feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_41_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 42
feat_summary_id: chapter 42
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapter 42", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-42", "summary": "The workhouse had a small rear door three or four feet from the ground. Here, at about three o'clock, a bright wagon containing flowers drew up. Joseph Poorgrass backed the wagon to the door, and a plain coffin was lifted into it. A man wrote on the coffin with chalk, then covered it with a worn black cloth, and someone handed Joseph a certificate. He placed the flowers over the coffin and drove off. A heavy mist was falling, and gray gloom and quiet enveloped the wagon. Passing through Roy-Town, Joseph came to Buck's Head Inn, a mile and a half from his destination. With great relief, he stopped at the inn. There, to his delight, were \"two coppercoloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the most appreciative throats in the neighborhood, within the pale of respectability,\" hailed him as he entered. Joseph explained that his peaked look was caused by the load he was driving. They drank, and drank again. Joseph said he had to be at the churchyard at a quarter to five, but the men went on discussing life, death, and theology. Poorgrass grew less concerned with time. As the clock struck six, Oak arrived. He reproved the men, but, with drunken logic, Coggan explained that all the hurrying in the world couldn't help a dead woman. Joseph was now singing. He denied being drunk but said his malady of a \"multiplying eye\" had caught up with him. Oak drove the wagon back, reflecting on the rumor that Fanny had run away to follow a soldier. Due to Oak's and Boldwood's tact, Troy had not been identified as the man, and Oak hoped the secret would be kept. When Gabriel reached Bathsheba's house, it was too late for the burial, and so Bathsheba ordered the coffin brought into the house, for to leave it in the coach-house seemed unfeeling. Troy had not yet returned. Oak and three other men carried the coffin in, Gabriel lingered on alone, overcome by the irony of it all, and looked again at the writing on the lid. The scrawl said simply, \"Fanny Robin and child.\" He took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the last two words, leaving visible only the inscription \"Fanny Robin.\"", "analysis": "Even in death it seems that there can be no rest for Fanny. In her coffin, she still travels the roads of Wessex. Appropriately, it is Oak who comes to her aid in death, just as he once did in life; and, finally, her body is given lodging within a house. Though their behavior seems rather callous, the men at the inn are merely accepting Fanny's death  as the will of Nature. These people, instinctively close to Nature, accept the results of her actions without question."}
text: 
  
  JOSEPH AND HIS BURDEN--BUCK'S HEAD
  
  
  A wall bounded the site of Casterbridge Union-house, except along a
  portion of the end.  Here a high gable stood prominent, and it was
  covered like the front with a mat of ivy.  In this gable was no
  window, chimney, ornament, or protuberance of any kind.  The single
  feature appertaining to it, beyond the expanse of dark green leaves,
  was a small door.
  
  The situation of the door was peculiar.  The sill was three or four
  feet above the ground, and for a moment one was at a loss for an
  explanation of this exceptional altitude, till ruts immediately
  beneath suggested that the door was used solely for the passage of
  articles and persons to and from the level of a vehicle standing on
  the outside.  Upon the whole, the door seemed to advertise itself as
  a species of Traitor's Gate translated to another sphere.  That entry
  and exit hereby was only at rare intervals became apparent on noting
  that tufts of grass were allowed to flourish undisturbed in the
  chinks of the sill.
  
  As the clock over the South-street Alms-house pointed to five minutes
  to three, a blue spring waggon, picked out with red, and containing
  boughs and flowers, passed the end of the street, and up towards this
  side of the building.  Whilst the chimes were yet stammering out a
  shattered form of "Malbrook," Joseph Poorgrass rang the bell, and
  received directions to back his waggon against the high door under
  the gable.  The door then opened, and a plain elm coffin was slowly
  thrust forth, and laid by two men in fustian along the middle of the
  vehicle.
  
  One of the men then stepped up beside it, took from his pocket a lump
  of chalk, and wrote upon the cover the name and a few other words in
  a large scrawling hand.  (We believe that they do these things more
  tenderly now, and provide a plate.) He covered the whole with a
  black cloth, threadbare, but decent, the tail-board of the waggon
  was returned to its place, one of the men handed a certificate of
  registry to Poorgrass, and both entered the door, closing it behind
  them.  Their connection with her, short as it had been, was over for
  ever.
  
  Joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and the evergreens
  around the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the waggon
  contained; he smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral car
  crept down the hill, and along the road to Weatherbury.
  
  The afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to the right towards the
  sea as he walked beside the horse, Poorgrass saw strange clouds and
  scrolls of mist rolling over the long ridges which girt the landscape
  in that quarter.  They came in yet greater volumes, and indolently
  crept across the intervening valleys, and around the withered papery
  flags of the moor and river brinks.  Then their dank spongy forms
  closed in upon the sky.  It was a sudden overgrowth of atmospheric
  fungi which had their roots in the neighbouring sea, and by the time
  that horse, man, and corpse entered Yalbury Great Wood, these silent
  workings of an invisible hand had reached them, and they were
  completely enveloped, this being the first arrival of the autumn
  fogs, and the first fog of the series.
  
  The air was as an eye suddenly struck blind.  The waggon and its load
  rolled no longer on the horizontal division between clearness and
  opacity, but were imbedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallor
  throughout.  There was no perceptible motion in the air, not a
  visible drop of water fell upon a leaf of the beeches, birches,
  and firs composing the wood on either side.  The trees stood in an
  attitude of intentness, as if they waited longingly for a wind to
  come and rock them.  A startling quiet overhung all surrounding
  things--so completely, that the crunching of the waggon-wheels
  was as a great noise, and small rustles, which had never obtained
  a hearing except by night, were distinctly individualized.
  
  Joseph Poorgrass looked round upon his sad burden as it loomed
  faintly through the flowering laurustinus, then at the unfathomable
  gloom amid the high trees on each hand, indistinct, shadowless, and
  spectre-like in their monochrome of grey.  He felt anything but
  cheerful, and wished he had the company even of a child or dog.
  Stopping the horse, he listened.  Not a footstep or wheel was audible
  anywhere around, and the dead silence was broken only by a heavy
  particle falling from a tree through the evergreens and alighting
  with a smart rap upon the coffin of poor Fanny.  The fog had by this
  time saturated the trees, and this was the first dropping of water
  from the overbrimming leaves.  The hollow echo of its fall reminded
  the waggoner painfully of the grim Leveller.  Then hard by came down
  another drop, then two or three.  Presently there was a continual
  tapping of these heavy drops upon the dead leaves, the road, and
  the travellers.  The nearer boughs were beaded with the mist to the
  greyness of aged men, and the rusty-red leaves of the beeches were
  hung with similar drops, like diamonds on auburn hair.
  
  At the roadside hamlet called Roy-Town, just beyond this wood,
  was the old inn Buck's Head.  It was about a mile and a half from
  Weatherbury, and in the meridian times of stage-coach travelling
  had been the place where many coaches changed and kept their relays
  of horses.  All the old stabling was now pulled down, and little
  remained besides the habitable inn itself, which, standing a little
  way back from the road, signified its existence to people far up and
  down the highway by a sign hanging from the horizontal bough of an
  elm on the opposite side of the way.
  
  Travellers--for the variety _tourist_ had hardly developed into a
  distinct species at this date--sometimes said in passing, when they
  cast their eyes up to the sign-bearing tree, that artists were fond
  of representing the signboard hanging thus, but that they themselves
  had never before noticed so perfect an instance in actual working
  order.  It was near this tree that the waggon was standing into which
  Gabriel Oak crept on his first journey to Weatherbury; but, owing to
  the darkness, the sign and the inn had been unobserved.
  
  The manners of the inn were of the old-established type.  Indeed,
  in the minds of its frequenters they existed as unalterable formulae:
  _e.g._--
  
  
     Rap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor.
     For tobacco, shout.
     In calling for the girl in waiting, say, "Maid!"
     Ditto for the landlady, "Old Soul!" etc., etc.
  
  
  It was a relief to Joseph's heart when the friendly signboard came in
  view, and, stopping his horse immediately beneath it, he proceeded to
  fulfil an intention made a long time before.  His spirits were oozing
  out of him quite.  He turned the horse's head to the green bank, and
  entered the hostel for a mug of ale.
  
  Going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floor of which was a
  step below the passage, which in its turn was a step below the
  road outside, what should Joseph see to gladden his eyes but two
  copper-coloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan
  Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark.  These owners of the two most appreciative
  throats in the neighbourhood, within the pale of respectability, were
  now sitting face to face over a three-legged circular table, having
  an iron rim to keep cups and pots from being accidentally elbowed
  off; they might have been said to resemble the setting sun and the
  full moon shining _vis-a-vis_ across the globe.
  
  "Why, 'tis neighbour Poorgrass!" said Mark Clark.  "I'm sure your
  face don't praise your mistress's table, Joseph."
  
  "I've had a very pale companion for the last four miles," said
  Joseph, indulging in a shudder toned down by resignation.  "And to
  speak the truth, 'twas beginning to tell upon me.  I assure ye, I
  ha'n't seed the colour of victuals or drink since breakfast time
  this morning, and that was no more than a dew-bit afield."
  
  "Then drink, Joseph, and don't restrain yourself!" said Coggan,
  handing him a hooped mug three-quarters full.
  
  Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then for a longer time,
  saying, as he lowered the jug, "'Tis pretty drinking--very pretty
  drinking, and is more than cheerful on my melancholy errand, so to
  speak it."
  
  "True, drink is a pleasant delight," said Jan, as one who repeated a
  truism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed its passage
  over his tongue; and, lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his head
  gradually backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soul
  might not be diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevant
  surroundings.
  
  "Well, I must be on again," said Poorgrass.  "Not but that I should
  like another nip with ye; but the parish might lose confidence in me
  if I was seed here."
  
  "Where be ye trading o't to to-day, then, Joseph?"
  
  "Back to Weatherbury.  I've got poor little Fanny Robin in my waggon
  outside, and I must be at the churchyard gates at a quarter to five
  with her."
  
  "Ay--I've heard of it.  And so she's nailed up in parish boards after
  all, and nobody to pay the bell shilling and the grave half-crown."
  
  "The parish pays the grave half-crown, but not the bell shilling,
  because the bell's a luxery: but 'a can hardly do without the grave,
  poor body.  However, I expect our mistress will pay all."
  
  "A pretty maid as ever I see!  But what's yer hurry, Joseph?  The
  pore woman's dead, and you can't bring her to life, and you may as
  well sit down comfortable, and finish another with us."
  
  "I don't mind taking just the least thimbleful ye can dream of more
  with ye, sonnies.  But only a few minutes, because 'tis as 'tis."
  
  "Of course, you'll have another drop.  A man's twice the man
  afterwards.  You feel so warm and glorious, and you whop and slap at
  your work without any trouble, and everything goes on like sticks
  a-breaking.  Too much liquor is bad, and leads us to that horned man
  in the smoky house; but after all, many people haven't the gift of
  enjoying a wet, and since we be highly favoured with a power that
  way, we should make the most o't."
  
  "True," said Mark Clark.  "'Tis a talent the Lord has mercifully
  bestowed upon us, and we ought not to neglect it. But, what with the
  parsons and clerks and school-people and serious tea-parties, the
  merry old ways of good life have gone to the dogs--upon my carcase,
  they have!"
  
  "Well, really, I must be onward again now," said Joseph.
  
  "Now, now, Joseph; nonsense!  The poor woman is dead, isn't she, and
  what's your hurry?"
  
  "Well, I hope Providence won't be in a way with me for my doings,"
  said Joseph, again sitting down.  "I've been troubled with weak
  moments lately, 'tis true.  I've been drinky once this month already,
  and I did not go to church a-Sunday, and I dropped a curse or two
  yesterday; so I don't want to go too far for my safety.  Your next
  world is your next world, and not to be squandered offhand."
  
  "I believe ye to be a chapelmember, Joseph.  That I do."
  
  "Oh, no, no!  I don't go so far as that."
  
  "For my part," said Coggan, "I'm staunch Church of England."
  
  "Ay, and faith, so be I," said Mark Clark.
  
  "I won't say much for myself; I don't wish to," Coggan continued,
  with that tendency to talk on principles which is characteristic of
  the barley-corn.  "But I've never changed a single doctrine: I've
  stuck like a plaster to the old faith I was born in.  Yes; there's
  this to be said for the Church, a man can belong to the Church and
  bide in his cheerful old inn, and never trouble or worry his mind
  about doctrines at all.  But to be a meetinger, you must go to chapel
  in all winds and weathers, and make yerself as frantic as a skit.
  Not but that chapel members be clever chaps enough in their way.
  They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, all about
  their families and shipwrecks in the newspaper."
  
  "They can--they can," said Mark Clark, with corroborative feeling;
  "but we Churchmen, you see, must have it all printed aforehand, or,
  dang it all, we should no more know what to say to a great gaffer
  like the Lord than babes unborn."
  
  "Chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them above than we," said
  Joseph, thoughtfully.
  
  "Yes," said Coggan.  "We know very well that if anybody do go to
  heaven, they will.  They've worked hard for it, and they deserve to
  have it, such as 'tis.  I bain't such a fool as to pretend that we
  who stick to the Church have the same chance as they, because we
  know we have not.  But I hate a feller who'll change his old ancient
  doctrines for the sake of getting to heaven.  I'd as soon turn
  king's-evidence for the few pounds you get.  Why, neighbours, when
  every one of my taties were frosted, our Parson Thirdly were the man
  who gave me a sack for seed, though he hardly had one for his own
  use, and no money to buy 'em.  If it hadn't been for him, I shouldn't
  hae had a tatie to put in my garden.  D'ye think I'd turn after that?
  No, I'll stick to my side; and if we be in the wrong, so be it: I'll
  fall with the fallen!"
  
  "Well said--very well said," observed Joseph.--"However, folks, I
  must be moving now: upon my life I must.  Pa'son Thirdly will be
  waiting at the church gates, and there's the woman a-biding outside
  in the waggon."
  
  "Joseph Poorgrass, don't be so miserable!  Pa'son Thirdly won't mind.
  He's a generous man; he's found me in tracts for years, and I've
  consumed a good many in the course of a long and shady life; but he's
  never been the man to cry out at the expense.  Sit down."
  
  The longer Joseph Poorgrass remained, the less his spirit was
  troubled by the duties which devolved upon him this afternoon.
  The minutes glided by uncounted, until the evening shades began
  perceptibly to deepen, and the eyes of the three were but sparkling
  points on the surface of darkness.  Coggan's repeater struck six
  from his pocket in the usual still small tones.
  
  At that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry, and the door
  opened to admit the figure of Gabriel Oak, followed by the maid of
  the inn bearing a candle.  He stared sternly at the one lengthy
  and two round faces of the sitters, which confronted him with the
  expressions of a fiddle and a couple of warming-pans.  Joseph
  Poorgrass blinked, and shrank several inches into the background.
  
  "Upon my soul, I'm ashamed of you; 'tis disgraceful, Joseph,
  disgraceful!" said Gabriel, indignantly.  "Coggan, you call yourself
  a man, and don't know better than this."
  
  Coggan looked up indefinitely at Oak, one or other of his eyes
  occasionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it were not
  a member, but a dozy individual with a distinct personality.
  
  "Don't take on so, shepherd!" said Mark Clark, looking reproachfully
  at the candle, which appeared to possess special features of interest
  for his eyes.
  
  "Nobody can hurt a dead woman," at length said Coggan, with the
  precision of a machine.  "All that could be done for her is
  done--she's beyond us: and why should a man put himself in a tearing
  hurry for lifeless clay that can neither feel nor see, and don't know
  what you do with her at all?  If she'd been alive, I would have been
  the first to help her.  If she now wanted victuals and drink, I'd pay
  for it, money down.  But she's dead, and no speed of ours will bring
  her to life.  The woman's past us--time spent upon her is throwed
  away: why should we hurry to do what's not required?  Drink,
  shepherd, and be friends, for to-morrow we may be like her."
  
  "We may," added Mark Clark, emphatically, at once drinking himself,
  to run no further risk of losing his chance by the event alluded
  to, Jan meanwhile merging his additional thoughts of to-morrow in a
  song:--
  
  
                            To-mor-row, to-mor-row!
      And while peace and plen-ty I find at my board,
         With a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row,
      With my friends will I share what to-day may af-ford,
         And let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row.
                            To-mor-row', to-mor--
  
  
  "Do hold thy horning, Jan!" said Oak; and turning upon Poorgrass, "as
  for you, Joseph, who do your wicked deeds in such confoundedly holy
  ways, you are as drunk as you can stand."
  
  "No, Shepherd Oak, no!  Listen to reason, shepherd.  All that's the
  matter with me is the affliction called a multiplying eye, and that's
  how it is I look double to you--I mean, you look double to me."
  
  "A multiplying eye is a very bad thing," said Mark Clark.
  
  "It always comes on when I have been in a public-house a little
  time," said Joseph Poorgrass, meekly.  "Yes; I see two of every
  sort, as if I were some holy man living in the times of King Noah
  and entering into the ark....  Y-y-y-yes," he added, becoming much
  affected by the picture of himself as a person thrown away, and
  shedding tears; "I feel too good for England: I ought to have lived
  in Genesis by rights, like the other men of sacrifice, and then I
  shouldn't have b-b-been called a d-d-drunkard in such a way!"
  
  "I wish you'd show yourself a man of spirit, and not sit whining
  there!"
  
  "Show myself a man of spirit? ...  Ah, well! let me take the name of
  drunkard humbly--let me be a man of contrite knees--let it be!  I
  know that I always do say 'Please God' afore I do anything, from my
  getting up to my going down of the same, and I be willing to take as
  much disgrace as there is in that holy act.  Hah, yes! ...  But not
  a man of spirit?  Have I ever allowed the toe of pride to be lifted
  against my hinder parts without groaning manfully that I question
  the right to do so?  I inquire that query boldly?"
  
  "We can't say that you have, Hero Poorgrass," admitted Jan.
  
  "Never have I allowed such treatment to pass unquestioned!  Yet the
  shepherd says in the face of that rich testimony that I be not a man
  of spirit!  Well, let it pass by, and death is a kind friend!"
  
  Gabriel, seeing that neither of the three was in a fit state to take
  charge of the waggon for the remainder of the journey, made no reply,
  but, closing the door again upon them, went across to where the
  vehicle stood, now getting indistinct in the fog and gloom of this
  mildewy time.  He pulled the horse's head from the large patch of
  turf it had eaten bare, readjusted the boughs over the coffin, and
  drove along through the unwholesome night.
  
  It had gradually become rumoured in the village that the body to be
  brought and buried that day was all that was left of the unfortunate
  Fanny Robin who had followed the Eleventh from Casterbridge through
  Melchester and onwards.  But, thanks to Boldwood's reticence
  and Oak's generosity, the lover she had followed had never been
  individualized as Troy.  Gabriel hoped that the whole truth of the
  matter might not be published till at any rate the girl had been in
  her grave for a few days, when the interposing barriers of earth
  and time, and a sense that the events had been somewhat shut into
  oblivion, would deaden the sting that revelation and invidious
  remark would have for Bathsheba just now.
  
  By the time that Gabriel reached the old manor-house, her residence,
  which lay in his way to the church, it was quite dark.  A man came
  from the gate and said through the fog, which hung between them like
  blown flour--
  
  "Is that Poorgrass with the corpse?"
  
  Gabriel recognized the voice as that of the parson.
  
  "The corpse is here, sir," said Gabriel.
  
  "I have just been to inquire of Mrs. Troy if she could tell me the
  reason of the delay.  I am afraid it is too late now for the funeral
  to be performed with proper decency.  Have you the registrar's
  certificate?"
  
  "No," said Gabriel.  "I expect Poorgrass has that; and he's at the
  Buck's Head.  I forgot to ask him for it."
  
  "Then that settles the matter.  We'll put off the funeral till
  to-morrow morning.  The body may be brought on to the church, or
  it may be left here at the farm and fetched by the bearers in the
  morning. They waited more than an hour, and have now gone home."
  
  Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter a most objectionable
  plan, notwithstanding that Fanny had been an inmate of the farm-house
  for several years in the lifetime of Bathsheba's uncle.  Visions
  of several unhappy contingencies which might arise from this delay
  flitted before him.  But his will was not law, and he went indoors
  to inquire of his mistress what were her wishes on the subject.  He
  found her in an unusual mood: her eyes as she looked up to him were
  suspicious and perplexed as with some antecedent thought.  Troy
  had not yet returned.  At first Bathsheba assented with a mien of
  indifference to his proposition that they should go on to the church
  at once with their burden; but immediately afterwards, following
  Gabriel to the gate, she swerved to the extreme of solicitousness on
  Fanny's account, and desired that the girl might be brought into the
  house.  Oak argued upon the convenience of leaving her in the waggon,
  just as she lay now, with her flowers and green leaves about her,
  merely wheeling the vehicle into the coach-house till the morning,
  but to no purpose.  "It is unkind and unchristian," she said, "to
  leave the poor thing in a coach-house all night."
  
  "Very well, then," said the parson.  "And I will arrange that the
  funeral shall take place early to-morrow.  Perhaps Mrs. Troy is
  right in feeling that we cannot treat a dead fellow-creature too
  thoughtfully.  We must remember that though she may have erred
  grievously in leaving her home, she is still our sister: and it is
  to be believed that God's uncovenanted mercies are extended towards
  her, and that she is a member of the flock of Christ."
  
  The parson's words spread into the heavy air with a sad yet
  unperturbed cadence, and Gabriel shed an honest tear.  Bathsheba
  seemed unmoved.  Mr. Thirdly then left them, and Gabriel lighted
  a lantern.  Fetching three other men to assist him, they bore the
  unconscious truant indoors, placing the coffin on two benches in the
  middle of a little sitting-room next the hall, as Bathsheba directed.
  
  Every one except Gabriel Oak then left the room.  He still
  indecisively lingered beside the body.  He was deeply troubled at the
  wretchedly ironical aspect that circumstances were putting on with
  regard to Troy's wife, and at his own powerlessness to counteract
  them.  In spite of his careful manoeuvering all this day, the very
  worst event that could in any way have happened in connection with
  the burial had happened now.  Oak imagined a terrible discovery
  resulting from this afternoon's work that might cast over Bathsheba's
  life a shade which the interposition of many lapsing years might but
  indifferently lighten, and which nothing at all might altogether
  remove.
  
  Suddenly, as in a last attempt to save Bathsheba from, at any rate,
  immediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked before, at the
  chalk writing upon the coffin-lid.  The scrawl was this simple one,
  "FANNY ROBIN AND CHILD."  Gabriel took his handkerchief and carefully
  rubbed out the two latter words, leaving visible the inscription
  "FANNY ROBIN" only.  He then left the room, and went out quietly by
  the front door.
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapter 42
target: The workhouse had a small rear door three or four feet from the ground. Here, at about three o'clock, a bright wagon containing flowers drew up. Joseph Poorgrass backed the wagon to the door, and a plain coffin was lifted into it. A man wrote on the coffin with chalk, then covered it with a worn black cloth, and someone handed Joseph a certificate. He placed the flowers over the coffin and drove off. A heavy mist was falling, and gray gloom and quiet enveloped the wagon. Passing through Roy-Town, Joseph came to Buck's Head Inn, a mile and a half from his destination. With great relief, he stopped at the inn. There, to his delight, were "two coppercoloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the most appreciative throats in the neighborhood, within the pale of respectability," hailed him as he entered. Joseph explained that his peaked look was caused by the load he was driving. They drank, and drank again. Joseph said he had to be at the churchyard at a quarter to five, but the men went on discussing life, death, and theology. Poorgrass grew less concerned with time. As the clock struck six, Oak arrived. He reproved the men, but, with drunken logic, Coggan explained that all the hurrying in the world couldn't help a dead woman. Joseph was now singing. He denied being drunk but said his malady of a "multiplying eye" had caught up with him. Oak drove the wagon back, reflecting on the rumor that Fanny had run away to follow a soldier. Due to Oak's and Boldwood's tact, Troy had not been identified as the man, and Oak hoped the secret would be kept. When Gabriel reached Bathsheba's house, it was too late for the burial, and so Bathsheba ordered the coffin brought into the house, for to leave it in the coach-house seemed unfeeling. Troy had not yet returned. Oak and three other men carried the coffin in, Gabriel lingered on alone, overcome by the irony of it all, and looked again at the writing on the lid. The scrawl said simply, "Fanny Robin and child." He took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the last two words, leaving visible only the inscription "Fanny Robin."
feat_summary_analysis: Even in death it seems that there can be no rest for Fanny. In her coffin, she still travels the roads of Wessex. Appropriately, it is Oak who comes to her aid in death, just as he once did in life; and, finally, her body is given lodging within a house. Though their behavior seems rather callous, the men at the inn are merely accepting Fanny's death  as the will of Nature. These people, instinctively close to Nature, accept the results of her actions without question.