15 A morning meeting, the letter again. The scarlet and orange light outside the malt-house did not penetrate to its interior, which was as usual lighted by a rival glow of similar hue, radiating from the hearth. The molster, having lain down in his clothes for a few hours, was now sitting beside a tree-legged table, breakfasting off bread and bacon. This was eaten on the plateless system, which is performed by placing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flat upon the bread, a mustard plaster upon the meat, and a pinch of salt upon the whole. Then cutting them vertically downwards with a large pocket-knife till wood is reached, then the severed lump is impaled on the knife, elevated, and sent the proper way of food. The molster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminish his powers of the mill. He had been without them for so many years that toothlessness was felt less to be at effect than hard gums and acquisition. Indeed, he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperbolic curve approaches a straight line, less directly as he got nearer, till it was doubtful if he would ever reach it at all. Then the ash pit was a heap of potatoes roasting and a boiling pipkin of charred bread, called coffee for the benefit of whomsoever should call, for warrens was a sort of clubhouse used as an alternative to the inn. I said to him, we get a fine day, and then down comes a snapper at night, was a remark now suddenly heard spreading into the malt-house from the door, which had been opened the previous moment. The form of Henry Frey advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his boots when about half-way there. The speech and entry had not seemed to be at all an abrupt beginning to the molster, introductory matter often being omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, and the molster having the same latitude allowed him did not hurry to reply.  Henry appeared in the drab Kersimir greatcoat, buttoned over his smock frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to the distance of about a foot below the coattails, which, when you got used to the style of dress, looked natural enough, and even ornamental. It certainly was comfortable. Matthew Moon, Joseph Porgrass, and other carters and wagoners followed at his heels, with great lanterns dangling from their hands, which showed that they had just come from the cart-horse stables, where they had been busily engaged since four o'clock that morning. And how was she getting on with it with Bailey? the molster inquired. Henry shook his head, and smiled one of those bitter smiles, dragging all the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the centre. She'll do it, surely, surely, he said. Benjy Pennyways were not a true man or honest Bailey, as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariot himself, but it seems she can carry on alone. He allowed his head to swing laterally three or four times in silence. Never in all might creepen up, never. This was recognised by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speech which had been expressed and thought alone during the shake of the head. Henry, meanwhile, retained several marks of despair upon his face, to imply that they would be required for use again directly he should go on speaking. All will be ruined, and ourselves, too, all there's no mate in gentlemen's houses, said Mark Clark. The head strong made, that's what she is, and won't listen to no advice at all. Pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler's dog. Dare, dare, when I tingle it, I sorrow's like a man in travel. True, Henry, you do, I've heard ye, said Joseph Porgras in a voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery. To do a mortal man now harmed have was under a bonnet, said Billy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one tooth before him. She can speak great language, and must have some sense somewhere. Do ye follow me? I do, I do, but no, Bailey, I deserve that place, wailed Henry, signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a high destiny apparently visible to him on Billy Smallbury's smock-frock.  For, as ye do good, ye don't get rewarded, according to your works, but be cheated in some mean way, ye will ye recompense. No, no, I don't agree with ye there, said Mark Clark. Gods are perfect gentlemen in that respect. Good works, good pay, so to spake it, attested Joseph Porgras. A short pause ensued, and, as a sort of on-track, Henry turned and blew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rendered no longer necessary even in the malt-house with its one pane of glass. I wonder what a farmer woman can want with a harp, she called, dulcimer, and piano, or whatever it is they'd call it, said the molster. Did ye say it's even you one? Got a piano? Ah! Seems your old uncle's things are not good enough for her. She bought all but evidently new, with heavy chairs for the stout, weak and worryy ones for the slender, great watches getting on to the size of clocks to stand upon the chimbly piece. Pictures, for the most part, wonderful frames. A long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair pillows at each end, said Mr. Clark, likewise looking glasses for the pretty and lion-books for the wicked. A firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside. The door was opened about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed, Neighbours, have you got room for a few newborn lambs? Ah! Sure, shepherd, said the conclave. The door was flung back till it ticked the wall, and trembled from top to bottom with a blow. Mr. Oak appeared in the entry, with his steaming face hay-bands round about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-flock, and looking altogether in epitome of the world's health and vigor. Four lambs hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the dog George, whom Gabyl had contrived to fetch from Norcombe, stalked solemnly behind. Well! shepherd Oak, and how's lamb in this year, if I might say it? inquired Joseph Porgrass.  I've got a few twins, too, I hear, too many by half, yes, it is very queer lamb in this year, we shan't be done by ladie-day, and last year too, we're all over by sexagesm in Sunday, Joseph remarked. Bring on the rest, Cain, said Gabyl, and then roam back to the yews, I'll follow you soon. Cainee-ball, a cheery-faced young lad with a small circular orifice by way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired as he was bidden. Oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation, wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the fire. We know lamb and hoe here as they used to have at Norcombe, said Gabyl, and to such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a house. If it wasn't for your place here, Malter, I don't know what I should do with his keen weather, and how is it with you today, Malter? Ah, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd, but no younger. Aye, I understand. Sit down, shepherd Oak, continued the ancient man of Malte, and how was the old place at Norcombe when you went for your dog, I should like to see the old familiar spot, but faith, I shouldn't know a soul there now. I suppose you wouldn't, it is altered very much. Is it true that Dickie Hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down? Ah, yes, years ago, and Dickie's cottage just above it. Well, to be sure. Yes, and Tompkins' old apple-tree is rooted. They used to bear two hogs' heads as cider, and no help from other trees. Routed, you don't say it. Storing times we live in, storing times. And you can mind that old well that used to be in the middle of the place. That's torn into a solid iron pump with a large stone trough, and all complete. Dear, dear, how do facing nations alter, and what we live to see nowadays? Yes, it is the same here. They've been talking but now of the Mrs's strange doings. What have you been saying about her? In quiet oak, sharply turning to the rest, and getting very warm. His middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for pride and vanity, said Mark Clark, but I say, let her have rope enough. Bless her pretty face, shouldn't I like to do so, upon her cherry lips? The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well-known sound with his own. Mark, said Gabriel Sterney, now you mind this, none of that dalliance talk, that smack and coddle style of yours, about Miss Everdeen. I don't allow it. Do you hear? With all my heart, there's no chance," replied Mr. Clark cordially. I suppose you've been speaking against her, said oak, turning to Joseph Porgrass with a very grim look. No, no, not a word. I—to the real joyful thing that she's no worse, that's all I say, said Joseph, trembling and blushing with terror. Matthew just said, Matthew Moon, what have you been saying? Asked oak. I—well, you know, I wouldn't arm her warm. No, not one underground warm, said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy. Well, somebody has. I look here, neighbours. Gabriel, though one of the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion with marshal, promptness, and vigor. My fist! Here he placed his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the mathematical centre of the malter's little table, and with it gave a bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly took in the idea of fistiness before he went further. Now the first man in the parish that I hear prophesies and bad about our mistress—hoi!—here the fist was raised and let fall as Thor might have done with his hammer in the saying it. He'll smell and taste that, or I'm a Dutchman. All earnestly expressed by the features that their minds did not wander to Holland for a moment on account of this statement, but were deploring the difference which gave rise to the figure, and Mark Clarke cried, Here, here, just what I should have said. The dog George looked up at the same time after the shepherd's menace, and though he understood English but imperfectly began to growl. Now don't you take on so, shepherd, and sit down, said Henry, with a deprecating peacefulness, equal to anything of the kind and Christianity. We hear that you be an extraordinary good and clever man, shepherd, said Joseph Porgras, with considerable anxiety from behind the malsers' bedstead, whether he had retired for safety. To the great team to be clever, I'm sure, he added, making movements associated with the states of mind rather than body. We wish we were, don't we, neighbours? Aye, that we do, sure, said Matthew Moon, with a small anxious laugh towards Oak, to show how very friendly-disposed he was likewise. Who's been telling you I'm clever, said Oak? To blow the bow from pillar to post quite common, said Matthew. We hear that you can tell the time as well by the stars as we can by the sun and moon, shepherd. Yes, I can do a little that way, said Gabriel, as a man of medium sentiments on the subject, and that you can make sun-dials and print folks' names upon our wagons almost like copper-play, with beautiful flourishes and great long tails. I excellent-finding fear to be such a clever man, shepherd. Joseph Porgras used to print Farmer James Everdeen's wagons before you came, and I could never mind which way to turn the jays and the yeas. Could he, Joseph?  And so you used to do him the wrong way, like this, didn't you, Joseph? Matthew, marked on the dusty floor, with his whip-handle. The word James appears here with the jay and the yee printed backwards. And how Farmer James had cussed, and cally a fool, wouldn't ye, Joseph, when I see this name looking so inside-out like? continued Matthew Moon with feeling. Ah, I would, said Joseph meekly, but, you see, I wasn't so much to blame.  There's a very bad affliction for ye, being such a man of calamities in other ways. Well, it is, but a happy Providence order that it should be no worse, and I may fee my thanks. As to shepherd there, I'm sure Mrs. Otto may be, or Bailey, such a fitting man for it as you be. I don't mind, own, and I expected it, said Oak, frankly. Indeed, I hoped for the place. At the same time Miss Everdeen has a right to be her own Bailey, if she chooses, and to keep me down to be a common shepherd only. Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly into the bright ash-pit, and seemed lost in thoughts, not of the most hopeful hue. The genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulate the nearly lifeless lambs to bleep and move their limbs briskly upon the hay, and to recognise, for the first time, the fact that they were born. Their noise increased to a chorus of baz, upon which Oak pulled the milk-can from before the fire, and taking a small teapot from the pocket of a smock-frock filled it with milk and thought those of the helpless creatures, which were not to be restored to their lambs, how to drink from the spout. A trick they acquired with astonishing aptitude. And she don't even let you take the skins of the dead lambs, I hear. Resumed Joseph Porgas, his eyes lingering on the operations of Oak with the necessary melancholy. I don't have them, said Gabriel. He'd be very badly used, shepherd, hazarded Joseph again, in the hope of getting Oak as an ally in lamentation after all. I think she's took against me, that I do. Oh, no, not at all," replied Gabriel hastily, and a sigh escaped him, which the deprivation of lambskins could hardly have caused. Before any further remark had been added, as shade darkened the door, and bold would enter the malt-house, bestowing upon each a nod of equality between friendliness and condescension. Ah, Oak, I thought you were here, he said. I met the male cart ten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which I opened without reading the address. I believe it's yours. You must excuse the accident, please. Oh, yes, not a bit of difference, Mr. Bouldwood. Not a bit," said Gabriel readily. He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was there a possible letter coming to him, whose contents the whole parish would not have been welcomed to Peru's. Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand. Dear friend, I do not know your name, but I think these few lines will reach you, which I wrote to thank you for your kindness to me the night I left Wetherbury in a reckless way. I also returned the money I owe you, which you will excuse my not keeping as a gift. All has ended well, and I am happy to say I am going to be married to the young man who has courted me for some time, of Sergeant Troy, of the Eleventh Dragoon Guards now quartered in this town.  I should be much obliged to you if you would keep the contents of this letter a secret for the present, dear friend. We mean to surprise Wetherbury by coming there soon as husband and wife, and though I blushed to state it to one nearly a stranger. The Sergeant grew up in Wetherbury. Thanking you again for your kindness. I am your sincere well-wisher, Fanny Robbin. Have you read it, Mr. Bouldwood? said Gabriel. And if not, you would better do so. I know you were interested in Fanny Robbin. Bouldwood read the letter, and looked grieved. Fanny, poor Fanny. The end she is so confident of has not yet come. She should remember, and may never come. I see she gives no address. What sort of man is this Sergeant Troy? said Gabriel. I am afraid not one to build much hope upon in a case such as this. The farmer murmured, though he is a clever fellow, and up to everything. A slight romance attaches to him, too. His mother was a French governess, and it seems that a secret attachment existed between her and the late Lord Severn. She was married to a poor medical man, and soon after an infant was born, and while money was forthcoming all went on well. Unfortunately for her boy his best friends died, and he got then a situation of second clerk at a lawyer's and caster bridge. He stayed there for some time, and might have worked himself into a dignified position of some sort had he not indulged in the wild freak of enlisting. Ah! I have much doubt of ever little Fanny will surprise us in the way she mentions. Very much doubt. Silly girl! Silly girl! The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running Kenny Ball out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of a penny trumpet, from which he coughed, with noisy vigor and great distention of face. Now came Ball, said Oaks sternly. Why would you run so fast and lose your breath, so I am always telling you of it? Oh!  Well, why have you come for? I have run to tell you, said the junior Shepherd, supporting his exhausted, youthful frame against the doorpost. Now you must come directly. Two more years of twin. That's what's the matter, Shepherd Oak? Oh! That's it! Said Oak, jumping up and dismissing for the present his thoughts on poor Fanny.  But before you go, Kenny, bring the tar pot, and we mark this law, and I'll dung with him. Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking-iron, dipped it into the pot, and imprinted on the buttocks of the infant sheep the initials of her he delighted to muse on, B.E., which signified to all the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to farmer Bathsheba Everdeen and to no one else.  Good mornin', Mr. Bouldwood. The Shepherd lifted his sixteen large legs and four small bodies he himself had brought, and vanished with him in the direction of the lambing-field hard by, the frames being now in a sleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death-store plight of half an hour before. Bouldwood followed him a little way up the field, and hesitated and turned back. He followed him again with the last resolve, annihilating return. On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it and allowed it to lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed, Bathsheba's. I was going to ask you, oak, he said, with unreal carelessness, if you know who's writing this is. Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly with a flushed face. Mr. Everdeen's. Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name. He now felt a strangely distressing quam from a new thought, and the letter could, of course, be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry would not have been necessary. Bouldwood mistook his confusion. Sensitive persons are always ready with their, is it I, in preference to objective reasoning. The question was perfectly fair. He returned, and there was something incongruous in the serious earnestness with which he applied himself to an argument on a valentine. You know what is always expected that privy inquiries will be made. That's where the fun lies. If the word fun had been torture, it could not have been uttered with a more constrained and restless countenance than was Bouldwood's then. Soon parting from Gabriel the lonely and reserved man returned to his house to breakfast, feeling twinges of shame and regret, and having so far exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a stranger. He again placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think of the circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel's information. CHAPTER XVI On a weekday morning a small congregation, consisting mainly of women and girls, rose from its knees in the moldy nave of a church called All Saints, in the distant barrack-town before mentioned, at the end of a service without a sermon. They were about to disperse when a smart footstep, entering the porch and coming up the central passage, arrested their attention. The step echoed with a ring unusual in the church. It was the clink of spurs. Everybody looked. A young cavalry soldier in a red uniform, with the three chevrons of a sergeant upon his sleeve, strode up the aisle with an embarrassment which was only the more marked by the intense figure of the step, and by the determination upon his face to show none. A slight flush had mounted his cheek by the time he had run the gauntlet between these women, but passing on through the chancel arch he never paused till he came close to the altar railing. Here for a moment he stood alone. The officiating curate who had not yet doffed his surplus, perceived the newcomer and followed him to the communion space. They whispered to the soldier. Then he beckon to the clerk, who in his turn whispered to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they also went up the chancel steps. "'Tis a weddin,' murmured some of the women, brightening. "'Let's wait.' The majority again sat down. There was a creaking of machinery behind, and some of the young ones turned their heads. From the interior face of the west wall of the tower projected a little canopy, with a quarter-jack and small bell beneath it. The automation being driven by the same clock machinery that struck the large bell in the tower. Between the tower and the church was a closed screen, the door of which was kept shut during services, hiding this grotesque clockwork from sight. At present, however, the door was open, and the egress of the jack, the blows on the bell, and the mannequin's retreat into the nook again were visible to many and audible throughout the church. The jack had struck half past eleven. "'Where's the woman?' whispered some of the spectators. The young sergeant stood still with the abnormal rigidity of the old pillars around. He faced the southeast, and was as silent as he was still. The silence grew to be a noticeable thing as the minutes went on, and nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved. The rattle of the quarter-jack again from its niche, its blows for three-quarters, its fussy retreat, were almost painfully abrupt, and caused many of the congregation to start palpably. "'I wonder where the woman is?' a voice whispered again. There began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial coughing among several, which betrays a nervous suspense. At length there was a titter, but the soldier never moved. There he stood, his face to the southeast, upright as a column, his cap in his hand. The clock ticked on, though women threw off their nervousness, and titters and giggles became more frequent. Then came a dead silence. Everyone was waiting for the end. Some persons may have noticed how extraordinarily the striking of quarters seems to quicken the flight of time. It was hardly credible that the jack had not got wrong with the minutes when the rattle began again, and the puppet had emerged, and the four quarters were struck fitfully as before. One could almost be positive that there was a malicious layer upon the hideous creature's face, and a mischievous delight in its twitchings. Then followed the dull and remote resonance of the twelve heavy strokes in the tower above. The women were impressed, and there was no giggle this time. The clergyman glided into the vestry, and the clerk vanished. The sergeant had not yet turned. Every woman in the church was waiting to see his face, and he appeared to know it. At last he did turn, and stalked resolutely down the nave, braving them all with a compressed lip. Two bowed and toothless old almsmen then looked at each other and chuckled innocently enough, but the sound had a strange weird effect in that place. Opposite to the church was a paved square, around which several overhanging wood-buildings of old time cast a picturesque shade. The young man, on leaving the door, went to cross the square when in the middle he met a little woman. The expression of her face, which had been one of intense anxiety, sank at the sight of his, nearly to terror. Well, he said in a suppressed passion, fixedly looking at her. Oh, Frank, I made a mistake. I thought that the church with a spire was old Saints, and I was at the door a half past eleven to a minute, as you said. I waited till quarter to twelve, and found then that I was at all souls, but I wasn't much frightened, for I thought it could be tomorrow as well. You fool, for fooling me, but say no more. Shall it be tomorrow, Frank? she asked, blankly. Tomorrow. And he gave vent to a hoarse laugh. Ha! Ha! I won't go through that experience again for some time, I warrant you. But after all, she expotulated in a trembling voice. The mistake was not such a terrible thing. Now, dear Frank, when shall it be? Ah! When! God knows! He said with a light irony, and turning from her, walked rapidly away. CHAPTER XVII On Saturday Bouldwood was in Casa Ridge Market-House, as usual, when the Disturber of his dreams entered and became visible to him. He had awakened from his deep sleep, and behold, there was Eve. The farmer took courage, and for the first time really looked at her. Material causes and emotional effects are not to be arranged in regular equation. The result from capital employment and the production of any movement of a mental nature is sometimes as tremendous as the cause itself is absurdly minute. When women are in a freakish mood, their usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent effect, seemingly fails to teach them this, and hence it was that Bathsheba was fated to be astonished today. Bouldwood looked at her, not slyly, critically or understandingly, but blankly at gaze, in the way a reaper looks at a passing train, as something foreign to his element, and but dimly understood. For Bouldwood women had been remote phenomena rather than necessary compliments. Comets of such uncertain aspect movement and permanence that whether their orbits were as geometrical, unchangeable, and as subject to laws as his own, or as absolutely erratic as they superficially appeared, he had not deemed it his duty to consider. He saw her black hair, her correct facial curves and profile, and the roundness of her chin and throat. He saw then the side of her eyelids, eyes, and lashes, and the shape of her ear. Next he noticed her figure, her skirt, and the very soles of her shoes. Bouldwood taught her beautiful, but wondered whether he was right in his taught, for it seemed impossible that this romance in the flesh, if so sweet as he imagined, could have been going on long without creating a commotion of delight among men, and provoking more enquiry than Bathsheba had done, even though that was not a little. To the best of his judgment neither nature nor art could improve this perfect one of an imperfect many. His heart began to move within him. Bouldwood it must be remembered, though forty years of age, had never before inspected a woman with the very centre and force of his glance. They had struck upon all his senses at wide angles. Was she really beautiful? He could not assure himself that this opinion was true even now. He furtively said to a neighbour, Is Miss Everdeen considered handsome? Oh, yes! She was a good deal notice the first time she came, if you remember. A very handsome girl indeed. A man is never more credulous than in receiving favourable opinions on the beauty of a woman he is half, more quite in love with. The mere child's word on the point has the weight of an oar-aise. Bouldwood was satisfied now, and this charming woman had in effect said to him, Marry me. Why should she have done that strange thing? Bouldwood's blindness to the difference between approving of what circumstances suggest and originating what they do not suggest was well matched by Bathsheba's insensibility to the possibly great issues of little beginnings. She was, at this moment, coolly dealing with a dashing young farmer, adding up accounts with him as indifferently as if his face had been the pages of a ledger. It is evident that such a nature as his had no attraction for a woman of Bathsheba's taste. But Bouldwood grew hot down to his hands with an incipient jealousy. He trod for the first time the threshold of the injured lover's hell. His first impulse was to go and thrust himself between them. This could be done, but only in one way, by asking to see a sample of her corn. Bouldwood renounced the idea. He could not make the request. It was the basing loveliness to ask it to buy and sell, and jarred with his conceptions of her. All this time Bathsheba was conscious of having broken into that dignified stronghold at last. His eyes, she knew, were following her everywhere. This was a triumph, and had it come naturally, such a triumph would have been the sweeter to her for this peaking delay. But it had been brought about by misdirected ingenuity, and she valued it only as she valued an artificial flower or a wax fruit. Being a woman with some good sense in reasoning on subjects wherein her heart was not involved, Bathsheba genuinely repented that a freak which had owed its existence as much to Liddy as to herself, should ever have been undertaken to disturb the placidity of a man she respected too highly to deliberately tease. She that day nearly formed the intention of begging his pardon on the very next occasion of their meeting. The worst features of this arrangement were that if he thought she ridiculed him, an apology would increase the offence by being disbelieved, and if he thought she wanted him to woo her, it would read like additional evidence of her forwardness. CHAPTER XVIII Boldwood was tenant of what was called Little Weatherbury Farm, and his person was the nearest approach to aristocracy that this remote a quarter of the parish could boast of. Gentile strangers, whose god was their town, who might happen to be compelled to linger about this nook for a day, heard the sound of light-wheels, and prayed to see good society, to the degree of a solitary lord or squire at the very least, but it was only Mr. Boldwood going out for the day. They heard the sound of wheels yet once more, and were reanimated to expectancy, and it was only Mr. Boldwood coming home again. His house stood recessed from the road, and the stables which are to affirm what a fireplace is to a room were behind, their lower portions being lost amid bushes of laurel. Inside the blue door, open halfway down, were to be seen at this time the backs and tails of half a dozen warm and contented horses standing in their stalls, and thus viewed they presented alternations of rowan and bay, in shapes like a moorish arch, the tail being a streak down the midst of each. Over these, and lost to the eye gazing in from the outer light, the mouths of the same animals could be heard busily sustaining the above-named warmth and plumpness by quantities of oats and hay. The restless and shadowy figure of a colt wandered about a loose box at the end, whilst the steady grind of all the eaters was occasionally diversified by the rattle of a rope or the stamp of a foot. Pacing up and down at the heels of the animals was Farmer Boldwood himself. This place was his almanery and cloister in one. Here after looking to the feeding of his four-footed dependence the celibate would walk and meditate of an evening till the moon's rays streamed in through the cobwebbed windows, or total darkness enveloped the scene. This square-framed perpendicularity showed more fully now than in the crowd and bustle of the market-house. In this meditative walk his foot met the floor with heel and toes simultaneously, and his fine reddish-fleshed face was bent downwards just enough to render obscure the still mouth and the well-rounded though rather prominent and broad chin. A few clear and thread-like horizontal lines were the only interruption to the otherwise smooth surface of his large forehead. The phases of Boldwood's life were ordinary enough, but his was not an ordinary nature. That stillness which struck casual observers more than anything else in his character and habit, and seemed so precisely like the rest of Innotion, may have been the perfect balance of enormous antagonistic forces, positives and negatives in fine adjustment. His equilibrium disturbed, he was in extremity at once. If an emotion possessed him at all it ruled him. A feeling not mastering him was entirely latent. Stagnant or rapid it was never slow. He was always hit mortally, or he was missed. He had no light and careless touches in his constitution, either for good or evil. Staring in the outlines of action, mild in the details, he was serious throughout all. He saw no absurd sides to the follies of life, and thus, though not quite companiable, in the eyes of merry men and scoffers, and those to whom all things show life as a jest, he was not intolerable to the earnest and those acquainted with grief. Being a man who read all the dramas of life seriously, if he failed to please when there were comedies, there was no frivolous treatment to reproach him for when they chanced to end tragically. Bathsheba was far from dreaming that a dark and silent shape upon which she had so carelessly thrown a seed was a hotbed of tropic intensity. Had she known Bouldwood's moods, her blame would have been fearful, and the stain upon her heart ineradicable. Moreover, had she known her present power for good or evil over this man, she would have trembled at the responsibility. Luckily for her present, unluckily for her future tranquility, her understanding had not yet told her what Bouldwood was. She knew entirely, for though it was possible to form guesses concerning his wild capabilities from old flood-marks faintly visible, he had never been seen at the high tides which caused him. Farmer Bouldwood came to the stable door, and looked forth across the level fields. Beyond the first enclosure was a hedge, and on the other side was a meadow belonging to Bathsheba's farm. It was now early spring, the time of going to grass with the sheep when they have the first feed of the meadows, before these are laid up for mowing. The wind, which had been blowing east for several weeks, had veered to the southward, and the middle of spring had come abruptly, almost without a beginning. It was that period in the vernal quarter when we may suppose the dryads to be waking for the season. The vegetable world begins to move and swell and the saps to rise, till in the completest silence of lone gardens and trackless plantations, where everything seems helpless and still after the bond and slavery of frost, there are bustling, straining, united thrusts and pulls altogether, in comparison with which the powerful tugs of cranes and pulleys in a noisy city are but pygmy efforts. Bouldwood, looking into the distant meadows, saw their three figures. There were those of Miss Everdeen, Shepard Oak, and Cainy Ball. When Bathsheba's figure shone upon the farmer's eyes, it lighted him up, as the moon lights up a great tower. A man's body is as the shell or the tablet of a soul, as he is reserved or ingenuous, overflowing or self-contained. There was a change in Bouldwood's exterior from its former impassableness, and his face showed that he was now living outside his defenses for the first time, and with a fearful sense of exposure. It is the usual experience of strong natures when they love. At last he arrived at a conclusion. It was to go across and inquire boldly of her. The insulation of his heart by reserve during these many years, without a channel of any kind for disposable emotion, had worked its effect. It had been observed more than once that the causes of love are chiefly subjective, and Bouldwood was a living testimony to the truth of the proposition. No mother existed to absorb his devotion, no sister for his tenderness, no idle ties for sense. He became surcharged with the compound, which was genuine lover's love. He approached the gate of the meadow, and beyond it the ground was melodious with ripples, the sky with larks, the low bleeding of the flock mingling with both. Mistress and man were engaged in the operation of making a lamb take, which is performed whenever a you has lost her own offspring. One of the twins of another you, being given her as a substitute. Gabriel had skinned the dead lamb, and was tying the skin over the body of the live lamb in the customary manner, whilst Bathsheba was holding open a little pen of four hurdles, into which the mother and foisted lamb were driven, where they would remain till the old sheep conceived an affection for the young one. Bathsheba looked up at the completion of the manoeuvre, and saw the farmer by the gate, where he was overhung by a willow-tree in full bloom. Gabriel, to whom her face was as the uncertain glory of an April day, was ever regarded for lover's faintest changes, and instantly discerned thereon the mark of some influence from without, in the form of a keenly self-conscious reddening. He also turned, and beheld Bouldwood. At once connecting these signs with the letter Bouldwood had shown him, Gabriel suspected her of some coquettish procedure begun by that means, and carried on since he knew not how. Farmer Bouldwood had read the pantomime denoting that they were aware of his presence, and the perception was as too much light turned upon his new sensibility. He was still in the road, and by moving on he hoped that neither would recognise that he had originally intended to enter the field. He passed by with an utter and overwhelming sensation of ignorance, shyness, and doubt. Perhaps in a manner there were signs that she wished to see him. Perhaps not. He could not read a woman. The cabala of his erotic philosophy seemed to consist of the subtlest meanings expressed in misleading ways. Every turn, look, word, and accent contained a mystery quite distinct from its obvious import, and not one had ever been pondered by him until now. As for Bathsheba, she was not deceived into the belief that Farmer Bouldwood had walked by on business or in idleness. She collected the probabilities of the case, and concluded that she was herself responsible for Bouldwood's appearance there. It troubled her much to see what a great flame a little wildfire was likely to kindle. Bathsheba was no schemer for marriage, nor was she deliberately a trifler with the affections of men, and a censor's experience on seeing an actual flirt after observing her would have been a feeling of surprise that Bathsheba could be so different from such a one, and yet so like what a flirt is supposed to be. She resolved never again, by luck or by sign, to interrupt the steady flow of this man's life, but a resolution to avoid an evil as seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoidance impossible. CHAPTER XIX Bouldwood did eventually call upon her. She was not at home. Love, of course not. He murmured. In contemplating Bathsheba as a woman, he had forgotten the accidents of her position as an agriculturalist, that being as much of a farmer, and as extensive a farmer, as himself, her probable whereabouts was out of doors at this time of the year. This and the other oversides Bouldwood was guilty of were natural to the mood, and still more natural to the circumstances. The great aids to idealization and love were present here, natural observation of her from a distance, and the absence of social intercourse with her. Visual familiarity, oral strangeness. The smaller human elements were kept out of sight. The pettinesses that entered so largely into all earthly living and doing were disguised by the accident of lover and loved one not being on visiting terms, and there was hardly awakened a thought in Bouldwood that sorry household realities appertained to her, or that she, like all others, had moments of common place when, to be least plainly seen, was to be most prettily remembered.  It was the end of May when the farmer determined to be no longer repulsed by trivialities or distracted by suspense. He had by this time grown used to being in love. The passion now startled him less even when it tortured him more, and he felt himself adequate to the situation. Uninquiring for her at her house they had told him she was at the sheep-washing, and he went off to seek her there. The sheep-washing-pool was a perfectly circular basin of brickwork in the meadows, full of the clearest water. To birds on the wing its glassy surface, reflecting the light sky, must have been visible for miles around as the glistening cyclops eye in a green face. The grass about the margin at this season was a sight to remember long in a minor sort of way. Its activity in sucking the moisture from the rich damp sod was almost a process observable by the eye. The outskirts of this level water-meadow were diversified by rounded and hollow pastures, where just now every flower that was not a butter-cup was a daisy. The river slid along noiselessly as a shade, the swelling reeds and sedge forming a flexible palisade upon its moist brink. To the north of the mead were trees, the leaves of which were new, soft and moist, not yet having stiffened and darkened under summer sun and drought, their colour being yellow beside a green, green beside a yellow. From the recesses of this knot of foliage, the loud notes of three cuckoos were resounding through the still air. Bouldwood went meditating down the slopes with his eyes on his boots, which the yellow pollen from the butter-cups had bronzed in artistic gradations. A tributary of the mainstream flowed through the basin of the pool by an inlet and outlet at opposite points of its diameter. Shepherd Oak, Jan Coggan, Moon, Poor Grass, Cain Ball, and several others were assembled here, all dripping wet to the very roots of their hair, and Bathsheba was standing by in a new riding-habit, the most elegant she had ever worn, the reins of her horse being looped over her arm. Flagons of cider were rolling about upon the green. The meek sheep were pushed into the pool by Coggan and Matthew Moon, who stood by the lower hatch and merged to their waists. Then Gabriel, who stood on the brink, thrust them under as they swam along, with an instrument like a crutch formed for the purpose, and also for assisting the exhausted animals when the wool became saturated and they began to sink. They were let out against the stream, and through the upper opening all impurities flowing away below. Cainy Ball and Joseph, who performed this latter operation, were, if possible, wetter than the rest. They resembled dolphins under a fountain, every protuberance and angle of their clothes dribbling forth a small rail. Sheba came close and bade her good morning, with such constraint that she could not but think he had stepped across to the washing for its own sake, hoping not to find her there.  Bathsheba immediately contrived to withdraw, and glided along by the river till she was a stone's throw off. She heard footsteps brushing the grass, and had a consciousness that love was encircling her like a perfume. Instead of turning or waiting, Bathsheba went further among the high sedges. But Bouldwood seemed determined, and pressed on till they were completely past the bend of the river. Here without being seen, they could hear the splashing and shouts of the washers above. "'Miss Everdeen,' said the farmer. She trembled, turned, and said, good morning.' His tone was so utterly removed from all she had expected as a beginning. There was lowness and quiet accentuated, an emphasis of deep meanings, their form at the same time being scarcely expressed. Silence has sometimes a remarkable power of showing itself as the disembodied soul of feeling, wandering without its carcass, and it is then more impressive than speech. In the same way, to say a little is often to tell more than to say a great deal, Bouldwood told everything in that word. As the consciousness expands on learning that what was fancied to be the rumble of wheels is the reverberation of thunder, so did Bathsheba's at her intuitive conviction. "'I feel almost too much to think,' he said, with the solemn simplicity. "'I have come to speak to you without preface. My life is not my own, since I have beheld you clearly, Miss Everdeen. I come to make you an offer of marriage.' Bathsheba tried to preserve an absolutely neutral countenance, and all the motion she made was that of closing lips which had previously been a little parted. "'I am now forty-one years old,' he went on. "'I may have been called a confirmed bachelor, and I was a confirmed bachelor. I had never any views of myself as a husband in my earlier days, nor have I made any calculation on the subject since I have been older, but we all change, and my change in this matter came with seeing you. I have felt lately more and more that my present way of living is bad in every respect. Beyond all things, I want you as my wife.' "'I feel, Mr. Bouldwood, that, though I respect you much, I do not feel what would justify me in accepting your offer,' she stammered. This giving back of dignity for dignity seemed to open the sluices of feeling that Bouldwood had as yet kept closed. My life is a burden without you.' He exclaimed in a low voice. "'I want you—I want you to let me say I love you again and again.' Bathsheba answered nothing, and the horse upon her arm seemed so impressed that instead of copying the herbage she looked up. "'I think and hope you care enough for me to listen to what I have to tell.' Bathsheba's momentary impulse at hearing this was to ask why he thought that, till she remembered that far from being a conceited assumption on Bouldwood's part, it was but the natural conclusion of serious reflection based on deceptive premises of her own offering. "'I wish I could say courteous flatteries to you,' the farmer continued in an easier tone, and put my rugged feeling into a graceful shape, but I have neither power nor patience to learn such things. I want you for my wife so wildly that no other feeling can abide in me, but I should not have spoken out had I not been led to hope.' The Valentine again—'Oh, that Valentine!' she said to herself, but not a word to him. "'If you can love me, say so, Miss Everdeen. If not, don't say no.' Mr. Bouldwood, it is painful to have to say I am surprised, so that I don't know how to answer you with propriety and respect, but I am only just able to speak out my feeling—I mean my meaning—that I am afraid I can't marry you, much as I respect you.  Forgive me, sir. It was a wanton thing which no woman with any self-respect would have done. If you will only pardon my thoughtlessness, I promise never to. No, no, no, don't say thoughtlessness. Make me think it was something more—that it was a sort of prophetic instinct—the beginning of a feeling that you would like me. You torture me to say it was done in thoughtlessness. I never thought of it in that light, and I can't endure it. Ah! I wish I knew how to win you. But that I can't do. I can only ask if I have already got you. If I have not—and it is not true that you have come unwittingly to me as I have to you—I can say no more.' I have not fallen in love with you, Mr. Bouldwood. Certainly I must say that. She allowed a very small smile to creep for the first time over her serious face in saying this, and the white row of upper teeth and keenly-cut lips already noticed suggested an idea of heartlessness which was immediately contradicted by the pleasant eyes. But will you just think in kindness and condescension think if you cannot bear with me as a husband? I fear I am too old for you, but believe me, I will take more care of you than would many a man of your own age. I will protect and cherish you with all my strength. I will indeed. You shall have no cares, be worried by no household affairs, and live quite at ease, Miss Everdeen. The dairy superintendent shall be done by a man. I can afford it well. You shall never have so much as to look out of doors at hay-making time, or to think of weather in the harvest. And I'd rather cling to the shays, because it is the same my poor father and mother drove. But if you don't like it, I will sell it, and you shall have a pony-carriage of your own. I cannot say how far above every other idea and object on earth you seem to me. Nobody knows. God only knows how much you are to me. Bathsheba's heart was young, and it swelled with sympathy for the deep-natured man who spoke so simply. Don't say it. Don't. I cannot bear you to feel so much, and me to feel nothing. And I am afraid they will notice us, Mr. Baldwin. Will you let the matter rest now? I cannot think collectively. I did not know you were going to say this to me. Oh, I am wicked to have made you suffer so. She was frightened as well as agitated at his vermin's. Say then that you don't absolutely refuse. Do not quite refuse. I can do nothing. I cannot answer. I may speak to you again on the subject. Yes. I may think of you. Yes, I suppose you may think of me. I do not hope to obtain you. No. Do not hope. Let us go on.  No, please not. Give me time. Yes. I will give you any time," he said earnestly and gratefully. I am happier now. No, I beg you. Don't be happier if happiness only comes from my agreeing. Be neutral, Mr. Baldwin. I must think. I will wait," he said. And then she turned away. Stude dropped his gaze to the ground and stood long like a man who did not know where he was. Realities then returned upon him like the pain of a wound received in an excitement which eclipsed it, and he too then went on. End of CHAPTER XIX He is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can desire, that she bemused. Yet Farmer Baldwin, whether by nature kind or the reverse to kind, did not exercise kindness here. The rarest offerings of the purest loves are but a self-indulgence and no generosity at all. Bathsheba, not being the least in love with him, was eventually able to look calmly at his offer. It was one which many women of her own station in the neighbourhood, and not a few of higher rank, would have been wild to accept and proud to publish. In every point of view, ranging from politic to passionate, it was desirable that she, a lonely girl, should marry, and marry this earnest, well-to-do and respected man. He was close to her doors. His standing was sufficient. His qualities were even super-erogatory. Had she felt, which she did not, any wish whatever for the married state in the abstract, she could not reasonably have rejected him, being a woman who frequently appealed to her understanding for deliverance from her whims. Bouldered as a means to marriage was unexceptionable. She esteemed and liked him, yet she did not want him. It appears that ordinary men take wives because possession is not possible without marriage, and that ordinary women accept husbands because marriage is not possible without possession. With totally differing aims, the method is the same on both sides. But the understood incentive on the woman's part was wanting here. Besides, Bathsheba's position as absolute mistress of a farm and house was a novel one, and the novelty had not yet begun to wear off. But it is quiet-filled her which was somewhat to her credit, for it would have affected few. Beyond the mentioned reasons with which she combatted her objections, she had a strong feeling that, having been the one who began the game, she ought in honesty to accept the consequences. Still the reluctance remained. She said in the same breath that it would be ungenerous not to marry Bouldwood, and that she couldn't do it to save her life. Bathsheba's was an impulsive nature under a deliberative aspect. An Elizabethan brain, and a Mary Stuart in spirit, she often performed actions of the greatest temerity with a manner of extreme discretion. Many of her thoughts were perfect syllogisms. Luckily they always remained thoughts. Only a few were her rational assumptions, but unfortunately they were the ones which most frequently grew into deeds. The next day to that of the declaration she found Gabriel Oak at the bottom of the garden, grinding his shears for the sheep-shearing. All the surrounding cottages were more or less scenes of the same operation. The scour of wetting spread into the sky from all parts of the village, as from an armory previous to a campaign. This and war kiss each other at their hours of preparation. Sickles, scythes, shears, and pruning-hooks, ranking with swords, bayonets, and lances in their common necessity for point and edge. Caney-ball turned the handle of Gabriel's grindstone, his head performing a melancholy seesaw up and down, with each turn of the wheel. Oak stood somewhat as Eros is represented when in the act of sharpening his arrows, his figure slightly bent, the weight of his body thrown over on the shears, and his head balanced sideways, with a critical compression of the lips and contraction of the eyelids to crown the attitude. His mistress came up and looked upon them in silence for a minute or two, then she said, Cane, go to the lower mead and catch the bay-mare, I'll turn the winch of the grindstone. I want to speak to you, Gabriel. Cane departed, and Bathsheba took the handle. Gabriel had glanced up in intense surprise, quelled its expression, and looked down again. Bathsheba turned the winch, and Gabriel applied the shears. The peculiar motion involved in turning a wheel has a wonderful tendency to be known in the mind. It is a sort of attenuated variety of Ixian's punishment, and contributes a dismal chapter to the history of Gaels. The brain gets muddled, the head grows heavy, and the body's centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a leaden lump somewhere between the eyebrows and the crown. Bathsheba felt the unpleasant symptoms after two or three dozen turns. Will you turn, Gabriel, and let me hold the shears? She said, My head is in a whirl, and I can't talk. Gabriel turned. Bathsheba then began, with some awkwardness, allowing her thoughts to stray occasionally from her story to attend to the shears, which required a little nicety in sharpening. I wanted to ask you if the men made any observations on my going behind the sedge with Mr. Baldwood yesterday. Yes, they did, said Gabriel. You don't hold the shears right, miss. I knew you wouldn't, all the way. Hold it like this. He relinquished the winch, and, enclosing her two hands completely in his own, taking each as we sometimes clasp a child's hand in teaching him to write, grasped the shears with her. Inclined the edge so, he said. Hands and shears were inclined to soothe the words, and held us for a peculiarly long time by the instructor as he spoke. That will do, exclaimed Bathsheba. Loose my hands. I won't have them held. Turn the winch. Gabriel freed her hands quietly. Retired to his handle, and the grinding went on. Did the men think it odd? She said again. Baldwood was not the idea, miss. What did they say? That Farmer Baldwood's name and your own were likely to be flung over the pulpit together before the year was out. I thought so by the luck of them. Why there's nothing in it? A more foolish remark was never made, and I want you to contradict it. That's what I came for. Gabriel looked incredulous and sad, but between his moments of incredulity relieved. They must have heard our conversation. She continued. Well, then Bathsheba said oak stopping the handle and gazing into her face with astonishment. The miss Everdeen, you mean? She said with dignity. I mean this, that if Mr. Baldwood really spoke of marriage, I ain't going to tell a story and say he didn't, to please you. I've already tried to please you too much for my own good. Bathsheba regarded him with round-eyed perplexity. She did not know whether to pity him for a disappointed love of her or to be angry with him for having got over it, his tone being ambiguous. I said I wanted you just to mention that it was not true I was going to be married to him. She murmured, with a slight decline in her assurance. I could say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdeen, and I could likewise give an opinion to be on what you have done. I dare say, but I don't want your opinion. I suppose not, said Gabriel bitterly, and going on with his turning, his words rising and falling in a regular swell and cadence as he stooped her rose with a winch, which directed them, according to his position, perpendicularly into the earth, or horizontally along the garden, his eyes being fixed on a leaf upon the ground. With Bathsheba a hastened act was a rash act, but as does not always happen time gained was prudence ensured. It must be added, however, that time was very seldom gained. At this period the single opinion in the parish on herself and her doings that she valued as sounder than her own was Gabriel Oaks, and the outspoken honesty of his character was such that on any subject, even that of her love for or marriage with another man, the same disinterestedness of opinion might be calculated on, and be had for the asking. Thoroughly convinced of the impossibility of his own suit, a high resolve constrained him not to injure that of another. This is a lover's most stoical virtue, as a lack of it is a lover's most venial sin. Knowing he would reply truly, she asked the question, painful as she must have known the subject would be, such as the selfishness of some charming women, perhaps it was some excuse for her, thus torturing honesty to her own advantage, that she had absolutely no other sound judgment within easy reach. Well, what is your opinion of my conduct? She said quietly, that it is unworthy of any thoughtful and meek and cumbly woman. In an instant Bathsheba's face coloured with the angry crimson of a damby sunset, but she forbore to utter this feeling, and the reticence of her tongue only made the lexicity of her face the more noticeable. The next thing Gabriel did was to make a mistake. Perhaps you don't like the rudeness of my reprimanding you, for I know it is rudeness, but I thought it would do you good. She instantly replied sarcastically, On the contrary, my opinion of you is so low, that I see in your abuse the praise of the surrounding people. I'm glad you don't mind it, for I said it honestly and with every serious meaning. I see, but unfortunately when you try not to speak in jest, you are amusing, just as when you wish to avoid seriousness you sometimes say a sensible word. It was a hard hit, but Bathsheba had unmistakably lost her temper, and on that account Gabriel had never in his life kept his own better. He said nothing. She then broke out. I may ask, I suppose, where in particular my unworthiness lies? In my not marrying you, perhaps? Not by any means," said Gabriel quietly. I have long given up thinking of that matter. Or wishing it, I suppose, she said, and it was apparent that she expected an unhesitating denial of this supposition. Whatever Gabriel felt, he coolly echoed her words. Or which in either. A woman may be treated with bitterness which is sweet to her, and with a rudeness which is not offensive. Bathsheba would have submitted to an indignant chastisement of her levity had Gabriel protested that he was loving her at the same time. The impetuosity of passion, unrequited, is bearable, even if it stings and anathematizes. There was a triumph in the humiliation, and a tenderness in the strife. This was what she had been expecting, and what she had not got. To be lectured, because the lecturer saw her in the cold morning light of open-shuttered disillusion, was exasperating. He had not finished either. He continued in a more agitated voice. My opinion is, since you ask it, that you are greatly to blame for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Bollwood merely as a past time. Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action, and even, Miss Everdeen, if you seriously inclined towards him you might have let him find out in some way of true loving-kindness, and not by sending him a Valentine's letter. Bathsheba lay down the shears. I cannot allow any man to criticise my private conduct," she exclaimed. No, will I for a minute, so you will please leave the farm at the end of the week. It may have been a peculiarity, at any rate it was a fact, that when Bathsheba was swayed by an emotion of an earthly sort her lower lip trembled, when by a refined emotion her upper or heavenward one, her nether lip quivered now. Very well, so I will, said Gabriel calmly. He had been held to her by a beautiful thread, which had pained him to spoil by breaking, rather than by a chain he could not break. I should be even better pleased to go at once, he added. Go at once, then, in heaven's name, said she, her eyes flashing at his, though never meeting them.  Very well, Miss Everdeen, so it should be. And he took his shears, and went away from her in a placid dignity, as Moses left the presence of Pharaoh. End of CHAPTER XXI Troubles in the Fold A Message Gabriel Oak had ceased to feed the weathery flock for about four and twenty hours, when on Sunday afternoon the elderly gentleman Joseph Porgrass, Matthew Moon, Frey, and half a dozen others came running up to the house of the mistress of the upper farm. Whatever is the matter, men? She said, meeting them at the door, just as she was coming out on her way to church, and ceasing in a moment from the close compression of her two red lips, with which she had accompanied the exertion of pulling on a tight glove. Sixty, said Joseph Porgrass. Seventy, said Moon. Fifty-nine, said Susan, Tall's husband. Sheep of broken fence, said Frey. And got into a fairly young clover, said Tall. Young clover, said Moon. Clover, said Joseph Porgrass. And they be gettin' blasted, said Henry Frey. That they be, said Joseph.  Said Tall. Joseph's countenance was drawn into lines and pockets by his concern. Frey's forehead was wrinkled both perpendicularly and crosswise, after the pattern of a portcullis, expressive of a double despair. Laban Tall's lips were thin and his face rigid. Matthew's jaws sank, and his eyes turned whichever way the strongest muscle happened to pull them. Yes, said Joseph. And I was sittin' at home, lookin' for Ephesians, and I says to myself, there's nothin' but Corinthians and Thessalonians in this dang testament, when who should come in but Henry there? Joseph, he said, the sheep have blasted themselves. With Bathsheba it was a moment when thought was speech and speech exclamation. Moreover, she had hardly recovered her equanimity since the disturbance, which she had suffered from ultramarcs. That's enough! That's enough!  She cried, throwing the parasol and prayer-book into the passage, and running out of doors in the direction signified.  Her eyes were at their darkest and brightest now. Bathsheba's beauty belonging rather to the demonian than the angelic school, she never looked so well as when she was angry, and particularly when the effect was heightened by a rather dashing velvet dress carefully put on before it lasts. All the ancient men ran in a jumbled throng after her to the clover-field, Joseph sinking down in the midst, when about half-way, like an individual withering in a world which was more and more insupportable. Having once received the stimulus that her presence always gave them, they went round among the sheep with a will. The majority of the afflicted animals were lying down and could not be stirred. These were bodily lifted out, and the others driven into the joining field. Here, after the lapse of a few minutes, several more fell down and lay helpless and live it as the rest. Bathsheba, with a sad bursting heart, looked at these primest specimens of a prime flock as they rolled there. Swollen with wind and the rank mist they drew. Many of them foamed at the mouth, their breeding being quick and short, whilst the bodies of all were fearfully distended. Oh, what can I do? What can I do? said Bathsheba helplessly. Sheep are such unfortunate animals, there's always something happening to them. I never knew a flock pass a year without getting into some scrape or other. There's only one way of saving them, said Tal. What way? Tell me quick. They must be pierced in the side with a thing made on purpose. Can you do it? Can I? No, ma'am, we can't, nor you neither.  Not even a shepherd can do it as a rule. Then they must die, she said, in a resigned tone. Only one man in the neighbourhood knows the way, said Joseph, now just come up. He could cure them all if he were here. Who is he? Let's get him. Shepherd Oak, said Matthew. Ah, he's a clever man in talents. Ah, that he is so, said Joseph, poor grass. True, he's a man, said Laban, tall.  I told you never to allude to him, nor shall you if you stay with me. Ah, she added brightening. Far more bold would knows. No, ma'am, said Matthew. Two of his store-yues got into some vetchies to their day, and were just like these. He sent a man on horseback here post haste for Gable, and Gable went and save him. Far more bold would have got the thing they do it with. She's a holler-pipe with a sharp prickle inside. Isn't it, Joseph? Hi, a holler-pipe, echoed Joseph. That's what is. Ah, sure, that's the machine, chimed in Henry Fray reflectively with an oriental indifference to the flight of time. Well, burst out Bathsheba, don't stand there with your eyes and your shores talking at me.  All then stalked off in consternation to get somebody as directed, without any idea of who it was to be. In a minute they had vanished through the gate, and she stood alone with a dying flock. Never will I send for him. Never," she said, firmly. One of the ews here contracted its muscles horribly, extended itself, and jumped high into the air. The leap was an astonishing one. The ew fell heavily and lay still. Bathsheba went up to it. The sheep was dead. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" she again exclaimed, bringing her hands. I won't send for him. No, I won't. The most vigorous expression of a resolution does not always coincide with the greatest vigor of the resolution itself. It is often flung out as a sort of prop to support a decaying conviction which, while strong, required no enunciation to prove it so. The no I won't of Bathsheba meant virtually I think I must. She followed her resistance through the gate and lifted her hand to one of them. Leibn answered to her signal. Where is Oakstain? Across the valley at Ness Cottage. Jump on the bay-mare and ride across, and say he must return instantly. That I say so. Tal scrambled off to the field, and in two minutes was on Paul the bay, barebacked and with only a halter by way of rain. He diminished down the hill. Bathsheba watched, and so did all the rest. Tal countered along the bridal path through sixteen acres, sheeplands, middle-field, the flats, Capples' peace, shrank almost to a point, crossed the bridge, and ascended from the valley through spring-mead and white pits on the other side. The cottage to which Gabriel had retired before taking his final departure from the locality was visible as a white spot on the opposite hill, backed by blue furs. Bathsheba walked up and down. The men entered the field and endeavoured to ease the anguish of the dumb creatures by rubbing them. Nothing availed. Bathsheba continued walking. The horse was seen descending the hill, and the weary-some series had to be repeated in reverse order. White pits, spring-mead, Capples' peace, the flats, middle-field, sheeplands, sixteen acres. She hoped Tal had the presence of mind enough to give up the mare to Gabriel, and to return himself on foot. The rider neared them. It was Tal. "'Oh, what folly!' said Bathsheba. Gabriel was not visible anywhere. "'Perhaps he is already gone,' she said. Tal came into the enclosure and leapt off. His face, tragic as Morton's, after the battle of Strosbury. "'Well,' said Bathsheba, unwilling to believe that her verbal letter to Châché could possibly have miscarried. "'He says, beggars mustn't be choosers,' replied Laban. "'What?' said the young farmer, opening her eyes and drawing in her breath for an outburst, that Joseph Porgrass retired a few steps behind a hurdle. "'He says he shall not come unless she requests him to come civilly and in a proper manner, as becomes any woman begging a favour.' "'Oh, oh, that's his answer. Where does he get his heirs? Who am I, then, to be treated like that? Shall I beg a man who was begged to me?' Another of the flocks sprang into the air and fell dead. The men looked grave, as if they suppressed the pinion.  The strait she was in, through pride and shruishness, could not be disguised longer. She burst out crying bitterly. They all saw it, and she attempted no further concealment. "'I wouldn't cry about it, Miss,' said William Smallbury, compassionately. "'Why not ask him softer, like? I'm sure he'd come, then. Gable is a true man in that way.' Bathsheba checked her grief and wiped her eyes. "'Oh, it is a wicked cruelty to me. It is, it is,' she murmured. And he drives me to do what I wouldn't. Yes, he does. Tall, come indoors.' After this collapse, not very dignified for the head of an establishment, she went into the house, tall, at her heels. Here she sat down and hastily scribbled a note between the small convulsive sobs of convalescence, which follow a fit of crying as a groundswell follows a storm. The note was nonetheless polite for being written in a hurry. She held it at a distance, was about to fold it, then added these words at the bottom. "'Do not desert me, Gabriel.' She looked a little redder in refolding it, and closed her lips as if thereby to suspend till too late the action of conscience in examining whether such strategy were justifiable. The note was dispatched, as the message had been, and Bathsheba waited indoors for the result. It was an anxious quarter of an hour that intervened between the messenger's departure and the sound of the horse's tramp again outside. She could not watch this time, but leaning over the old bureau at which she had written the letter, closed her eyes as if to keep out both hope and fear. The case, however, was a promising one. When Gabriel was not angry he was simply neutral, although her first command had been so haughty.  She went out when the horse was heard and looked up. A mounted figure passed between her and the sky, and drew on towards the field of sheep, the rider turning his face in receding. Gabriel looked at her. It was a moment when a woman's eyes and tongue tell distinctly opposite tales. Bathsheba looked full of gratitude, and she said, Oh, Gabriel, how could you serve me so unkindly? Such a tenderly shaped reproach for his previous delay was the one speech in the language that he could pardon for not being commendation of his readiness now. Gabriel murmured a confused reply and hastened on. She knew from the look which sentence in her note had brought him. Bathsheba followed to the field. Gabriel was already among detergent prostrate forms. He had flung off his coat, rolled up his short sleeves, and taken from his pocket the instrument of salvation. It was a small tube or choker with a lance passing down the inside, and Gabriel began to use it with a dexterity that would have graced a hospital surgeon. Passing his hand over the sheep's left flank and selecting the proper point, he punctured the skin and rumen with the lance as it stood in the tube. Then he suddenly withdrew the lance, retaining the tube in its place. A current of air rushed up the tube, forceful enough to have extinguished a candle held at the orifice. It has been said that mere ease after torment is delight for a time, and the countenances of these poor sheep expressed it now. Forty-nine operations were successfully performed. Owing to the great hurry necessitated by the far-gone state of some of the flock, Gabriel missed his aim in one case, and in one only, striking wide of the mark, and inflicting a mortal blow at once under suffering you. Four had died, three recovered without an operation. The total number of sheep which had thus strayed and injured themselves so dangerously was fifty-seven. When the love-led man had ceased from his labours, that she became and looked him in the face. "'Hey, Gabriel, will you stay on with me?' she said, smiling winningly, and not troubling to bring her lips quite together again at the end, because there was going to be another smile soon. "'I will,' said Gabriel, and she smiled on him again." CHAPTER XXII The great barn and the sheep-shearers. Men thin away into insignificance and oblivion quite as often by not making the most of good spirits when they have them, as by lacking good spirits when they are indispensable. Gabriel lately, for the first time since his prostration by misfortune, had been independent in thought and vigorous in action to a marked extent, conditions which, powerless without an opportunity, as an opportunity without them as barren, would have given him a sure lift upwards when the favourable conjunction should have occurred. But this incurable loitering beside Bathsheba Everdeen stole his time ruinously. The spring tides were going by without floating him off, and the neap might soon come which could not. It was the first day of June and the sheep-shearing season culminated, the landscape, even to the leanest pasture being all health and colour. Every green was young, every pore was open, and every stock was swollen with racing currents of juice. God was palpably present in the country, and the devil had gone with the world to town. Flossy catkins of the later kinds, fern-sprouts like bishop's crowsiers, the square-headed moschetels, the odd cuckoo spit, like an apoplectic saint in a niche of malachite, snow-white ladies' smocks, the tooth-worth, approximating to human flesh, the enchanter's nightshade, and the black-petalled doleful bells, were among the quainter objects of the vegetable world in and about weather-brie at this teeming time, and of the animal, the metamorphosed figures of Mr. Jan Coggan, the master-shearer, the second and third shearers who travelled in the exercise of their calling and do not require a definition by name, Henry Frey, the fort-shearer, Susan Tal's husband, the fifth, Joseph Porgrass, the sixth, young cane-ball as assistant-shearer, and Gabriel Oak as general supervisor. None of these were clothed to any extent worth mentioning, each appearing to have hit in the matter of raiment the decent mean between a high and low-caste Hindu. An angularity of lineament and a fixity of facial machinery in general proclaimed that serious work was the order of the day. They sheared in the great barn called for the nonce the shearing-barne, which on ground-plan resembled a church with transepts. It not only emulated the form of the neighbouring church of the parish, but vied with it in antiquity. Whether the barn had ever formed one of a group of conventional buildings, nobody seemed to be aware. No trace of such surroundings remained. The vast porches at the sides, lofty enough to admit a wagon, laden to its highest with corn in the sheaf, were spanned by heavy-pointed arches of stone, broadly and boldly cut, whose very simplicity was the origin of a grandeur not apparent with erections where more ornament has been attempted. The dusky, filmed chestnut-roof, braced and tied in by huge colours, curves, and diagonals, was far nobler in design, because more wealthy in material than ninth-hence of those in our modern churches. Along each side-wall was a range of striding buttresses, throwing deep shadows on the spaces between them, which were perforated by lancid openings, combining in their proportions the precise requirements both of beauty and ventilation. One could say about this barn what could hardly be said of either the church or the castle akin to it in ancient style, that the purpose which had dedicated its original erection was the same with that to which it was still applied. Unlike and superior to either of those two typical remnants of medievalism, the old barn embodied practices which had suffered no mutilation at the hands of time. Here, at least, the spirit of the ancient builders was at one with the spirit of the modern beholder. Standing before this abraded pile, the eye regarded its present usage, the mind dwelt upon its past history, with the satisfied sense of functional continuity throughout, a feeling almost of gratitude, and quite of pride, at the permanence of the idea which had heaped it up. The fact that four centuries had neither proved it to be founded on a mistake inspired any hatred of its purpose, nor given rise to any reaction that had batted it down, invested this simple grey effort of old minds with a repose, if not a grandeur, which a too curious reflection was apt to disturb in its ecclesiastical and military compares. For once, medievalism and modernism had a common standpoint. The Lancelot windows, the time-eaten art, stones and chamfers, the orientation of the axis, the misty chestnut work of the rafters, referred to no exploded fortifying art or worn-out religious creed. The defence and salvation of the body by daily bread is still a study, a religion, and a desire. Today the large side-doors were thrown open towards the sun to admit a bountiful light to the immediate spot of the shearer's operations, which was the wood-threshing floor in the centre, formed of thick oak, blacked with age and polished by the beating of flails for many generations, till it had grown as slippery and as rich in hue as the state-room floors of an Elizabethan mansion. Here the shearers knelt, the sun slanting in upon their bleached shirts, tanned arms, and the polished shears they flourished, causing these to bristle with a thousand rays strong enough to blind the weak-eyed man.  This picture of today, in its frame of four hundred years ago, did not produce that marked contrast between ancient and modern, which is implied by the contrast of date. In comparison with cities, weathery was immutable. The citizens then is the rustics now. In London, twenty or thirty years ago are old times. In Paris, ten years, or five. In weathery, three or four score-years were included in the mere present, and nothing less than a century set a mark on its face or tone. Five decades hardly modified the cut of a gator, the embroidery of a smock-flock, by the breadth of a hair. Ten generations failed to alter the turn of a single phrase. In these wessex-knucks, the busy outsiders' ancient times are only old, his old times are still new, his present is futurity. So the barn was natural to the shearers, and the shearers were in harmony with the barn. The spacious ends of the building, answering ecclesiastically to nave and chancel extremities, were fenced off with hurdles, the sheep being all collected in a crowd within these two enclosures, and in one angle a catching-pen was formed, in which three or four sheep were continuously kept ready for the shearers to seize without loss of time. In the background mellowed by tawny shade were the three women, Mary Ann Money, and Temperance and Soberness Miller, gathering up the fleeces and twisting ropes of wool with a wimble for tying them round. They were indifferently well assisted by the old molster, who, when the malting season from October to April had passed, made himself useful upon any of the bordering farmsteads. Behind them all was Bathsheba, carefully watching the men to see that there was no cutting or wounding through carelessness, and that the animals were shown close. Gabriel, who flitted and hovered under her bright eyes like a moth, did not shear continuously, half his time being spent in attending to the others and selecting the sheep for them. At the present moment he was engaged in handing round a mug of mild liquor, supplied from a barrel in the corner, and cut pieces of bread and cheese. Bathsheba, after throwing a glance here, a caution there, and lecturing one of the younger operators, who had allowed his last finished sheep to go off among the flock without restamping it with her initials, came again to Gabriel, as he put down the luncheon to drag a frightened ewe to his shear-station, flinging it over upon its back with a dexterous twist of the arm. He lopped off the tresses about its head, and opened up the neck and collar, his mistress quietly looking on. She blushes at the insult, murmured Bathsheba, watching the pink flush, which arose and overspread the neck and shoulders of the ewe where they were left bare by the clicking shears. A flush which was enviable for its delicacy by many queens of coteries, and would have been creditable for its promptness to any woman in the world. Poor Gabriel's soul was fed with the luxury of content by having her over him, her eyes critically regarding his skilful shears, which apparently were going to gather up a piece of flesh at every close, and yet never did so. Like Guildenstern, Oak was happy in that he was not over-happy. He had no wish to converse with her, that his bright lady and himself formed one group, exclusively their own, and containing no others in the world was enough. So the chatter was all on her side. There is a loquacity that tells nothing, which was Bathsheba's, and there is a silence which says much, that was Gabriel's.  Well done, and done quickly," said Bathsheba, looking at her watch as the last snip resounded. How long, Miss? said Gabriel, wiping his brow. Three and twenty minutes and a half, since you took the first lock from its forehead. It's the first time I've ever seen one done in less than half an hour. The clean, sleek creature arose from its fleece. How perfectly like Aphid Deity rising from the foam should have been seen to be realised. Look startled and shy at the loss of its garment, which lay on the floor in one soft cloud, united throughout, the portion visible being the inner surface only, which, never before exposed, was white as snow, and without flaw or blemish of the minutest kind. Cane-ball! Yes, Mr. Oak, here I be. Cane now runs forward with the tar-pot. B. E. is newly stamped upon the shorn skin and away the simple dam leaps, panting over the board into the shortless flock outside. Then up comes Marianne, throws the loose locks into the middle of the fleece, rolls it up, and carries it to the background as three-and-a-half pounds of unadulterated warmth for the winter enjoyment of persons unknown and far away, who will, however, never experience the superlative comfort derivable from the wool as it here exists, new and pure, before the uncouthness of its nature whilst in a living state has dried, stiffened, and been washed out, rendering it just now superior to anything woollen, as cream is superior to milk and water. But heartless circumstance could not leave entire Gabriel's happiness of this morning. The rams, old ews, and two sheer ews had Julie undergone their stripping, and the men were proceeding with their shearlings and hogs. When Oaks' belief that she was going to stand pleasantly by and time them through another performance was painfully interrupted by Farmer Bouldwood's appearance in the extremest corner of the barn, nobody seemed to have perceived his entry, but there he certainly was. Bouldwood always carried with him a social atmosphere of his own, which everybody felt who came near him, and the talk which Bathsheba's presence had somewhat suppressed was now totally suspended. He crossed over towards Bathsheba, who turned to greet him with a carriage of perfect ease. He spoke to her in low tones, and she instinctively modulated her own to the same pitch, and her voice ultimately even caught the inflection of his. She was far from having a wish to appear mysteriously connected with him, but woman at the impressionable age gravitates to the larger body, not only in her choice of words, which is apparent every day, but even in her shades of tone and humour, when the influence is great. What they conversed about was not audible to Gabriel, who was too independent to get near, though too concerned to disregard. The issue of the dialogue was the taking of her hand by the courteous Farmer to help her over the spreading-board into the bright-dune sunlight outside. Standing beside the sheep already shorn, they went on talking again, concerning the flock. Apparently not. Gabriel theorized, not without truth, that in quiet discussion of any matter within reach of the speaker's eyes these are usually fixed upon it. Bathsheba demurely regarded a contemptible straw lying upon the ground, in a way which suggested less ovine criticism than womanly embarrassment. She became more or less red in the cheek, the blood wavering in uncertain flux and reflux over the sensitive space between ebb and flood. Gabriel cheered on, constrained and sad. She left Bouldwood's side and he walked up and down alone for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then she reappeared in her new riding-habit of Myrtle-green, which fitted her to the waist as a rind fits its fruit, and young Bob Coggan led on her mare, Bouldwood fetching his own horse from the tree under which it had been tied. Oaks eyes could not forsake them, and in endeavouring to continue his shearing the time that he watched Bouldwood's manner, he snipped the sheep in the groin. The animal plunged. Bathsheba instantly gazed towards it and saw the blood. "'Oh, Gabriel!' she exclaimed with severe remonstrance. "'You, who are so strict with the other men, see what you are doing yourself!' To an outsider there was not much to complain of in this remark. But to Oak, who knew Bathsheba to be well aware that she herself was the cause of the poor you's wound, because she had wounded the you's shearer in a still more vital part, it had a sting, which the abiding sense of his inferiority to both herself and Bouldwood was not calculated to heal. But a manly resolve to recognise Bouldly that he had no longer a lover's interest in her helped him occasionally to conceal a feeling. "'Bottle!' he shouted in an unmoved voice of routine. Caney-ball ran up, the wound was anointed, and the shearing continued. She gently tossed Bathsheba into the saddle, and before they turned away she again spoke out to Oak with the same dominant of and tantalising gracesness. "'I'm going now to see Mr. Bouldwood's lesters. Take my place in the barn, Gabriel, and keep the men carefully to their work.' The horses' heads were put about, and they trotted away. Bouldwood's deep attachment was a matter of great interest among all around him. But having been pointed out for so many years as the perfect exemplar of thriving bachelorship his lapse was an anti-climax somewhat resembling that of St. John Long's death by consumption in the midst of his proofs that it was not a fatal disease. "'That means matrimony,' said Temperance Miller, following them out of sight with her eyes. "'I reckon that's the size of it,' said Coggan, working along without looking up. "'Well, better went over the mixing than over the moor,' said Laban Tall, turning his sheep. Henry Frey spoke, exhibiting miserable eyes at the same time. "'I don't see where the maid should take her husband when she's bold enough to fight her own battles and don't want a home for it is keeping another woman out. But, let it be, for it is a pity he and she should trouble two houses.' As usual with decided characters that she invariably provoked the criticism of individuals like Henry Frey.  We learn that it is not the rays which bodies absorb, but those which they reject that gives them the colours they are known by, and in the same way people are specialised by their dislikes and antagonisms, whilst their good will is looked upon as no attribute at all. Henry continued in a more complacent mood. I once hinted my mind to her on a few things, as nearly as a battered frame there to do so, to such a forward peace. You all know neighbours what a man I be, and how I come down with my powerful words when my pride is boiling with scorn. We do, we do, Henry. So I said, Mr's Everdeen, there's places empty, and there's gifted men willing. But a spite—no, not a spite, I didn't say spite, but the villainy of the contrary kind, said I, keeps him out. That wasn't too strong for her, say? Possibly well put. Yes, and I would have said it, and death and salvation overtook me for it, such is my spirit when I have a mind. A true man and proud as a Lucifer. You see the artfulness? Wait, it was about being baly, really, but I didn't put it so plain that she could understand my meaning, so I could lay it on all the stronger. That was my depth. However, let her marry, and she will. Perhaps it's high time. I believe Farmer Boldwood kissed her behind the spear-bed at the sheep-wash until the day. That I do. What a lie! said Gabriel. Ah, neighbour Oak, how's it no? said Henry mildly. Because she told me all that past, said Oak, with a pharisaical sense that he was not as other shearers in this matter. You have a right to believe it, said Henry, with dudgeon. A very true right, but I may see a little distance into things. To be long-headed enough for a baly's place is a poor mere trifle, yet a trifle more than nothing. However, I look round upon life quite cool. Dear heave me, neighbours, my words, though made as simple as I can, may be rather deep for some heads. Oh, yes, Henry, we quite heady. A strange old peace-good man weirled about from here to yonder as if I were nothing, and it warped, too, but I have my depths, and even my great depths. I might gear that a certain shepherd brain to brain, but no, oh, no. A strange old peace, you say, interpose the monster in a queerler's voice. At the same time, you be no old man worth naming. No, no old man at all.  Weren't I stale and wedlocker for you and out of arms? It is a poor thing to be sixty when there's people past forescore a boast weak as water. It was the unvarying custom and weathery to sink minor differences when the monster had to be pacified. Weak as water? Yes, said Jan Coggin. Malter, I fear you to be a wonderful veteran man, who can gain say it. Nobody, said Joseph Porgras. You be a very rare old spectacle, Malter, and we all admire you for that gift. Ah, as a young man, when my senses were in prosperity, I was likewise likely a good few who knowed me, said the Malster. Without doubt you are, without doubt. The bent and hoary man was satisfied, and so apparently was Henry Frey. That matter should continue pleasant, Mary Ann spoke, who, what with her brown complexion, and the working rapper of Rusty Lindsay, had at present the mellow hue of an old sketch in oils, notably some of Nicholas Pousson's. Do anybody know of a crooked man, or a lame or any second-hand fellow at all that I do for poor me, said Mary Ann? A perfect one I don't expect to get at my time of life, if I could hear such a thing, I could then toast a nail. Coggan furnished a suitable reply. Oak went on with his shearing and said not another word. Testilent moods had come and teased away his quiet. Bathsheba had shown indications of anointing him above his fellows by installing him as a 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 admitted 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 cacketing with Bouldwood she had trifled with him, in thus feigning that she had trifled with another. He was inwardly convinced that, in accordance with the anticipations of his easygoing and worse educated comrades, that they would see Bouldwood Gabriel, at this time of his life, had outgrown 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 it snares and nets. This was mere exclamation, the froth of the storm. He adored Bathsheba just the same. We folk shall have some lorry junking to-night, said Cainie Ball, casting forth his torts in a new direction. This morning I see them making great puddens in the milk-and-pales.   They never used to be bigger than a horse being. And there was a great black crock upon the brandish where its legs is sticking out, but I don't know what was in within. And there's two bushels of biffins boys, said Marianne. Well, I hope to do my duty by it all, said Joseph Porgras in a pleasant, masticating manner of anticipation. Yes. Victuals and drink is a cheerful thing and gives nerves to the nervous if the form of words may be used. It is a gospel of the body without which we perish, so to speak it. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Far from the madding crowd this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tyge Hines Far from the madding crowd by Thomas Hardy Chapter 23 Even Tyde 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 Everdeen 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 skins 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. Bouldwood came in at the gate and crossed the green to Bathsheba at the window. He apologised for his lateness. His arrival was evidently by arrangement. Gabriel, she said, would you move again please and let Mr. Bouldwood come there? Oak moved in silence back to his original seat. The gentleman farmer was dressed in a 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 Pennyway as a bailiff who had been dismissed for theft disturbed her equanimity for a while. As 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 Tudor. 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 their performance like a work by those established authors who were independent of notices in the papers was a well-known delight which required no applause. Now, Master Porgras, your song said Coggan. I be all but in liquor and the gift is wanton in me said Joseph diminishing himself. Nonsense was never be so ungrateful Joseph never said Coggan expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. And Mistress is looking hard at you as much to say sing at once Joseph Porgras. Faith so she is well I must suffer it and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much neighbours. Nah, your 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 beat his will 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 ballad of my own composure. Here here said the supper-party. Porgras thus assured trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment the tune of which consisted of a keynote 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 saw the I saw the seeds of love it was all in the spring in April, May and then sunny June when small boards day do sing. Well put out of hand said Coggan at the end of the verse day do sing was a very taking paragraph and there was a very pre-piece that seeds of love that was well heaved out though love was a nasty high corner getting crazed. Next verse, Master Porgras 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 he quickly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob's ears immediately. Go on Joseph go on and never mind the young scamp said Coggan to the very catching ballot now then again the next bar I'll help you to flourish up the shrill notes when your wind is rather wheezy. Oh the widow tree will twist and the widow tree will 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 ballot as inclusive and interminable as that with which the worthy toper Old Salanus amused on a similar occasion the Swains, Chromas and Messilus 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 lighting upon it to any extent illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the trees as the last effort before death and then began to sink the shearers' lower parts becoming steeped in unbrowning 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 anochorous 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 with his handles 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 Everdeen sink to them the song she always sang so charmingly the banks of Alan Water before they went home. After a moment's consideration Bathsheba assented beckoning to Gabriel who hastened up to 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 slash frame. Boldwood had drawn up on her left in 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's sorter and a winning tongue had he on the banks of Alan Water none was gay as she. In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel's flute was supplied a bass in his customary profound voice uttering his note 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 sheavers reclined against each other as that suppers in the early ages of the world and so silent and absurdly that her breathing could almost be heard between the bars and at the end of the ballad when the last tone loitered in an inexpressible close there arose that buzz of pleasure which is the attire of applause. It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not avoid noting the farmers 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 bold would observe her when they regarded her he turned aside when they tanked or praised her he was silent or inattentive he murmured his thanks the meaning lay in the difference between actions none of which had any meaning in itself and the necessity of being jealous which lovers are troubled with did not lead Oak to underestimate these signs. Bathsheba then wished him good night withdrew from the window and retired to the back part of the room bold would thereupon closing the stash 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 Cogon 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 I do so he remarked looking at the worthy teeth as if he were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist I am sure I would never have believed it if we had improved it so to elude hiccuped Joseph Porgras that every cup every one of them best knives and forks and every empty bottle be in their place as perfect now was at the beginning and not one stole at all I am sure I don't deserve half the praise you give me said the virtuous teeth grimly well, I'd say this for Pennyways and at Cogon 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 before sitting down he's generally able to carry it out yes, I'm proud to say neighbours that he stole nothing at all well, to the nonest deed and we thank you for the Pennyways said Joseph to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed unanimously at this time of departure when nothing more was visible from the inside of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light between the shutters a passionate scene was in course of an act went there and never Dean and Bouldwood 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 been rather contemplated than desired she was standing behind a low arm chair 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 of his own his body moved restlessly and it was with what Keats daintily calls a too happy happiness this unwanted 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 a usual self-confidence and if I can believe in any way that I should make you a good wife I shall indeed be willing to marry you but Mr. Bouldwood hesitation and 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 the harvest that you say you are going to be away from home you are able to promise to be a wife she said firmly but remember this distinctly I don't promise yet there is enough I don't ask more I can wait on those dear words and now Miss Everteen good night good night she said graciously almost tenderly and Bouldwood withdrew with a serene smile Bathsheban knew more of them now he had entirely buried 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 humility 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 knocked 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 End of Chapter 23