by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XXIII
EVENTIDE--A SECOND DECLARATION
For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plotbeside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sillof the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. MissEverdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She wasthus at the head without mingling with the men.
This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lipscontrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair. Sheseemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the tablewas at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal.She then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertainingto that end, which he did with great readiness.
At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed thegreen 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 coatand white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits ofgrey. Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to anexceptional degree. So also was Bathsheba now that he had come,though the uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had beendismissed for theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while.
Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, withoutreference 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 appreciativegaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work bythose established authors who are independent of notices in thepapers, 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!" saidCoggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. "Andmistress 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 eyesget fixed on me," said Joseph, differently; "but if so be 'tis willedthey 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 knowwhat 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 commendablepiece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note andanother, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was sosuccessful 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.
"Well put out of hand," said Coggan, at the end of the verse. "'Theydo sing' was a very taking paragraph."
"Ay; and there was a pretty place at 'seeds of love.' and 'twas wellheaved out. Though 'love' is a nasty high corner when a man's voiceis getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass."
But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of thoseanomalies which will afflict little people when other persons areparticularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed downhis throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when,after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirthburst out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hecticcheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob'sears 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'llhelp ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is ratherwheezy:--
"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 senthome for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by JacobSmallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminableas that with which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similaroccasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs ofhis day.
It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthilymaking itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines oflight raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, orilluminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round thetree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, theshearers' lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilsttheir heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with ayellow of self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather thanacquired.
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 stillremained enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself inknitting, from which she sometimes looked up to view the fading sceneoutside. The slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completelybefore the signs of moving were shown.
Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottomof the table. How long he had been gone Oak did not know; but hehad apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk. Whilst he wasthinking of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of theroom overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone downthe table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadowsbehind. Bathsheba's form, still in its original position, was nowagain distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed thatBoldwood had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her.
Next came the question of the evening. Would Miss Everdene sing tothem the song she always sang so charmingly--"The Banks of AllanWater"--before they went home?
After a moment's consideration Bathsheba assented, beckoning toGabriel, 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 candlesbehind her, Gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside thesash-frame. Boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room.Her singing was soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soonswelled to a steady clearness. Subsequent events caused one of theverses to be remembered for many months, and even years, by morethan 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 Water None was gay as she!
In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel's flute, Boldwoodsupplied a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his notesso softly, however, as to abstain entirely from making anything likean ordinary duet of the song; they rather formed a rich unexploredshadow, which threw her tones into relief. The shearers reclinedagainst each other as at suppers in the early ages of the world, andso silent and absorbed were they that her breathing could almost beheard between the bars; and at the end of the ballad, when the lasttone loitered on to an inexpressible close, there arose that buzz ofpleasure which is the attar of applause.
It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not avoid notingthe farmer's bearing to-night towards their entertainer. Yet therewas nothing exceptional in his actions beyond what appertained tohis time of performing them. It was when the rest were all lookingaway that Boldwood observed her; when they regarded her he turnedaside; when they thanked or praised he wa
s silent; when theywere inattentive he murmured his thanks. The meaning lay in thedifference 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 good-night, withdrew from the window, andretired to the back part of the room, Boldwood thereupon closing thesash and the shutters, and remaining inside with her. Oak wanderedaway under the quiet and scented trees. Recovering from the softerimpressions produced by Bathsheba's voice, the shearers rose toleave, Coggan turning to Pennyways as he pushed back the bench topass out:--
"I like to give praise where praise is due, and the man deservesit--that 'a do so," he remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as ifhe were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist.
"I'm sure I should never have believed it if we hadn't proved it, soto allude," hiccupped Joseph Poorgrass, "that every cup, every one ofthe best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their placeas 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 thevirtuous thief, grimly.
"Well, I'll say this for Pennyways," added Coggan, "that whenever hedo really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the shape of a goodaction, as I could see by his face he did to-night afore sittingdown, 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," saidJoseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribedunanimously.
At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of theinside of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light betweenthe shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there.
Miss Everdene and Boldwood were alone. Her cheeks had lost agreat deal of their healthful fire from the very seriousness ofher position but her eye was bright with the excitement of atriumph--though it was a triumph which had rather been contemplatedthan desired.
She was standing behind a low arm-chair, from which she had justrisen, and he was kneeling in it--inclining himself over its backtowards her, and holding her hand in both his own. His body movedrestlessly, and it was with what Keats daintily calls a too happyhappiness. This unwonted abstraction by love of all dignity froma man of whom it had ever seemed the chief component, was, in itsdistressing incongruity, a pain to her which quenched much of thepleasure she derived from the proof that she was idolized.
"I will try to love you," she was saying, in a trembling voice quiteunlike her usual self-confidence. "And if I can believe in any waythat I shall make you a good wife I shall indeed be willing to marryyou. But, Mr. Boldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honourablein any woman, and I don't want to give a solemn promise to-night. Iwould rather ask you to wait a few weeks till I can see my situationbetter.
"But you have every reason to believe that THEN--"
"I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or sixweeks, between this time and harvest, that you say you are going tobe away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife," shesaid, 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, good-night!"
"Good-night," she said, graciously--almost tenderly; and Boldwoodwithdrew with a serene smile.
Bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his heartbefore her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry lookof a grand bird without the feathers that make it grand. She hadbeen awe-struck at her past temerity, and was struggling to makeamends without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penaltyshe was schooling herself to pay. To have brought all this about herears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not withouta fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid womensometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamatedwith a little triumph, is marvellous.
