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Wessex Tales Series: 18 Novels & Stories (Complete Collection). Томас ХардиЧитать онлайн книгу.

Wessex Tales Series: 18 Novels & Stories (Complete Collection) - Томас Харди


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not?”

      “‘Twould be a mistake to kill you,” repeated Boldwood, mechanically, with a bowed head.

      “Better kill yourself.”

      “Far better.”

      “I’m glad you see it.”

      “Troy, make her your wife, and don’t act upon what I arranged just now. The alternative is dreadful, but take Bathsheba; I give her up! She must love you indeed to sell soul and body to you so utterly as she has done. Wretched woman — deluded woman — you are, Bathsheba!”

      “But about Fanny?”

      “Bathsheba is a woman well to do,” continued Boldwood, in nervous anxiety, and, Troy, she will make a good wife; and, indeed, she is worth your hastening on your marriage with her!”

      “But she has a will — not to say a temper, and I shall be a mere slave to her. I could do anything with poor Fanny Robin.”

      “Troy,” said Boldwood, imploringly, “I’ll do anything for you, only don’t desert her; pray don’t desert her, Troy.”

      “Which, poor Fanny?”

      “No; Bathsheba Everdene. Love her best! Love her tenderly! How shall I get you to see how advantageous it will be to you to secure her at once?”

      “I don’t wish to secure her in any new way.”

      Boldwood’s arm moved spasmodically towards Troy’s person again. He repressed the instinct, and his form drooped as with pain.

      Troy went on —

      “I shall soon purchase my discharge, and then ——”

      “But I wish you to hasten on this marriage! It will be better for you both. You love each other, and you must let me help you to do it.”

      “How?”

      “Why, by settling the five hundred on Bathsheba instead of Fanny, to enable you to marry at once. No; she wouldn’t have it of me. I’ll pay it down to you on the wedding-day.”

      Troy paused in secret amazement at Boldwood’s wild infatuation. He carelessly said, “And am I to have anything now?”

      “Yes, if you wish to. But I have not much additional money with me. I did not expect this; but all I have is yours.”

      Boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wakeful man, pulled out the large canvas bag he carried by way of a purse, and searched it.

      “I have twenty-one pounds more with me,” he said. “Two notes and a sovereign. But before I leave you I must have a paper signed ——”

      “Pay me the money, and we’ll go straight to her parlour, and make any arrangement you please to secure my compliance with your wishes. But she must know nothing of this cash business.”

      “Nothing, nothing,” said Boldwood, hastily. “Here is the sum, and if you’ll come to my house we’ll write out the agreement for the remainder, and the terms also.”

      “First we’ll call upon her.”

      “But why? Come with me to-night, and go with me to-morrow to the surrogate’s.”

      “But she must be consulted; at any rate informed.”

      “Very well; go on.”

      They went up the hill to Bathsheba’s house. When they stood at the entrance, Troy said, “Wait here a moment.” Opening the door, he glided inside, leaving the door ajar.

      Boldwood waited. In two minutes a light appeared in the passage. Boldwood then saw that the chain had been fastened across the door. Troy appeared inside, carrying a bedroom candlestick.

      “What, did you think I should break in?” said Boldwood, contemptuously.

      “Oh, no, it is merely my humour to secure things. Will you read this a moment? I’ll hold the light.”

      Troy handed a folded newspaper through the slit between door and doorpost, and put the candle close. “That’s the paragraph,” he said, placing his finger on a line.

      Boldwood looked and read —

      “MARRIAGES.

      “On the 17th inst., at St. Ambrose’s Church, Bath, by the Rev. G. Mincing, B.A., Francis Troy, only son of the late Edward Troy, Esq., M.D., of Weatherbury, and sergeant with Dragoon Guards, to Bathsheba, only surviving daughter of the late Mr. John Everdene, of Casterbridge.”

      “This may be called Fort meeting Feeble, hey, Boldwood?” said Troy. A low gurgle of derisive laughter followed the words.

      The paper fell from Boldwood’s hands. Troy continued —

      “Fifty pounds to marry Fanny. Good. Twenty-one pounds not to marry Fanny, but Bathsheba. Good. Finale: already Bathsheba’s husband. Now, Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends interference between a man and his wife. And another word. Bad as I am, I am not such a villain as to make the marriage or misery of any woman a matter of huckster and sale. Fanny has long ago left me. I don’t know where she is. I have searched everywhere. Another word yet. You say you love Bathsheba; yet on the merest apparent evidence you instantly believe in her dishonour. A fig for such love! Now that I’ve taught you a lesson, take your money back again.”

      “I will not; I will not!” said Boldwood, in a hiss.

      “Anyhow I won’t have it,” said Troy, contemptuously. He wrapped the packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road.

      Boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. “You juggler of Satan! You black hound! But I’ll punish you yet; mark me, I’ll punish you yet!”

      Another peal of laughter. Troy then closed the door, and locked himself in.

      Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood’s dark form might have been seen walking about hills and downs of Weatherbury like an unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron.

      Chapter 35

      At an Upper Window

       Table of Contents

      It was very early the next morning — a time of sun and dew. The confused beginnings of many birds’ songs spread into the healthy air, and the wan blue of the heaven was here and there coated with thin webs of incorporeal cloud which were of no effect in obscuring day. All the lights in the scene were yellow as to colour, and all the shadows were attenuated as to form. The creeping plants about the old manor-house were bowed with rows of heavy water drops, which had upon objects behind them the effect of minute lenses of high magnifying power.

      Just before the clock struck five Gabriel Oak and Coggan passed the village cross, and went on together to the fields. They were yet barely in view of their mistress’s house, when Oak fancied he saw the opening of a casement in one of the upper windows. The two men were at this moment partially screened by an elder bush, now beginning to be enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused before emerging from its shade.

      A handsome man leaned idly from the lattice. He looked east and then west, in the manner of one who makes a first morning survey. The man was Sergeant Troy. His red jacket was loosely thrown on, but not buttoned, and he had altogether the relaxed bearing of a soldier taking his ease.

      Coggan spoke first, looking quietly at the window.

      “She has married him!” he said.

      Gabriel had previously beheld the sight, and he now stood with his back turned, making no reply.

      “I fancied we should know something to-day,” continued Coggan. “I heard wheels pass my door just after dark — you were out somewhere.” He glanced round upon Gabriel. “Good heavens above us, Oak, how white your face is; you


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