to declare it,' was the parson's words," Fairway continued.
"And then up stood a woman at my side--a-touching of me. 'Well, be
damned if there isn't Mis'ess Yeobright a-standing up,' I said to
myself. Yes, neighbours, though I was in the temple of prayer that's
what I said. 'Tis against my conscience to curse and swear in
company, and I hope any woman here will overlook it. Still what I did
say I did say, and 'twould be a lie if I didn't own it."

"So 'twould, neighbour Fairway."

"'Be damned if there isn't Mis'ess Yeobright a-standing up,' I
said," the narrator repeated, giving out the bad word with the same
passionless severity of face as before, which proved how entirely
necessity and not gusto had to do with the iteration. "And the next
thing I heard was, 'I forbid the banns,' from her. 'I'll speak to
you after the service,' said the parson, in quite a homely way--yes,
turning all at once into a common man no holier than you or I. Ah, her
face was pale! Maybe you can call to mind that monument in Weatherbury
church--the cross-legged soldier that have had his arm knocked away by
the school-children? Well, he would about have matched that woman's
face, when she said, 'I forbid the banns.'"

The audience cleared their throats and tossed a few stalks into the
fire, not because these deeds were urgent, but to give themselves time
to weigh the moral of the story.

"I'm sure when I heard they'd been forbid I felt as glad as if anybody
had gied me sixpence," said an earnest voice--that of Olly Dowden, a
woman who lived by making heath brooms, or besoms. Her nature was to
be civil to enemies as well as to friends, and grateful to all the
world for letting her remain alive.

"And now the maid have married him just the same," said Humphrey.

"After that Mis'ess Yeobright came round and was quite agreeable,"
Fairway resumed, with an unheeding air, to show that his words were no
appendage to Humphrey's, but the result of independent reflection.

"Supposing they were ashamed, I don't see why they shouldn't have
done it here-right," said a wide-spread woman whose stays creaked
like shoes whenever she stooped or turned. "'Tis well to call the
neighbours together and to hae a good racket once now and then; and it
may as well be when there's a wedding as at tide-times. I don't care
for close ways."

"Ah, now, you'd hardly believe it, but I don't care for gay weddings,"
said Timothy Fairway, his eyes again travelling round. "