Coggan, raising his beetling eyebrows, furnished a suitable reply. Oak went on with his shearing, and said not another word. Pestilent moods had come, and teased away his quiet. Bathsheba had shown indications of anointing him above his fellows by installing him as the bailiff that the farm imperatively required. He did not covet the post relatively to the farm: in relation to herself, as beloved by him and unmarried to another, he had coveted it. His readings of her seemed now to be vapoury and indistinct. His lecture to her was, he thought, one of the absurdest mistakes. Far from coquetting with Boldwood, she had trifled with himself in thus feigning that she had trifled with another. He was inwardly convinced that, in accordance with the anticipations of his easy-going and worse-educated comrades, that day would see Boldwood the accepted husband of Miss Everdene. Gabriel at this time of his life had out-grown the instinctive dislike which every Christian boy has for reading the Bible, perusing it now quite frequently, and he inwardly said, “‘I find more bitter than death the woman whose heart is snares and nets!’” This was mere exclamation — the froth of the storm. He adored Bathsheba just the same.
“We workfolk shall have some lordly junketing tonight,” said Cainy Ball, casting forth his thoughts in a new direction. “This morning I see ‘em making the great puddens in the milking-pails — lumps of fat as big as yer thumb, Mister Oak! I’ve never seed such splendid large knobs of fat before in the days of my life — they never used to be bigger than a horse-bean. And there was a great black crock upon the brandish with his legs a-sticking out, but I don’t know what was in within.”
“And there’s two bushels of biffins for apple-pies,” said Maryann.
“Well, I hope to do my duty by it all,” said Joseph Poorgrass, in a pleasant, masticating manner of anticipation. “Yes; victuals and drink is a cheerful thing, and gives nerves to the nerveless, if the form of words may be used. ‘Tis the gospel of the body, without which we perish, so to speak it.”
Bathsheba’s excursion to see Mr Boldwood’s Leicesters was uneventful, save for one unexpected diversion. If she previously had had anxieties on any score, they were that Boldwood might again press his suit upon her, and startle her into an acceptance by his very desperation; but that gentleman had resolved to show iron self-control in her presence, and to make no allusion to his previous proposal unless it should be first mentioned by herself.
The Leicesters were a handsome breed of sheep, with neat black hooves and tongues, an abundance of curly fleece, and each ewe was of a fine fatness. Bathsheba murmured her admiration, and Boldwood expatiated on the virtues of the breed; his firm faith in the power of animals to transmit their good qualities to their progeny, and a rigid determination to adhere to the type that he wished to produce. This was beauty of form, utility of form, early maturity and good fattening properties; he was apparently a little careless with regard to wool.
“See, Miss Everdene, their profiles -the noble Roman nose, the lips and nostrils black, no horns, ears thin, long and mobile. That ram has a good eye, a short neck and level back ;see how thick and tapering his shape is, from skull to shoulders deep, wide and prominent; giving great girth; well sprung ribs, wide loins, level hips, straight and long quarters … does my conversation not interest you?” For Bathsheba had turned away and put her handkerchief to her face, the better to hide a young woman’s smiles and laughter. In truth, she pitied the poor man — for was not his speech in praise of his sheep an attempt to appear most superior and expert in his farming knowledge, and thus to woo her? And did not the ram, with his narrow Roman nose and curly wool about his supercilious face, bear an uncanny resemblance to Farmer Boldwood himself, wearing a judge’s wig?
Bathsheba composed herself and attempted to speak, not as a silly young maid, but as a farmer. She admired the flock as sincerely as she was able, and at last a gratified smile graced the countenance of her suitor.
“They should always appear clean and neat, you know, Miss,” he continued, “but this is never to be achieved with soap, but only with a light spraying of water over the fleece — ”
Once again, the shepherdess was in danger of disgracing herself; in her mind’s eye, she saw the unfortunate Boldwood standing naked in a wooden tub, wearing only his judge’s curly wig, while buckets of water were tipped over him. She felt the mirth rising in her breast, and fought against it. How was she ever to regain her composure?
“Forgive me, Mr. Boldwood,” she cried out, “I have a speck in my eye — ah, there, ‘tis gone. Thank ‘ee kindly for your hospitality. May I invite you to the Shearing Supper tonight?”
This offer was eagerly accepted.
CHAPTER XXIII
EVENTIDE — A SECOND DECLARATION
For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men.
This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lips contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair. She seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table was at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal. She then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertaining to that end, which he did with great readiness.
At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed the green to Bathsheba at the window. He apologized for his lateness: his arrival was evidently by arrangement.
“Gabriel,” said she, “will you move again, please, and let Mr. Boldwood come there?”
Oak moved in silence back to his original seat.
The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of grey. Inwardly, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an exceptional degree. So also was Bathsheba now that he had come, though the uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while.
Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, without reference to listeners:
I’ve lost my love, and I care not,
I’ve lost my love, and I care not;
I shall soon have another That’s better than t’other; I’ve lost my love, and I care not.
This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those established authors who are independent of notices in the papers, was a well-known delight which required no applause.
“Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!” said Coggan.
“I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me,” said Joseph, diminishing himself.
“Nonsense; wou’st never be so ungrateful, Joseph — never!” said Coggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. “And mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say, ‘Sing at once, Joseph Poorgrass.’”
“Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it! … Just eye my features, and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?”
“No, yer blushes be quite reasonable,” said Coggan.
“I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty’s eyes get fixed on me,” said Joseph, differently; “but if so be ‘tis willed they do, they must.”
“Now, Joseph, your song, please,” said Bathsheba, from the window.
“Well, really, ma’am,” he replied, in a yielding tone, “I don’t know what to say. It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure.”
“Hear, hear!” said the supper-party.
Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was so successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, after a few false starts:
I sow′-ed th′-e …
I sow′-ed …
I sow′-ed th′-e seeds′ of′ love′,
I-it was′ all′ i′-in the′-e spring′,
I-in A′-pril′, Ma′-ay, a′-nd sun′-ny′ June′,
When sma′-all bi′-irds they′ do′ sing.
Maryann had made sure to seat herself between Mark Clark and Andrew Randle, sure in the knowledge that if she did not end the night in the barn with one, the other would do very well; in pursuit of which end, she made free with her hands under the table, pinching or patting a thigh or a leg as subtly as she was able.
“Well put out of hand,” said Coggan, at the end of the verse. “’They do sing’ was a very taking paragraph.”
“Ay; and there was a pretty place at ‘seeds of love.’ and ‘twas well heaved out. Though ‘love’ is a nasty high corner when a man’s voice is getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass.”
But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of those anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when, after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob’s ears immediately.
“Go on, Joseph — go on, and never mind the young scamp,” said Coggan. “’Tis a very catching ballet. Now then again — the next bar; I’ll help ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy:
“Oh the wi′-il-lo′-ow tree′ will′ twist′,And the wil′-low′ tre′-ee wi′-ill twine′.”
But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggan was sent home for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar occasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day.
It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers’ lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired.
The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer’s heaven. Bathsheba still remained enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself in knitting, from which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene outside. The slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely before the signs of moving were shown.
Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottom of the table. How long he had been gone Oak did not know; but he had apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk. Whilst he was thinking of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of the room overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone down the table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows behind. Bathsheba’s form, still in its original position, was now again distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed that Boldwood had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her.
Next came the question of the evening. Would Miss Everdene sing to them the song she always sang so charmingly — “The Banks of Allan Water” — before they went home?
After a moment’s consideration Bathsheba assented, beckoning to Gabriel, who hastened up into the coveted atmosphere.
“Have you brought your flute?” she whispered.
“Yes, miss.”
“Play to my singing, then.”
She stood up in the window-opening, facing the men, the candles behind her, Gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside the sash-frame. Boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room. Her singing was soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon swelled to a steady clearness. Subsequent events caused one of the verses to be remembered for many months, and even years, by more than one of those who were gathered there:
For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had he:On the banks of Allan WaterNone was gay as she!
In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel’s flute, Boldwood supplied a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his notes so softly, however, as to abstain entirely from making anything like an ordinary duet of the song; they rather formed a rich unexplored shadow, which threw her tones into relief. The shearers reclined against each other as at suppers in the early ages of the world, and so silent and absorbed were they that her breathing could almost be heard between the bars; and at the end of the ballad, when the last tone loitered on to an inexpressible close, there arose that buzz of pleasure which is the attar of applause.
It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not avoid noting the farmer’s bearing tonight towards their entertainer. Yet there was nothing exceptional in his actions beyond what appertained to his time of performing them. It was when the rest were all looking away that Boldwood observed her; when they regarded her he turned aside; when they thanked or praised he was silent; when they were inattentive he murmured his thanks. The meaning lay in the difference between actions, none of which had any meaning of itself; and the necessity of being jealous, which lovers are troubled with, did not lead Oak to underestimate these signs.
Bathsheba then wished them goodnight, withdrew from the window, and retired to the back part of the room, Boldwood thereupon closing the sash and the shutters, and remaining inside with her. Oak wandered away under the quiet and scented trees. Recovering from the softer impressions produced by Bathsheba’s voice, the shearers rose to leave, Coggan turning to Pennyways as he pushed back the bench to pass out. “I like to give praise where praise is due, and the man deserves it — that ‘a do so,” he remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as if he were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist.
“I’m sure I should never have believed it if we hadn’t proved it, so to allude,” hiccupped Joseph Poorgrass, “that every cup, every one of the best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their place as perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all.”
“I’m sure I don’t deserve half the praise you give me,” said the virtuous thief, grimly.
“Well, I’ll say this for Pennyways,” added Coggan, “that whenever he do really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the shape of a good action, as I could see by his face he did tonight afore sitting down, he’s generally able to carry it out. Yes, I’m proud to say, neighbours, that he’s stole nothing at all.”
“Well, ‘tis an honest deed, and we thank ye for it, Pennyways,” said Joseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed unanimously.
At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of the inside of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light between the shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there.
Miss Everdene and Boldwood were alone. Her cheeks had lost a great deal of their healthful fire from the very seriousness of her position; but her eye was bright with the excitement of a triumph — though it was a triumph which had rather been contemplated than desired.
She was standing behind a low armchair, from which she had just risen, and he was kneeling in it — inclining himself over its back towards her, and holding her hand in both his own. His body moved restlessly, and it was with what Keats daintily calls a too happy happiness. This unwonted abstraction by love of all dignity from a man of whom it had ever seemed the chief component, was, in its distressing incongruity, a pain to her which quenched much of the pleasure she derived from the proof that she was idolized.
“I will try to love you,” she was saying, in a trembling voice quite unlike her usual self-confidence. “And if I can believe in any way that I shall make you a good wife I shall in
deed be willing to marry you. But, Mr. Boldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honourable in any woman, and I don’t want to give a solemn promise tonight. I would rather ask you to wait a few weeks till I can see my situation better.
“But you have every reason to believe that then — ”
“I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks, between this time and harvest, that you say you are going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife,” she said, firmly. “But remember this distinctly, I don’t promise yet.”
“It is enough; I don’t ask more. I can wait on those dear words. And now, Miss Everdene, goodnight!”
“Goodnight,” she said, graciously — almost tenderly; and Boldwood withdrew with a serene smile.
Bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his heart before her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry look of a grand bird without the feathers that make it grand. She had been awestruck at her past temerity, and was struggling to make amends without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penalty she was schooling herself to pay. To have brought all this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous. Boldwood hardly noticed the journey home, so wrapt was he in his pleasant memories of the day. Had Bathsheba not, in as many words, given him true reason to hope? Why should he not now begin to plan her welcome into his hearth and home as his wife? He was willing, tonight, to wait a little for her actual arrival; but his impatience prompted him to think of practical preparations for this longed for outcome. At the very least she would need a piano, some comely garments to reveal, rather than conceal her curves and crevices when they were together in their bedchamber, jewellery to adorn her white neck and slender fingers, and more in the way of carpets, curtains and cushions …
Literary Love Page 28
