at whatever he himself might have suffered from
Bathsheba's marriage, here was a man who had suffered more, when
Boldwood spoke in a changed voice--that of one who yearned to make
a confidence and relieve his heart by an outpouring.

"Oak, you know as well as I that things have gone wrong with me
lately. I may as well own it. I was going to get a little settled
in life; but in some way my plan has come to nothing."

"I thought my mistress would have married you," said Gabriel, not
knowing enough of the full depths of Boldwood's love to keep silence
on the farmer's account, and determined not to evade discipline by
doing so on his own. "However, it is so sometimes, and nothing
happens that we expect," he added, with the repose of a man whom
misfortune had inured rather than subdued.

"I daresay I am a joke about the parish," said Boldwood, as if
the subject came irresistibly to his tongue, and with a miserable
lightness meant to express his indifference.

"Oh no--I don't think that."

"--But the real truth of the matter is that there was not, as some
fancy, any jilting on--her part. No engagement ever existed between
me and Miss Everdene. People say so, but it is untrue: she never
promised me!" Boldwood stood still now and turned his wild face to
Oak. "Oh, Gabriel," he continued, "I am weak and foolish, and I
don't know what, and I can't fend off my miserable grief! ... I had
some faint belief in the mercy of God till I lost that woman. Yes,
He prepared a gourd to shade me, and like the prophet I thanked Him
and was glad. But the next day He prepared a worm to smite the gourd
and wither it; and I feel it is better to die than to live!"

A silence followed. Boldwood aroused himself from the momentary
mood of confidence into which he had drifted, and walked on again,
resuming his usual reserve.

"No, Gabriel," he resumed, with a carelessness which was like
the smile on the countenance of a skull: "it was made more of by
other people than ever it was by us. I do feel a little regret
occasionally, but no woman ever had power over me for any length of
time. Well, good morning; I can trust you not to mention to others
what has passed between us two here."

CHAPTER XXXIX

COMING HOME--A 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
par