but he is going to be leasing Boldwood's farm beginning in March. He notes that this doesn't mean he couldn't still work for her at the same time, but he is uncomfortable since rumors have started that he hopes to marry her and thinks it would be better if he did not work for her anymore. Bathsheba's objections spark Gabriel's curiosity, and he admits that of course he still loves her. The two of them joyfully realize that they mutually love each other. A short time later, Bathsheba agrees to marry him, and the two marry in a small, private ceremony with only a few close friends present. Gabriel comes to live with her at the Everdene farm, and the novel ends with an optimistic view of a happy and loving marriage for them.", "analysis": "The traumatic and violent events of the Christmas party seem to soften many of the characters into a new acceptance of their fates. Boldwood meekly accepts the legal punishment, but evidence of his insanity allows for him to be granted the small mercy of imprisonment. The discovery of the items he has purchased and set aside for Bathsheba reveals his obsessive hope: given that she only confirmed their engagement the night of the party, he must have been purchasing these items well before he knew whether or not she would agree to marry him. The discovery also reveals his fixation on wealth and status: when he tried to envision how he could best please Bathsheba, Boldwood assumed jewels and fine clothes must be the key to her heart. With Boldwood and Troy both out of the picture, Bathsheba can finally live without the distraction of men trying to woo her. By this stage in the novel, however, it seems that some of her ambition and zest for life has been lost. She plays a less and less active role in managing the farm. Even when she learns that Gabriel plans to leave, she is not outraged and indignant so much as lost and afraid. She knows she depends on him both professionally and personally, and is afraid of what she will do without him. Bathsheba does show some of her drive towards bold action by going to Gabriel's cottage the night after he hands in his resignation. It would be considered quite improper for a woman to go alone to a man's home after dark, even though as a widow Bathsheba now has more freedom than she did as an unmarried woman. The two have always seemed to communicate honestly and freely, and Bathsheba seeks out that frankness by trying to determine why Gabriel feels compelled to leave. However, what becomes clear is that the two have actually misunderstood each other. Bathsheba took Gabriel's unwillingness to ask about her feelings as a sign that he no longer cared for her, while he assumed that her initial answer had been a final one. The establishment of a romantic relationship, and then the marriage between the two seems to signal that partnerships best arise out of mutual respect and getting to know one another over a long span of time while working towards shared goals. The marriage seems to show some promising signs of being egalitarian in that it is rooted in the partnership of running the farm, and Gabriel will be moving in to Bathsheba's house. At the same time, for the marriage to come about Bathsheba seems to need to have been tamed by her experience of loss and betrayal. She is no longer the proud and willful woman she was at the beginning of the novel, and it is only once she becomes more docile and more resigned to requiring the assistance of a man that she can accept a relationship with Gabriel. In the end, \"in allowing Oak the positions of both phallic male and castrated male, while awarding Bathsheba the contradictory position of powerful and dependent female, Hardy denies power and sexuality to neither sex\" ."}
text: AFTER THE SHOCK
  
  
  Boldwood passed into the high road and turned in the direction of
  Casterbridge.  Here he walked at an even, steady pace over Yalbury
  Hill, along the dead level beyond, mounted Mellstock Hill, and
  between eleven and twelve o'clock crossed the Moor into the town.
  The streets were nearly deserted now, and the waving lamp-flames only
  lighted up rows of grey shop-shutters, and strips of white paving
  upon which his step echoed as his passed along.  He turned to the
  right, and halted before an archway of heavy stonework, which was
  closed by an iron studded pair of doors.  This was the entrance
  to the gaol, and over it a lamp was fixed, the light enabling the
  wretched traveller to find a bell-pull.
  
  The small wicket at last opened, and a porter appeared.  Boldwood
  stepped forward, and said something in a low tone, when, after a
  delay, another man came.  Boldwood entered, and the door was closed
  behind him, and he walked the world no more.
  
  Long before this time Weatherbury had been thoroughly aroused, and
  the wild deed which had terminated Boldwood's merrymaking became
  known to all.  Of those out of the house Oak was one of the first to
  hear of the catastrophe, and when he entered the room, which was
  about five minutes after Boldwood's exit, the scene was terrible.
  All the female guests were huddled aghast against the walls like
  sheep in a storm, and the men were bewildered as to what to do.  As
  for Bathsheba, she had changed.  She was sitting on the floor beside
  the body of Troy, his head pillowed in her lap, where she had herself
  lifted it.  With one hand she held her handkerchief to his breast and
  covered the wound, though scarcely a single drop of blood had flowed,
  and with the other she tightly clasped one of his.  The household
  convulsion had made her herself again.  The temporary coma had
  ceased, and activity had come with the necessity for it.  Deeds of
  endurance, which seem ordinary in philosophy, are rare in conduct,
  and Bathsheba was astonishing all around her now, for her philosophy
  was her conduct, and she seldom thought practicable what she did
  not practise.  She was of the stuff of which great men's mothers
  are made.  She was indispensable to high generation, hated at tea
  parties, feared in shops, and loved at crises.  Troy recumbent in
  his wife's lap formed now the sole spectacle in the middle of the
  spacious room.
  
  "Gabriel," she said, automatically, when he entered, turning up a
  face of which only the well-known lines remained to tell him it
  was hers, all else in the picture having faded quite.  "Ride to
  Casterbridge instantly for a surgeon.  It is, I believe, useless,
  but go.  Mr. Boldwood has shot my husband."
  
  Her statement of the fact in such quiet and simple words came with
  more force than a tragic declamation, and had somewhat the effect of
  setting the distorted images in each mind present into proper focus.
  Oak, almost before he had comprehended anything beyond the briefest
  abstract of the event, hurried out of the room, saddled a horse and
  rode away.  Not till he had ridden more than a mile did it occur to
  him that he would have done better by sending some other man on this
  errand, remaining himself in the house.  What had become of Boldwood?
  He should have been looked after.  Was he mad--had there been a
  quarrel?  Then how had Troy got there?  Where had he come from?  How
  did this remarkable reappearance effect itself when he was supposed
  by many to be at the bottom of the sea?  Oak had in some slight
  measure been prepared for the presence of Troy by hearing a rumour
  of his return just before entering Boldwood's house; but before he
  had weighed that information, this fatal event had been superimposed.
  However, it was too late now to think of sending another messenger,
  and he rode on, in the excitement of these self-inquiries
  not discerning, when about three miles from Casterbridge, a
  square-figured pedestrian passing along under the dark hedge in the
  same direction as his own.
  
  The miles necessary to be traversed, and other hindrances incidental
  to the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, delayed
  the arrival of Mr. Aldritch, the surgeon; and more than three hours
  passed between the time at which the shot was fired and that of his
  entering the house.  Oak was additionally detained in Casterbridge
  through having to give notice to the authorities of what had
  happened; and he then found that Boldwood had also entered the town,
  and delivered himself up.
  
  In the meantime the surgeon, having hastened into the hall at
  Boldwood's, found it in darkness and quite deserted.  He went on to
  the back of the house, where he discovered in the kitchen an old man,
  of whom he made inquiries.
  
  "She's had him took away to her own house, sir," said his informant.
  
  "Who has?" said the doctor.
  
  "Mrs. Troy.  'A was quite dead, sir."
  
  This was astonishing information.  "She had no right to do that,"
  said the doctor.  "There will have to be an inquest, and she should
  have waited to know what to do."
  
  "Yes, sir; it was hinted to her that she had better wait till the law
  was known.  But she said law was nothing to her, and she wouldn't let
  her dear husband's corpse bide neglected for folks to stare at for
  all the crowners in England."
  
  Mr. Aldritch drove at once back again up the hill to Bathsheba's.
  The first person he met was poor Liddy, who seemed literally to have
  dwindled smaller in these few latter hours.  "What has been done?" he
  said.
  
  "I don't know, sir," said Liddy, with suspended breath.  "My mistress
  has done it all."
  
  "Where is she?"
  
  "Upstairs with him, sir.  When he was brought home and taken
  upstairs, she said she wanted no further help from the men.  And then
  she called me, and made me fill the bath, and after that told me I
  had better go and lie down because I looked so ill.  Then she locked
  herself into the room alone with him, and would not let a nurse come
  in, or anybody at all.  But I thought I'd wait in the next room in
  case she should want me.  I heard her moving about inside for more
  than an hour, but she only came out once, and that was for more
  candles, because hers had burnt down into the socket.  She said we
  were to let her know when you or Mr. Thirdly came, sir."
  
  Oak entered with the parson at this moment, and they all went
  upstairs together, preceded by Liddy Smallbury.  Everything was
  silent as the grave when they paused on the landing.  Liddy knocked,
  and Bathsheba's dress was heard rustling across the room: the key
  turned in the lock, and she opened the door.  Her looks were calm and
  nearly rigid, like a slightly animated bust of Melpomene.
  
  "Oh, Mr. Aldritch, you have come at last," she murmured from her lips
  merely, and threw back the door.  "Ah, and Mr. Thirdly.  Well, all is
  done, and anybody in the world may see him now."  She then passed by
  him, crossed the landing, and entered another room.
  
  Looking into the chamber of death she had vacated they saw by the
  light of the candles which were on the drawers a tall straight
  shape lying at the further end of the bedroom, wrapped in white.
  Everything around was quite orderly.  The doctor went in, and after a
  few minutes returned to the landing again, where Oak and the parson
  still waited.
  
  "It is all done, indeed, as she says," remarked Mr. Aldritch, in a
  subdued voice.  "The body has been undressed and properly laid out in
  grave clothes.  Gracious Heaven--this mere girl!  She must have the
  nerve of a stoic!"
  
  "The heart of a wife merely," floated in a whisper about the ears
  of the three, and turning they saw Bathsheba in the midst of them.
  Then, as if at that instant to prove that her fortitude had been
  more of will than of spontaneity, she silently sank down between
  them and was a shapeless heap of drapery on the floor.  The simple
  consciousness that superhuman strain was no longer required had at
  once put a period to her power to continue it.
  
  They took her away into a further room, and the medical attendance
  which had been useless in Troy's case was invaluable in Bathsheba's,
  who fell into a series of fainting-fits that had a serious aspect
  for a time.  The sufferer was got to bed, and Oak, finding from the
  bulletins that nothing really dreadful was to be apprehended on her
  score, left the house.  Liddy kept watch in Bathsheba's chamber,
  where she heard her mistress, moaning in whispers through the dull
  slow hours of that wretched night: "Oh it is my fault--how can I
  live!  O Heaven, how can I live!"
  
  
  
  THE MARCH FOLLOWING--"BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD"
  
  
  We pass rapidly on into the month of March, to a breezy day without
  sunshine, frost, or dew.  On Yalbury Hill, about midway between
  Weatherbury and Casterbridge, where the turnpike road passes over
  the crest, a numerous concourse of people had gathered, the eyes of
  the greater number being frequently stretched afar in a northerly
  direction.  The groups consisted of a throng of idlers, a party of
  javelin-men, and two trumpeters, and in the midst were carriages, one
  of which contained the high sheriff.  With the idlers, many of whom
  had mounted to the top of a cutting formed for the road, were several
  Weatherbury men and boys--among others Poorgrass, Coggan, and Cain
  Ball.
  
  At the end of half-an-hour a faint dust was seen in the expected
  quarter, and shortly after a travelling-carriage, bringing one of the
  two judges on the Western Circuit, came up the hill and halted on the
  top.  The judge changed carriages whilst a flourish was blown by the
  big-cheeked trumpeters, and a procession being formed of the vehicles
  and javelin-men, they all proceeded towards the town, excepting the
  Weatherbury men, who as soon as they had seen the judge move off
  returned home again to their work.
  
  "Joseph, I seed you squeezing close to the carriage," said Coggan, as
  they walked.  "Did ye notice my lord judge's face?"
  
  "I did," said Poorgrass.  "I looked hard at en, as if I would read
  his very soul; and there was mercy in his eyes--or to speak with the
  exact truth required of us at this solemn time, in the eye that was
  towards me."
  
  "Well, I hope for the best," said Coggan, "though bad that must be.
  However, I shan't go to the trial, and I'd advise the rest of ye
  that bain't wanted to bide away.  'Twill disturb his mind more than
  anything to see us there staring at him as if he were a show."
  
  "The very thing I said this morning," observed Joseph, "'Justice is
  come to weigh him in the balances,' I said in my reflectious way,
  'and if he's found wanting, so be it unto him,' and a bystander said
  'Hear, hear!  A man who can talk like that ought to be heard.' But I
  don't like dwelling upon it, for my few words are my few words, and
  not much; though the speech of some men is rumoured abroad as though
  by nature formed for such."
  
  "So 'tis, Joseph.  And now, neighbours, as I said, every man bide at
  home."
  
  The resolution was adhered to; and all waited anxiously for the news
  next day.  Their suspense was diverted, however, by a discovery which
  was made in the afternoon, throwing more light on Boldwood's conduct
  and condition than any details which had preceded it.
  
  That he had been from the time of Greenhill Fair until the fatal
  Christmas Eve in excited and unusual moods was known to those who had
  been intimate with him; but nobody imagined that there had shown in
  him unequivocal symptoms of the mental derangement which Bathsheba
  and Oak, alone of all others and at different times, had momentarily
  suspected.  In a locked closet was now discovered an extraordinary
  collection of articles.  There were several sets of ladies' dresses
  in the piece, of sundry expensive materials; silks and satins,
  poplins and velvets, all of colours which from Bathsheba's style of
  dress might have been judged to be her favourites.  There were two
  muffs, sable and ermine.  Above all there was a case of jewellery,
  containing four heavy gold bracelets and several lockets and rings,
  all of fine quality and manufacture.  These things had been bought in
  Bath and other towns from time to time, and brought home by stealth.
  They were all carefully packed in paper, and each package was
  labelled "Bathsheba Boldwood," a date being subjoined six years in
  advance in every instance.
  
  These somewhat pathetic evidences of a mind crazed with care and love
  were the subject of discourse in Warren's malt-house when Oak entered
  from Casterbridge with tidings of sentence. He came in the afternoon,
  and his face, as the kiln glow shone upon it, told the tale
  sufficiently well.  Boldwood, as every one supposed he would do, had
  pleaded guilty, and had been sentenced to death.
  
  The conviction that Boldwood had not been morally responsible for his
  later acts now became general.  Facts elicited previous to the trial
  had pointed strongly in the same direction, but they had not been of
  sufficient weight to lead to an order for an examination into the
  state of Boldwood's mind.  It was astonishing, now that a presumption
  of insanity was raised, how many collateral circumstances were
  remembered to which a condition of mental disease seemed to afford
  the only explanation--among others, the unprecedented neglect of his
  corn stacks in the previous summer.
  
  A petition was addressed to the Home Secretary, advancing
  the circumstances which appeared to justify a request for a
  reconsideration of the sentence.  It was not "numerously signed"
  by the inhabitants of Casterbridge, as is usual in such cases, for
  Boldwood had never made many friends over the counter.  The shops
  thought it very natural that a man who, by importing direct from
  the producer, had daringly set aside the first great principle of
  provincial existence, namely that God made country villages to supply
  customers to county towns, should have confused ideas about the
  Decalogue.  The prompters were a few merciful men who had perhaps too
  feelingly considered the facts latterly unearthed, and the result was
  that evidence was taken which it was hoped might remove the crime in
  a moral point of view, out of the category of wilful murder, and lead
  it to be regarded as a sheer outcome of madness.
  
  The upshot of the petition was waited for in Weatherbury with
  solicitous interest.  The execution had been fixed for eight o'clock
  on a Saturday morning about a fortnight after the sentence was
  passed, and up to Friday afternoon no answer had been received.  At
  that time Gabriel came from Casterbridge Gaol, whither he had been
  to wish Boldwood good-bye, and turned down a by-street to avoid the
  town.  When past the last house he heard a hammering, and lifting
  his bowed head he looked back for a moment.  Over the chimneys he
  could see the upper part of the gaol entrance, rich and glowing
  in the afternoon sun, and some moving figures were there.  They
  were carpenters lifting a post into a vertical position within the
  parapet.  He withdrew his eyes quickly, and hastened on.
  
  It was dark when he reached home, and half the village was out to
  meet him.
  
  "No tidings," Gabriel said, wearily.  "And I'm afraid there's no
  hope.  I've been with him more than two hours."
  
  "Do ye think he REALLY was out of his mind when he did it?" said
  Smallbury.
  
  "I can't honestly say that I do," Oak replied.  "However, that we can
  talk of another time.  Has there been any change in mistress this
  afternoon?"
  
  "None at all."
  
  "Is she downstairs?"
  
  "No.  And getting on so nicely as she was too.  She's but very little
  better now again than she was at Christmas.  She keeps on asking
  if you be come, and if there's news, till one's wearied out wi'
  answering her.  Shall I go and say you've come?"
  
  "No," said Oak.  "There's a chance yet; but I couldn't stay in town
  any longer--after seeing him too.  So Laban--Laban is here, isn't
  he?"
  
  "Yes," said Tall.
  
  "What I've arranged is, that you shall ride to town the last thing
  to-night; leave here about nine, and wait a while there, getting home
  about twelve.  If nothing has been received by eleven to-night, they
  say there's no chance at all."
  
  "I do so hope his life will be spared," said Liddy.  "If it is not,
  she'll go out of her mind too.  Poor thing; her sufferings have been
  dreadful; she deserves anybody's pity."
  
  "Is she altered much?" said Coggan.
  
  "If you haven't seen poor mistress since Christmas, you wouldn't know
  her," said Liddy.  "Her eyes are so miserable that she's not the same
  woman.  Only two years ago she was a romping girl, and now she's
  this!"
  
  Laban departed as directed, and at eleven o'clock that night several
  of the villagers strolled along the road to Casterbridge and awaited
  his arrival--among them Oak, and nearly all the rest of Bathsheba's
  men.  Gabriel's anxiety was great that Boldwood might be saved, even
  though in his conscience he felt that he ought to die; for there had
  been qualities in the farmer which Oak loved.  At last, when they all
  were weary the tramp of a horse was heard in the distance--
  
  
       First dead, as if on turf it trode,
       Then, clattering on the village road
       In other pace than forth he yode.
  
  
  "We shall soon know now, one way or other." said Coggan, and they all
  stepped down from the bank on which they had been standing into the
  road, and the rider pranced into the midst of them.
  
  "Is that you, Laban?" said Gabriel.
  
  "Yes--'tis come.  He's not to die.  'Tis confinement during Her
  Majesty's pleasure."
  
  "Hurrah!" said Coggan, with a swelling heart.  "God's above the devil
  yet!"
  
  
  
  BEAUTY IN LONELINESS--AFTER ALL
  
  
  Bathsheba revived with the spring.  The utter prostration that
  had followed the low fever from which she had suffered diminished
  perceptibly when all uncertainty upon every subject had come to
  an end.
  
  But she remained alone now for the greater part of her time, and
  stayed in the house, or at furthest went into the garden.  She
  shunned every one, even Liddy, and could be brought to make no
  confidences, and to ask for no sympathy.
  
  As the summer drew on she passed more of her time in the open air,
  and began to examine into farming matters from sheer necessity,
  though she never rode out or personally superintended as at former
  times.  One Friday evening in August she walked a little way along
  the road and entered the village for the first time since the sombre
  event of the preceding Christmas.  None of the old colour had as yet
  come to her cheek, and its absolute paleness was heightened by the
  jet black of her gown, till it appeared preternatural.  When she
  reached a little shop at the other end of the place, which stood
  nearly opposite to the churchyard, Bathsheba heard singing inside the
  church, and she knew that the singers were practising.  She crossed
  the road, opened the gate, and entered the graveyard, the high sills
  of the church windows effectually screening her from the eyes of
  those gathered within.  Her stealthy walk was to the nook wherein
  Troy had worked at planting flowers upon Fanny Robin's grave, and
  she came to the marble tombstone.
  
  A motion of satisfaction enlivened her face as she read the complete
  inscription.  First came the words of Troy himself:--
  
  
       ERECTED BY FRANCIS TROY
        IN BELOVED MEMORY OF
            FANNY ROBIN,
      WHO DIED OCTOBER 9, 18--,
            AGED 20 YEARS
  
  
  Underneath this was now inscribed in new letters:--
  
  
        IN THE SAME GRAVE LIE
     THE REMAINS OF THE AFORESAID
            FRANCIS TROY,
     WHO DIED DECEMBER 24TH, 18--,
            AGED 26 YEARS
  
  
  Whilst she stood and read and meditated the tones of the organ
  began again in the church, and she went with the same light step
  round to the porch and listened.  The door was closed, and the
  choir was learning a new hymn.  Bathsheba was stirred by emotions
  which latterly she had assumed to be altogether dead within her.
  The little attenuated voices of the children brought to her ear
  in distinct utterance the words they sang without thought or
  comprehension--
  
  
       Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
         Lead Thou me on.
  
  
  Bathsheba's feeling was always to some extent dependent upon her
  whim, as is the case with many other women.  Something big came into
  her throat and an uprising to her eyes--and she thought that she
  would allow the imminent tears to flow if they wished.  They did
  flow and plenteously, and one fell upon the stone bench beside her.
  Once that she had begun to cry for she hardly knew what, she could
  not leave off for crowding thoughts she knew too well.  She would
  have given anything in the world to be, as those children were,
  unconcerned at the meaning of their words, because too innocent to
  feel the necessity for any such expression.  All the impassioned
  scenes of her brief experience seemed to revive with added emotion at
  that moment, and those scenes which had been without emotion during
  enactment had emotion then.  Yet grief came to her rather as a luxury
  than as the scourge of former times.
  
  Owing to Bathsheba's face being buried in her hands she did not
  notice a form which came quietly into the porch, and on seeing
  her, first moved as if to retreat, then paused and regarded her.
  Bathsheba did not raise her head for some time, and when she looked
  round her face was wet, and her eyes drowned and dim.  "Mr. Oak,"
  exclaimed she, disconcerted, "how long have you been here?"
  
  "A few minutes, ma'am," said Oak, respectfully.
  
  "Are you going in?" said Bathsheba; and there came from within the
  church as from a prompter--
  
  
       I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
       Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
  
  
  "I was," said Gabriel.  "I am one of the bass singers, you know.  I
  have sung bass for several months."
  
  "Indeed: I wasn't aware of that.  I'll leave you, then."
  
  
       Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile,
  
  
  sang the children.
  
  "Don't let me drive you away, mistress.  I think I won't go in
  to-night."
  
  "Oh no--you don't drive me away."
  
  Then they stood in a state of some embarrassment, Bathsheba trying to
  wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face without his noticing
  her.  At length Oak said, "I've not seen you--I mean spoken to
  you--since ever so long, have I?"  But he feared to bring distressing
  memories back, and interrupted himself with: "Were you going into
  church?"
  
  "No," she said.  "I came to see the tombstone privately--to see if
  they had cut the inscription as I wished.  Mr. Oak, you needn't mind
  speaking to me, if you wish to, on the matter which is in both our
  minds at this moment."
  
  "And have they done it as you wished?" said Oak.
  
  "Yes.  Come and see it, if you have not already."
  
  So together they went and read the tomb.  "Eight months ago!" Gabriel
  murmured when he saw the date.  "It seems like yesterday to me."
  
  "And to me as if it were years ago--long years, and I had been dead
  between.  And now I am going home, Mr. Oak."
  
  Oak walked after her.  "I wanted to name a small matter to you as
  soon as I could," he said, with hesitation.  "Merely about business,
  and I think I may just mention it now, if you'll allow me."
  
  "Oh yes, certainly."
  
  "It is that I may soon have to give up the management of your farm,
  Mrs. Troy.  The fact is, I am thinking of leaving England--not yet,
  you know--next spring."
  
  "Leaving England!" she said, in surprise and genuine disappointment.
  "Why, Gabriel, what are you going to do that for?"
  
  "Well, I've thought it best," Oak stammered out.  "California is the
  spot I've had in my mind to try."
  
  "But it is understood everywhere that you are going to take poor Mr.
  Boldwood's farm on your own account."
  
  "I've had the refusal o' it 'tis true; but nothing is settled yet,
  and I have reasons for giving up.  I shall finish out my year there
  as manager for the trustees, but no more."
  
  "And what shall I do without you?  Oh, Gabriel, I don't think you
  ought to go away.  You've been with me so long--through bright times
  and dark times--such old friends as we are--that it seems unkind
  almost.  I had fancied that if you leased the other farm as master,
  you might still give a helping look across at mine.  And now going
  away!"
  
  "I would have willingly."
  
  "Yet now that I am more helpless than ever you go away!"
  
  "Yes, that's the ill fortune o' it," said Gabriel, in a distressed
  tone.  "And it is because of that very helplessness that I feel bound
  to go.  Good afternoon, ma'am" he concluded, in evident anxiety to
  get away, and at once went out of the churchyard by a path she could
  follow on no pretence whatever.
  
  Bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with a new trouble, which
  being rather harassing than deadly was calculated to do good by
  diverting her from the chronic gloom of her life.  She was set
  thinking a great deal about Oak and of his wish to shun her;
  and there occurred to Bathsheba several incidents of her latter
  intercourse with him, which, trivial when singly viewed, amounted
  together to a perceptible disinclination for her society.  It broke
  upon her at length as a great pain that her last old disciple was
  about to forsake her and flee.  He who had believed in her and argued
  on her side when all the rest of the world was against her, had at
  last like the others become weary and neglectful of the old cause,
  and was leaving her to fight her battles alone.
  
  Three weeks went on, and more evidence of his want of interest in
  her was forthcoming.  She noticed that instead of entering the small
  parlour or office where the farm accounts were kept, and waiting, or
  leaving a memorandum as he had hitherto done during her seclusion,
  Oak never came at all when she was likely to be there, only entering
  at unseasonable hours when her presence in that part of the house
  was least to be expected.  Whenever he wanted directions he sent a
  message, or note with neither heading nor signature, to which she was
  obliged to reply in the same offhand style.  Poor Bathsheba began to
  suffer now from the most torturing sting of all--a sensation that she
  was despised.
  
  The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these melancholy
  conjectures, and Christmas-day came, completing a year of her legal
  widowhood, and two years and a quarter of her life alone.  On
  examining her heart it appeared beyond measure strange that the
  subject of which the season might have been supposed suggestive--the
  event in the hall at Boldwood's--was not agitating her at all; but
  instead, an agonizing conviction that everybody abjured her--for what
  she could not tell--and that Oak was the ringleader of the recusants.
  Coming out of church that day she looked round in hope that Oak,
  whose bass voice she had heard rolling out from the gallery overhead
  in a most unconcerned manner, might chance to linger in her path in
  the old way.  There he was, as usual, coming down the path behind
  her.  But on seeing Bathsheba turn, he looked aside, and as soon
  as he got beyond the gate, and there was the barest excuse for a
  divergence, he made one, and vanished.
  
  The next morning brought the culminating stroke; she had been
  expecting it long.  It was a formal notice by letter from him that he
  should not renew his engagement with her for the following Lady-day.
  
  Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter most bitterly.  She
  was aggrieved and wounded that the possession of hopeless love from
  Gabriel, which she had grown to regard as her inalienable right for
  life, should have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in this
  way.  She was bewildered too by the prospect of having to rely on her
  own resources again: it seemed to herself that she never could again
  acquire energy sufficient to go to market, barter, and sell.
  Since Troy's death Oak had attended all sales and fairs for her,
  transacting her business at the same time with his own.  What should
  she do now?  Her life was becoming a desolation.
  
  So desolate was Bathsheba this evening, that in an absolute hunger
  for pity and sympathy, and miserable in that she appeared to have
  outlived the only true friendship she had ever owned, she put on her
  bonnet and cloak and went down to Oak's house just after sunset,
  guided on her way by the pale primrose rays of a crescent moon a few
  days old.
  
  A lively firelight shone from the window, but nobody was visible in
  the room.  She tapped nervously, and then thought it doubtful if
  it were right for a single woman to call upon a bachelor who lived
  alone, although he was her manager, and she might be supposed to call
  on business without any real impropriety.  Gabriel opened the door,
  and the moon shone upon his forehead.
  
  "Mr. Oak," said Bathsheba, faintly.
  
  "Yes; I am Mr. Oak," said Gabriel.  "Who have I the honour--O how
  stupid of me, not to know you, mistress!"
  
  "I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall I Gabriel?" she
  said, in pathetic tones.
  
  "Well, no.  I suppose--But come in, ma'am.  Oh--and I'll get a
  light," Oak replied, with some awkwardness.
  
  "No; not on my account."
  
  "It is so seldom that I get a lady visitor that I'm afraid I haven't
  proper accommodation.  Will you sit down, please? Here's a chair, and
  there's one, too.  I am sorry that my chairs all have wood seats, and
  are rather hard, but I--was thinking of getting some new ones."  Oak
  placed two or three for her.
  
  "They are quite easy enough for me."
  
  So down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dancing in their faces,
  and upon the old furniture,
  
  
              all a-sheenen
       Wi' long years o' handlen, [3]
  
     [Footnote 3: W. Barnes]
  
  that formed Oak's array of household possessions, which sent back a
  dancing reflection in reply.  It was very odd to these two persons,
  who knew each other passing well, that the mere circumstance of their
  meeting in a new place and in a new way should make them so awkward
  and constrained.  In the fields, or at her house, there had never
  been any embarrassment; but now that Oak had become the entertainer
  their lives seemed to be moved back again to the days when they were
  strangers.
  
  "You'll think it strange that I have come, but--"
  
  "Oh no; not at all."
  
  "But I thought--Gabriel, I have been uneasy in the belief that I
  have offended you, and that you are going away on that account.  It
  grieved me very much and I couldn't help coming."
  
  "Offended me!  As if you could do that, Bathsheba!"
  
  "Haven't I?" she asked, gladly.  "But, what are you going away for
  else?"
  
  "I am not going to emigrate, you know; I wasn't aware that you would
  wish me not to when I told 'ee or I shouldn't ha' thought of doing
  it," he said, simply.  "I have arranged for Little Weatherbury Farm
  and shall have it in my own hands at Lady-day.  You know I've had a
  share in it for some time.  Still, that wouldn't prevent my attending
  to your business as before, hadn't it been that things have been said
  about us."
  
  "What?" said Bathsheba, in surprise.  "Things said about you and me!
  What are they?"
  
  "I cannot tell you."
  
  "It would be wiser if you were to, I think.  You have played the part
  of mentor to me many times, and I don't see why you should fear to do
  it now."
  
  "It is nothing that you have done, this time.  The top and tail
  o't is this--that I am sniffing about here, and waiting for poor
  Boldwood's farm, with a thought of getting you some day."
  
  "Getting me!  What does that mean?"
  
  "Marrying of 'ee, in plain British.  You asked me to tell, so you
  mustn't blame me."
  
  Bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if a cannon had been
  discharged by her ear, which was what Oak had expected.  "Marrying
  me!  I didn't know it was that you meant," she said, quietly.  "Such
  a thing as that is too absurd--too soon--to think of, by far!"
  
  "Yes; of course, it is too absurd.  I don't desire any such thing;
  I should think that was plain enough by this time.  Surely, surely
  you be the last person in the world I think of marrying.  It is too
  absurd, as you say."
  
  "'Too--s-s-soon' were the words I used."
  
  "I must beg your pardon for correcting you, but you said, 'too
  absurd,' and so do I."
  
  "I beg your pardon too!" she returned, with tears in her eyes.  "'Too
  soon' was what I said.  But it doesn't matter a bit--not at all--but
  I only meant, 'too soon.'  Indeed, I didn't, Mr. Oak, and you must
  believe me!"
  
  Gabriel looked her long in the face, but the firelight being faint
  there was not much to be seen.  "Bathsheba," he said, tenderly and in
  surprise, and coming closer: "if I only knew one thing--whether you
  would allow me to love you and win you, and marry you after all--if
  I only knew that!"
  
  "But you never will know," she murmured.
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Because you never ask."
  
  "Oh--Oh!" said Gabriel, with a low laugh of joyousness.  "My own
  dear--"
  
  "You ought not to have sent me that harsh letter this morning," she
  interrupted.  "It shows you didn't care a bit about me, and were
  ready to desert me like all the rest of them!  It was very cruel of
  you, considering I was the first sweetheart that you ever had, and
  you were the first I ever had; and I shall not forget it!"
  
  "Now, Bathsheba, was ever anybody so provoking," he said, laughing.
  "You know it was purely that I, as an unmarried man, carrying on a
  business for you as a very taking young woman, had a proper hard part
  to play--more particular that people knew I had a sort of feeling for
  'ee; and I fancied, from the way we were mentioned together, that it
  might injure your good name.  Nobody knows the heat and fret I have
  been caused by it."
  
  "And was that all?"
  
  "All."
  
  "Oh, how glad I am I came!" she exclaimed, thankfully, as she rose
  from her seat.  "I have thought so much more of you since I fancied
  you did not want even to see me again.  But I must be going now, or
  I shall be missed.  Why Gabriel," she said, with a slight laugh, as
  they went to the door, "it seems exactly as if I had come courting
  you--how dreadful!"
  
  "And quite right too," said Oak.  "I've danced at your skittish
  heels, my beautiful Bathsheba, for many a long mile, and many a long
  day; and it is hard to begrudge me this one visit."
  
  He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of
  his forthcoming tenure of the other farm.  They spoke very little
  of their mutual feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions being
  probably unnecessary between such tried friends.  Theirs was that
  substantial affection which arises (if any arises at all) when the
  two who are thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher
  sides of each other's character, and not the best till further on,
  the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic
  reality.  This good-fellowship--_camaraderie_--usually occurring
  through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded
  to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in
  their labours, but in their pleasures merely.  Where, however, happy
  circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling proves
  itself to be the only love which is strong as death--that love which
  many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, beside which the
  passion usually called by the name is evanescent as steam.
  
  
  
  A FOGGY NIGHT AND MORNING--CONCLUSION
  
  
  "The most private, secret, plainest wedding that it is possible to
  have."
  
  Those had been Bathsheba's words to Oak one evening, some time after
  the event of the preceding f, and he meditated a full hour by
  the clock upon how to carry out her wishes to the letter.
  
  "A license--O yes, it must be a license," he said to himself at last.
  "Very well, then; first, a license."
  
  On a dark night, a few days later, Oak came with mysterious steps
  from the surrogate's door, in Casterbridge.  On the way home he heard
  a heavy tread in front of him, and, overtaking the man, found him to
  be Coggan.  They walked together into the village until they came to
  a little lane behind the church, leading down to the cottage of Laban
  Tall, who had lately been installed as clerk of the parish, and was
  yet in mortal terror at church on Sundays when he heard his lone
  voice among certain hard words of the Psalms, whither no man ventured
  to follow him.
  
  "Well, good-night, Coggan," said Oak, "I'm going down this way."
  
  "Oh!" said Coggan, surprised; "what's going on to-night then, make so
  bold Mr. Oak?"
  
  It seemed rather ungenerous not to tell Coggan, under the
  circumstances, for Coggan had been true as steel all through the time
  of Gabriel's unhappiness about Bathsheba, and Gabriel said, "You can
  keep a secret, Coggan?"
  
  "You've proved me, and you know."
  
  "Yes, I have, and I do know.  Well, then, mistress and I mean to get
  married to-morrow morning."
  
  "Heaven's high tower!  And yet I've thought of such a thing from time
  to time; true, I have.  But keeping it so close!  Well, there, 'tis
  no consarn of of mine, and I wish 'ee joy o' her."
  
  "Thank you, Coggan.  But I assure 'ee that this great hush is not
  what I wished for at all, or what either of us would have wished if
  it hadn't been for certain things that would make a gay wedding seem
  hardly the thing.  Bathsheba has a great wish that all the parish
  shall not be in church, looking at her--she's shy-like and nervous
  about it, in fact--so I be doing this to humour her."
  
  "Ay, I see: quite right, too, I suppose I must say.  And you be now
  going down to the clerk."
  
  "Yes; you may as well come with me."
  
  "I am afeard your labour in keeping it close will be throwed away,"
  said Coggan, as they walked along.  "Labe Tall's old woman will horn
  it all over parish in half-an-hour."
  
  "So she will, upon my life; I never thought of that," said Oak,
  pausing.  "Yet I must tell him to-night, I suppose, for he's working
  so far off, and leaves early."
  
  "I'll tell 'ee how we could tackle her," said Coggan.  "I'll knock
  and ask to speak to Laban outside the door, you standing in the
  background.  Then he'll come out, and you can tell yer tale.  She'll
  never guess what I want en for; and I'll make up a few words about
  the farm-work, as a blind."
  
  This scheme was considered feasible; and Coggan advanced boldly, and
  rapped at Mrs. Tall's door.  Mrs. Tall herself opened it.
  
  "I wanted to have a word with Laban."
  
  "He's not at home, and won't be this side of eleven o'clock.  He've
  been forced to go over to Yalbury since shutting out work.  I shall
  do quite as well."
  
  "I hardly think you will.  Stop a moment;" and Coggan stepped round
  the corner of the porch to consult Oak.
  
  "Who's t'other man, then?" said Mrs. Tall.
  
  "Only a friend," said Coggan.
  
  "Say he's wanted to meet mistress near church-hatch to-morrow morning
  at ten," said Oak, in a whisper.  "That he must come without fail,
  and wear his best clothes."
  
  "The clothes will floor us as safe as houses!" said Coggan.
  
  "It can't be helped," said Oak.  "Tell her."
  
  So Coggan delivered the message.  "Mind, het or wet, blow or snow,
  he must come," added Jan.  "'Tis very particular, indeed.  The fact
  is, 'tis to witness her sign some law-work about taking shares wi'
  another farmer for a long span o' years.  There, that's what 'tis,
  and now I've told 'ee, Mother Tall, in a way I shouldn't ha' done
  if I hadn't loved 'ee so hopeless well."
  
  Coggan retired before she could ask any further; and next they called
  at the vicar's in a manner which excited no curiosity at all.  Then
  Gabriel went home, and prepared for the morrow.
  
  
  "Liddy," said Bathsheba, on going to bed that night, "I want you to
  call me at seven o'clock to-morrow, In case I shouldn't wake."
  
  "But you always do wake afore then, ma'am."
  
  "Yes, but I have something important to do, which I'll tell you of
  when the time comes, and it's best to make sure."
  
  Bathsheba, however, awoke voluntarily at four, nor could she by any
  contrivance get to sleep again.  About six, being quite positive that
  her watch had stopped during the night, she could wait no longer.
  She went and tapped at Liddy's door, and after some labour awoke her.
  
  "But I thought it was I who had to call you?" said the bewildered
  Liddy.  "And it isn't six yet."
  
  "Indeed it is; how can you tell such a story, Liddy?  I know it must
  be ever so much past seven.  Come to my room as soon as you can; I
  want you to give my hair a good brushing."
  
  When Liddy came to Bathsheba's room her mistress was already waiting.
  Liddy could not understand this extraordinary promptness.  "Whatever
  IS going on, ma'am?" she said.
  
  "Well, I'll tell you," said Bathsheba, with a mischievous smile in
  her bright eyes.  "Farmer Oak is coming here to dine with me to-day!"
  
  "Farmer Oak--and nobody else?--you two alone?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "But is it safe, ma'am, after what's been said?" asked her companion,
  dubiously.  "A woman's good name is such a perishable article that--"
  
  Bathsheba laughed with a flushed cheek, and whispered in Liddy's ear,
  although there was nobody present.  Then Liddy stared and exclaimed,
  "Souls alive, what news!  It makes my heart go quite bumpity-bump!"
  
  "It makes mine rather furious, too," said Bathsheba.  "However,
  there's no getting out of it now!"
  
  It was a damp disagreeable morning.  Nevertheless, at twenty minutes
  to ten o'clock, Oak came out of his house, and
  
  
                Went up the hill side
                With that sort of stride
       A man puts out when walking in search of a bride,
  
  
  and knocked Bathsheba's door.  Ten minutes later a large and a
  smaller umbrella might have been seen moving from the same door, and
  through the mist along the road to the church.  The distance was not
  more than a quarter of a mile, and these two sensible persons deemed
  it unnecessary to drive.  An observer must have been very close
  indeed to discover that the forms under the umbrellas were those of
  Oak and Bathsheba, arm-in-arm for the first time in their lives, Oak
  in a greatcoat extending to his knees, and Bathsheba in a cloak that
  reached her clogs.  Yet, though so plainly dressed, there was a
  certain rejuvenated appearance about her:--
  
  
       As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.
  
  
  Repose had again incarnadined her cheeks; and having, at Gabriel's
  request, arranged her hair this morning as she had worn it years ago
  on Norcombe Hill, she seemed in his eyes remarkably like a girl of
  that fascinating dream, which, considering that she was now only
  three or four-and-twenty, was perhaps not very wonderful.  In the
  church were Tall, Liddy, and the parson, and in a remarkably short
  space of time the deed was done.
  
  The two sat down very quietly to tea in Bathsheba's parlour in the
  evening of the same day, for it had been arranged that Farmer Oak
  should go there to live, since he had as yet neither money, house,
  nor furniture worthy of the name, though he was on a sure way towards
  them, whilst Bathsheba was, comparatively, in a plethora of all
  three.
  
  Just as Bathsheba was pouring out a cup of tea, their ears were
  greeted by the firing of a cannon, followed by what seemed like a
  tremendous blowing of trumpets, in the front of the house.
  
  "There!" said Oak, laughing, "I knew those fellows were up to
  something, by the look on their faces"
  
  Oak took up the light and went into the porch, followed by Bathsheba
  with a shawl over her head.  The rays fell upon a group of male
  figures gathered upon the gravel in front, who, when they saw the
  newly-married couple in the porch, set up a loud "Hurrah!" and at the
  same moment bang again went the cannon in the background, followed by
  a hideous clang of music from a drum, tambourine, clarionet, serpent,
  hautboy, tenor-viol, and double-bass--the only remaining relics
  of the true and original Weatherbury band--venerable worm-eaten
  instruments, which had celebrated in their own persons the victories
  of Marlborough, under the fingers of the forefathers of those who
  played them now.  The performers came forward, and marched up to the
  front.
  
  "Those bright boys, Mark Clark and Jan, are at the bottom of all
  this," said Oak.  "Come in, souls, and have something to eat and
  drink wi' me and my wife."
  
  "Not to-night," said Mr. Clark, with evident self-denial.  "Thank
  ye all the same; but we'll call at a more seemly time.  However, we
  couldn't think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration
  of some sort.  If ye could send a drop of som'at down to Warren's,
  why so it is.  Here's long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and
  his comely bride!"
  
  "Thank ye; thank ye all," said Gabriel.  "A bit and a drop shall be
  sent to Warren's for ye at once.  I had a thought that we might very
  likely get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was
  saying so to my wife but now."
  
  "Faith," said Coggan, in a critical tone, turning to his companions,
  "the man hev learnt to say 'my wife' in a wonderful naterel way,
  considering how very youthful he is in wedlock as yet--hey,
  neighbours all?"
  
  "I never heerd a skilful old married feller of twenty years'
  standing pipe 'my wife' in a more used note than 'a did," said Jacob
  Smallbury.  "It might have been a little more true to nater if't had
  been spoke a little chillier, but that wasn't to be expected just
  now."
  
  "That improvement will come wi' time," said Jan, twirling his eye.
  
  Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readily
  now), and their friends turned to go.
  
  "Yes; I suppose that's the size o't," said Joseph Poorgrass with a
  cheerful sigh as they moved away; "and I wish him joy o' her; though
  I were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in my
  scripture manner, which is my second nature, 'Ephraim is joined to
  idols: let him alone.'  But since 'tis as 'tis, why, it might have
  been worse, and I feel my thanks accordingly."
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapters 54-Conclusion
target: After his arrest, Boldwood pleads guilty and is sentenced to death. However, it is discovered that in his house there are many dresses and jewelry purchased for Bathsheba and set aside for their eventual marriage. Many of the local townspeople argue that he should be found insane, and thus not criminally responsible. In March, the judges meet to determine whether or not the sentence should be commuted, and Boldwood is sentenced to life in prison. Bathsheba recovers very slowly from the traumatic events of Christmas. In August, she encounters Gabriel while she is visiting Troy's grave; she has had him buried in the same grave with Fanny. Gabriel surprises her by saying that he is planning to move to California in the spring, and she objects that she will be lost without his help at the farm. She becomes more and more distraught to think of losing him as the months pass, and in the winter, he gives her formal notice that he will be leaving before the end of March. That night she goes to his cottage and asks if he is leaving because she has offended him. He explains that he is not going to leave England, but he is going to be leasing Boldwood's farm beginning in March. He notes that this doesn't mean he couldn't still work for her at the same time, but he is uncomfortable since rumors have started that he hopes to marry her and thinks it would be better if he did not work for her anymore. Bathsheba's objections spark Gabriel's curiosity, and he admits that of course he still loves her. The two of them joyfully realize that they mutually love each other. A short time later, Bathsheba agrees to marry him, and the two marry in a small, private ceremony with only a few close friends present. Gabriel comes to live with her at the Everdene farm, and the novel ends with an optimistic view of a happy and loving marriage for them.
feat_summary_analysis: The traumatic and violent events of the Christmas party seem to soften many of the characters into a new acceptance of their fates. Boldwood meekly accepts the legal punishment, but evidence of his insanity allows for him to be granted the small mercy of imprisonment. The discovery of the items he has purchased and set aside for Bathsheba reveals his obsessive hope: given that she only confirmed their engagement the night of the party, he must have been purchasing these items well before he knew whether or not she would agree to marry him. The discovery also reveals his fixation on wealth and status: when he tried to envision how he could best please Bathsheba, Boldwood assumed jewels and fine clothes must be the key to her heart. With Boldwood and Troy both out of the picture, Bathsheba can finally live without the distraction of men trying to woo her. By this stage in the novel, however, it seems that some of her ambition and zest for life has been lost. She plays a less and less active role in managing the farm. Even when she learns that Gabriel plans to leave, she is not outraged and indignant so much as lost and afraid. She knows she depends on him both professionally and personally, and is afraid of what she will do without him. Bathsheba does show some of her drive towards bold action by going to Gabriel's cottage the night after he hands in his resignation. It would be considered quite improper for a woman to go alone to a man's home after dark, even though as a widow Bathsheba now has more freedom than she did as an unmarried woman. The two have always seemed to communicate honestly and freely, and Bathsheba seeks out that frankness by trying to determine why Gabriel feels compelled to leave. However, what becomes clear is that the two have actually misunderstood each other. Bathsheba took Gabriel's unwillingness to ask about her feelings as a sign that he no longer cared for her, while he assumed that her initial answer had been a final one. The establishment of a romantic relationship, and then the marriage between the two seems to signal that partnerships best arise out of mutual respect and getting to know one another over a long span of time while working towards shared goals. The marriage seems to show some promising signs of being egalitarian in that it is rooted in the partnership of running the farm, and Gabriel will be moving in to Bathsheba's house. At the same time, for the marriage to come about Bathsheba seems to need to have been tamed by her experience of loss and betrayal. She is no longer the proud and willful woman she was at the beginning of the novel, and it is only once she becomes more docile and more resigned to requiring the assistance of a man that she can accept a relationship with Gabriel. In the end, "in allowing Oak the positions of both phallic male and castrated male, while awarding Bathsheba the contradictory position of powerful and dependent female, Hardy denies power and sexuality to neither sex" .