Coming Home - Cry
On the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, and about three miles from the former place is Yalbury Hill, one of those steep long ascents which pervade the highways of this undulating part of South Wessex. In returning from market it is usual for the farmers and other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up.
One Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba's vehicle was duly creeping up this incline. She was sitting listlessly in the second seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in a farmer's marketing suit of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made young man. Though on foot, he held the reins and whip, and occasionally aimed light ruts at the horse's ear with the end of the lash, as a recreation. This man was her husband, formerly Sergeant Troy, who, having bought his discharge with Bathsheba's money, was gradually transforming himself into a farmer of a spirited and very modern school. People of unalterable ideas still insisted upon calling him `Sergeant' when they met him, which was in some degree owing to his having still retained the well-shaped moustache of his military days, and the soldierly bearing inseparable from his form and training.
`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 I once read, wet weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our country's history; now, isn't that true?'
`But the time of 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 'twas! 'Tis a wild open place, just out of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like liquid misery. Wind and rain - good Lord! Dark? Why, 'twas as black as my hat before the last race was run. 'Twas five o'clock, and you couldn't see the horses till they were almost in, leave alone colours. The ground was as heavy as lead, and all judgement from a fellow's experience went for nothing. Horses, riders, people, were all blown about like ships at sea. Three booths were blown over, and the wretched folk inside crawled out upon their hands and knees; and in the next field were as many as a dozen hats at one time.
Ay, 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!'
`And you mean, Frank,' said Bathsheba sadly - her voice was painfully lowered from the fullness and vivacity of the previous summer - `that you have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful horse-racing?
O, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take away my money so. We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the end of it!'
`Humbug about cruel. Now, there 'tis again - turn on the waterworks; that's just like you.'
`But you'll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting, won't you?' she implored. Bathsheba was at the hill depth for tears, but she maintained a dry eye.
`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'll go a hundred miles the other way first. 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 enough 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.
