Far from the Madding Crowd

"Oh; is it you, Mr. Boldwood?" she faltered, a guilty warmth pulsing in her face.

Those who have the power of reproaching in silence may find it a means more effective than words. There are accents in the eye which are not on the tongue, and more tales come from pale lips than can enter an ear.

It is both the grandeur and the pain of the remoter moods that they avoid the pathway of sound. Boldwood's look was unanswerable.

Seeing she turned a little aside, he said, "What, are you afraid of me?"

Why should you say that?" said Bathsheba.

"I fancied you looked so." said he. "And it is most strange, because of its contrast with my feeling for you.

She regained self-possession, fixed her eyes calmly, and waited.

"You know what that feeling is." continued Boldwood, deliberately. "A thing strong as death. No dismissal by a hasty letter affects that."

"I wish you did not feel so strongly about me." she murmured. "It is generous of you, and more than I deserve, but I must not hear it now."

"Hear it? What do you think I have to say, then?

I am not to marry you, and that's enough. Your letter was excellently plain. I want you to hear nothing -not I."

Bathsheba was unable to direct her will into any definite groove for freeing herself from this fearfully and was moving on. Boldwood walked up to her heavily and dully.

"Bathsheba -- darling -- is it final indeed?"

"Indeed it is."

"O, Bathsheba -- have pity upon me!" Boldwood burst out. "God's sake, yes -- I am come to that low, lowest stage -- to ask a woman for pity! Still, she is you -- she is you."

Bathsheba commanded herself well. But she could hardly get a clear voice for what came instinctively to her lips: "There is little honour to the woman in that speech." It was only whispered, for something unutterably mournful no less than distressing in this spectacle of a man showing himself to be so entirely the vane of a passion enervated the feminine instinct for punctilios.

"I am beyond myself about this, and am mad." he said. "I am no stoic at all to he supplicating here; but I do supplicate to you. I wish you knew what is in me of devotion to you; but it is impossible, that. In bare human mercy to a lonely man, don't throw me off now!"

"I don't throw you off -- indeed, how can I? I never had you." In her noon-clear sense that she had never loved him she forgot for a moment her thoughtless angle on that day in February.