 Chapter 15 of Far From the Madding Crowd. Recording by Simon Evers. Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy. Chapter 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 maltster, after having lain down in his clothes for a few hours, was now sitting beside a three-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, when the severed lump is impaled on the knife, elevated and sent the proper way of food. The maltster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminish his powers as a mill. He had been without them for so many years that toothlessness was felt less to be a defect 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. In 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 Warren's was a sort of clubhouse used as an alternative to the inn. I say, says I, 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 at the previous moment. The form of Henry Fray advanced to the far, stamping the snow from his boots when about halfway there. The speech and entry had not seemed to be at all an abrupt beginning to the malt stir, introductory matter being often omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, and the malt stir, having the same latitude allowed him, did not hurry to reply. He picked up a fragment of cheese by pecking upon it with his knife, as a butcher picks up skewers. Henry appeared in a drab curzy mere greatcoat, buttoned over his smock frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to the distance of about a foot below the coat tails, which, when you got used to the style of dress, looked natural enough and even ornamental. It certainly was comfortable. Matthew Moon, Joseph Porgras, and other carters and wagonners 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's she getting on without a bailey? the malt stir inquired. Henry shook his head and smiled one of the bitter smiles, dragging all the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the centre. She'll rue it, surely, surely, he said. Benjy Pennyways were not a true man or an honest bailey, as big a betrayer as Joey Escarrad himself, but a thing she can carry on alone. Henry laid out his head to swing laterally three or four times in silence. Never in all my creeping up, never! This was recognised by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speech which had been expressed in thought alone during the shaking 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. Hull would be ruined, and ourselves, too, or there's no meat in gentlemen's houses, said Mark Clark. O'ed strong maid, that's what she is, won't listen to no advice at all. Bride and vanity have ruined many a cobblers-dog. Dear, dear, when I think of it, I soar as like a man in travel. True, Henry, you do, of Erdie, said Joseph Porgras, in a voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery. To do a mortal man no arm to have what's under herb on it, said Biddy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one tooth before him. She can spake real language, and must have some sent somewhere. Do you follow me? I do, but no Bailey, I deserve that place. Well, Henry, signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a high destiny apparently visible to him on Biddy Smallbury's smock-frock. There, close to me, I suppose, your lot is your lot, and scripture is nothing, for if you do good you don't get rewarded according to your works, but be cheated in some mean way out of your recompense. No, no, I don't agree with thee there, said Mark Clark. God's a perfect gentleman in that respect. Good works, good pay, so to speak it, adressed Joseph Porgras. A short pause ensued, and as a sort of entract Henry turned and blew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rendered no longer necessary even in the malthouse with its one pane of glass. I wonder what a farmer-woman can want with a harpsichord, dulcimer, piano, or whatever it is they call it, said the monster. Liddy says she's a new one. Got a piano? Aye. Seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for her. She's bought all but everything new. There's heavy chairs for the stout, weak and wary ones for the slender. Great watches getting onto the size of Clark's to stand upon the chimney-piece. Pitchers for the most part, wonderful frames. A long arseilless settles for the drunk with all-sayer pillows at each end, said Mr. Clark, likewise, looking glassy for the pretty and lying books for the wicked. A firm, loud tread was now heard, a 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? Aye, sure, shepherd, said the conclave. The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled from top to bottom with the blow. Mr. Oak appeared in the entry with a steaming face, hay-bands wind about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking all together an epitome of the world's health and vigour. Four lambs hung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and the dog, George, whom Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe, stalked solemnly behind. Well, shepherd, how's young lambing this year, if I may say it? inquired Joseph Porgrass. Terrible trying, said Oak. I've been wet through twice a day, either in snow or rain this last fortnight. Gaely and I haven't dined our eyes tonight. A good few twins I hear. Too many by half. Yes, it is a very queer lambing this year. We shall not have done by lady-day. Last year, tallover by sexer Joseph in Sunday, Joseph remarked. Bring on the rest, Cain, said Gabriel, and then run back to the yews. I'll follow you soon. Cainiball, a cheery-faced young lad with a small circular orifice by way of mouth, advanced and deposited to two others, and retired as he was bitten. Oak lured the lambs from their unnatural elevation, wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the far. We've no lambing hut here, as I used to have at Norcombe, said Gabriel, and it is such a play to bring the weakly ones to a house. It wasn't for your place here, Malta. I don't know what I should do, this keen weather. And how is it with you today, Malta? Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd, but no younger. Aye, I understand. Sit down, shepherd Oak, continued the ancient man of Malt. And how was the old place at Norcombe when he 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? Oh, yes, years ago, and Dickie's cottage just above it. Well, to be sure. Yes, and Tomkin's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two hoaxes of cider and no help from other trees. Routed? You don't say it. Ah, stirring times we live in, stirring times. And you can mine the old well that used to be in the middle of the place. That's turned into a solid-arm pump with a large stone trough and all complete. Dear, dear, are the face of nations altered in what we live to see nowadays? Yes, it is the same here. They've been talking it now over the Mrs's strange doings. What have you been saying about her, inquired oak, sharply turning to the rest, and getting very warm? These middle-aged men have been putting her over the gulls for bride 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 a cherry-lips? The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well-known sound with his own. Mark, said Gabriel Sturney, now you mind this, none of that dalliance talk, that smack-and-cottle style of yours about Miss Everdeen? I don't delight. Dear! I thought me hard, as I've got 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. It is a real joyful thing that she's no worse. That's what 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 a worm. No, not one underground worm," said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy. Well, somebody has. And look here, neighbours. Gabriel, though one of the quietest and most gentlemen on earth, rose to the occasion with martial proponess of vigor. That's my fist. Here he placed his fist rather smaller in size than a common loaf in the mathematical centre of the most subtle 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 prophesying bad of our mysteries, why? Here the fist was raised and let fall, as Thor might have done with his hammer in her saying it. Here smell and taste that, or I'm a Dutchman. All earnestly expressed by their 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. A Mark Clark cried, Yeah, yeah, just what I would 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 in Christianity. We hear that ye be an extraordinarily good and clever man, shepherd, said Joseph Porgras, with considerable anxiety from behind the molster's bedstead, whether he had retired for safety. It is a great thing to be clever, I'm sure, he added, making movements associated with states of mind rather than body. We wish we were, don't we, neighbours? I 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. It is bloated about from but at a post quite common, said Matthew. We hear that ye 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 ye can make sundials and print folk's names upon their wagons almost like copperplate with beautiful flourishes and great long tails. An excellent fine thing for you to be such a clever man, shepherd. Joseph Porgras used to print to farmer James Everdeen's wagons before ye came, and I could never mind which way to turn the G's and E's, could ye, Joseph? Shook his head to express how absolute was the fact that he couldn't. And so he used to do them wrong way, like this, didn't ye, Joseph? Matthew marked on the dusty floor with his whip handle, J-A-M-E-S, all backwards. And how farmer James would guss and call thee a fool, wouldn't ye, Joseph, when a seed is named, looking so inside out like? continued Matthew Moon with feeling. Aye, I would, said Joseph Meekly, but ye see, I wasn't so much to blame, for them J's and E's be such trying sons of witches for the memory to mind, whether they face backward or forward, and I've always had such a forgetful memory, too. It is a bad affliction for ye being such a man of calamities in other ways. Well, it is, but I have a providence ordered that it should be no worse, and I feel my thanks. As to shepherd there, I'm sure Mrs. Orto have made ye a bailey, such a fitting man for it as ye be. I don't mind owning that 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 choose 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 bleat 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 bars, upon which Oak pulled the milk-can from before the fire, and taking a small teapot from the pocket of his smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those of the helpless creatures which were not to be restored to their dams how to drink from the spout. A trick they acquired with astonishing aptitude. And she thought even that ye have the skins of the dead lambs are here. Resumed Joseph Porgrass' eyes lingering on the operations of Oak with the necessary melancholy. I don't have them, said ye, Abril. Ye 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 ye 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 a shade darkened the door, and Bouldwood entered the malt-house, bestowing upon each a nod of a quality between friendliness and condescension. Ah, Oak, I thought ye were here, he said. I met the mail-cart ten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand which I opened without reading the address. I believe it is yours. You must excuse the accident, please. Oh, yes, not a bit of difference, Mr. Bouldin. 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 Peruse. 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 write to thank you for your kindness to me the night I left Weatherbury in a reckless way. I also return 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. Sergeant Troy of the Eleventh Dragoon Guards now courted in this town. He would, I know, object to my having received anything except as a loan, being a man of great respectability and high honour, indeed, a nobleman by blood. 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 Weatherbury by coming there soon as husband and wife, though I blushed to state it to one nearly a stranger. The sergeant grew up in Weatherbury. Thanking you again for your kindness, I am your sincere well-wisher, Fanny Robin. Have you read it, Mr. Bulwood, said Gable? If not, you better do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin. Bulwood 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 a man is this sergeant, Troy, said Gable? Hmm, I am afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a case 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 seemed that a secret attachment existed between her and the late Lord Seven. 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 as second clerk at a lawyer's in Casterbridge. He stayed there for some time, and might have worked himself into a dignified position of some sort, and he not indulged in the wild freak of enlisting. I have much doubt if ever little Fannie will surprise us in the way she mentions. Very much doubt. A silly girl, silly girl. The door was hardly burst open again, and in came running Cane 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, Cane Ball, said Oaks Turney, why would you run so fast and lose your breath so? I'm always telling you of it. Oh, I puffed my breath, went the wrong way, please, Mr. Oaks, and made me cough. Well, what have you come for? I've run to tell you, said the junior shepherd, supporting his exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost, that you must come directly. Two more years of twin—that's what's the matter, shepherd Oaks. Oh, that's it, said Oaks, jumping up and dismissing for the present his thoughts on poor Fannie. You are a good boy to run and tell me, Cane, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat. But before we go, Cane, bring the tar pot, and we'll mark this lot and have done with them. Oaks took from his illimitable pockets a marking-iron, dipped it in 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. Now, Cane, surely you're two and off. Good morning, Mr. Bulwood. The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies he had himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of the lambing-field hard by. Their frames been now in a sleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death-store plight of half an hour before. Bulwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, and turned back. He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating return. On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed, the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, and allied 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, Miss Everdeen's. Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name. He now felt estranged at his stressing-quam from a new thought. The letter could, of course, be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry would not have been necessary. Bulwood 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, it 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 Bulwood's then. Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reserved man returned to his house to breakfast, feeling twinges of shame and regret at having so far exposed his mood by these 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 mouldy nave of a church called All Saints in the distant barric-town before mentioned, at the end of a service without a sermon. They were about to disperse when a smart footstep entered the porch and coming up the central passage arrested their attention. The step echoed with a ring unusual in a 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 moor marked by the intense vigor of his step and by the determination upon his face to show none. A slight flush had minded 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. He whispered to the soldier and then beckoned to the clerk who in his term whispered to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they also went up the chancel steps. "'Tis a wedding! moment 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 tar projected a little canopy with a quarter-jack and small bell beneath it. The automaton being driven by the same clock machinery that struck the large bell in the tar. Between the tar and the church was a close 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 to many of the congregation to start palpably. "'How wonder where the woman is?' a voice whispered again. There began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial coughing among several which portrays a nervous suspense. At length there was a titter, but the soldier never moved. There he stood his face to the southeast upright at a column, his cap in his hand. The clock ticked on. The women threw off their nervousness, and titters and giggling became more frequent. Then came a dead silence. Everyone was waiting for the end. One person may have noticed how extraordinarily the striking of quarters seemed 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, the puppet emerged, and the four quarters were struck fitfully as before. One could almost be positive that there was a malicious leer 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 tar 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 armsmen 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, "'O Frank, I made a mistake. I thought that church with the spar was all saints, and I was at the door at half past eleven to a minute, as you said. I waited till a quarter to twelve, and found then that I was in all souls. But I wasn't much frightened, for I thought it could be to-morrow as well.' "'You fool for so fooling me! But say no more!' "'Shall he be to-morrow, Frank?' she asked blankly. "'Tomorrow.' And he gave vent to a hoarse laugh. "'I don't go through that experience again for some time, I warrant you.' "'But, after all,' she expostulated in a trembling voice, the mistake was not such a terrible thing. "'Now, dear Frank, when shall it be?' "'When?' "'God knows,' he said, with a light irony, and turning from her, walked rapidly away. End of CHAPTER XVI. CHAPTER XVII. In the Marketplace On Saturday, Bouldwood was in Casterbridge Markethouse as usual, when the disturber of his dreams entered and became visible to him. Adam 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 employed and the production of any movement of a mental nature is some times as tremendous as the cause itself is absurdly minute. When women are in a freakish mood, their usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent defect, 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 up at a passing train as something foreign to his element and but dimly understood. To Bouldwood women had been remote phenomena rather than necessary compliments, comments 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 thought her beautiful but wondered whether he was right in his thought, 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 inquiry 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 center 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 his opinion was true even now. He furtively said to a neighbor, Is Miss Everdeen considered handsome? Oh yes, she was a good deal noticed the first time she came, if you remember, a very handsome girl indeed. A man is never more credulous than in receiving favorable opinions on the beauty of a woman he is half or quite in love with. A mere child's word on the point has the weight of an R.A.'s. Bouldwood was satisfied now, and this charming woman had an 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 was 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 debasing 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 and reasoning on subjects were in 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 offense by being disbelieved, and if he thought she wanted him to woo her, it would read like additional evidence of her forwardness. End of Chapter 17, Recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 18 of Far From the Matting Crowd. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Far From the Matting Crowd by Thomas Hardy. Chapter 18, Bouldwood and Meditation, Regret. Bouldwood was tenant of what was called Little Weatherbury Farm, and his person was the nearest approach to aristocracy that this remote or 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. Bouldwood going out for the day. They heard the sound of wheels yet once more and were reanimated to expectancy. It was only Mr. Bouldwood coming home again. His house stood recessed from the road and the stables which are to a farm 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 as thus viewed, they presented alternations of ron 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 Bouldwood himself. This place was his almondry and cloister in one. Here after looking to the feeding of his four-footed dependents, 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. His 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 toe simultaneously, and his fine reddish fleshed face was bent downwards just enough to render obscure the still mouth and the well-rounded, the 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 Bouldwood'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 Inonition, may have been the perfect balance of enormous antagonistic forces, positives and negatives and 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 for evil. Stern 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 companionable 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 they were comedies, there was no frivolous treatment to reproach him for when they chanced to end tragically. Bathsheba was far from dreaming that the dark and silent shape upon which she had so carelessly thrown a seed was a hotbed of tropic intensity. Had she known Boldwood'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 her responsibility. Luckily for her present, unluckily for her future tranquility, her understanding had not yet told her what Boldwood was. Nobody knew entirely, for though it was possible to inform guesses concerning his wild capabilities from old flood marks faintly visible, he had never been seen at the high tides which caused them. Farmer Boldwood came to the stable door and looked forth across the level fields. Beyond the first enclosure was a hedge, and on the other side of this 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 complete silence of lone gardens and trackless plantations where everything seems helpless and still after the bond and slavery of frost, there are bustlings, cranings, united thrusts and pools altogether in comparison with which the powerful tugs of cranes and pulleys in a noisy city are but pygmy efforts. Boldwood, looking into the distant meadows, saw their three figures. They were those of Miss Everdeen, Shepard Oak, and Canny 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 at the shell or the tablet of his soul as he is reserved or ingenuous overflowing or self-contained. There was a change in Boldwood'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 has been observed more than once that the causes of love are chiefly subjective and Boldwood 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. Beyond it the ground was melodious with ripples and 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 and to which the mother-enforced lamb were driven where they would remain till the old sheep conceived in affection for the young one. Bathsheba looked up at the completion of the maneuver 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-regardful of its 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 to beheld boldwood. At once connecting these signs with the letter boldwood had shown him, Gabriel suspected her of some coquettish procedure begun by that means and carried on since. He knew not how. Farmer boldwood 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 on the road and by moving on he hoped that neither would recognize 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 her manner there were signs that she wished to see him, perhaps not. He could not read a woman. The cabala of this 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 boldwood had walked by on business or in idleness. She collected the probabilities of the case and concluded that she was herself responsible for boldwood'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 trifleur 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 look or by sign, to interrupt the steady flow of this man's life. But a resolution to avoid an evil is seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoidance impossible. End of chapter 18, recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 19 of Far From the Matting Crowd. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Far From the Matting Crowd by Thomas Hardy. Chapter 19, The Sheepwashing, The Offer. Boldwood did eventually call upon her. She was not at home. 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 oversights Boldwood 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. Occasional 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 enter so largely into all earthly living and doing were disguised by the accidents of lover and loved one not being on visiting terms. And there was hardly awakened a thought in Boldwood that sorry household realities appertained to her or that she, like all others, had moments of commonplace when to be least plainly seen was to be most prettily remembered. Thus a mild sort of apotheosis took place in his fancy whilst she still lived and breathed within his own horizon, a troubled creature like himself. 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 a glistening Cyclops eye and a green face. The grass about the margin at this season was a sight to remember long and 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 buttercup 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 color being yellow beside a green, green beside a yellow. From the recesses of this not a foliage, the loud notes of three cuckoos were resounding through the still air. Boldwood went meditating down the slopes with his eyes on his boots, which the yellow pollen from the buttercups 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, cane 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 writing habit, the most elegant she had ever worn, the reins of her horse being looped over her arm. Flagans 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 immersed to their waist. 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. Cainey Ball and Joseph, who performed this ladder 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 reel. Boldwood came close and bade her good morning, with such strength that she could not but think he had stepped across to the washing for its own sake, hoping not to find her there. More, she fancied his brow severe and his eyes sliding. 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 Boldwood 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. It was lowness and quiet accentuated and 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, Boldwood told everything in that word. As the consciousness expands on learning that what was fancy 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 a 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 41 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. Boldwood, that though I respect you much, I do not feel what would justify me too in accepting your offer, she stammered. This giving back of dignity for dignity seemed to open the sluices of feeling that Boldwood 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 cropping 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 conceded assumption on Boldwood'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. Boldwood, 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'm 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. You were too dignified for me to suit you, sir. But Miss Everdeen, I didn't, I know I ought never to have dreamt of sending that Valentine, forgive me, sir. It was a wanton thing which no woman with any self-respect should 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. Boldwood. 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 you will just think, and 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 superintendents 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. I rather cling to the chase 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. Bathship as 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 this, Mr. Boldwood. 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 as vehemence. 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, and hope to obtain you. No, do not hope, let us go on. I will call upon you again tomorrow. No, please not, give me time. Yes, I will give you any time, he said honestly and gratefully. I am happier now. No, I beg you. Don't be happier if happiness only comes from my agreeing. Be neutral, Mr. Boldwood, I must think. I will wait, he said. And then she turned away. Boldwood dropped his gaze to the ground and stood long like a man who did not know where he was. Reality then returned upon him like the pain of a woman received in an excitement which eclipses it. And he too then went on. End of chapter 19, recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 20 of Far From the Madding Crowd. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Far From the Madding Crowd. By Thomas Hardy. Chapter 20. Perplexity, grinding the shears, a quarrel. He is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can desire, Bathsheba Mused. Yet former Boldwood, 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 leased 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 neighborhood 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 superrogatory. 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. Boldwood, 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 a disquiet filled her, which was somewhat to her credit, for it would have affected few. Beyond the mentioned reasons with which she combated her objections, she had a strong feeling that, having been the one who began the game, she ought an honesty to accept the consequences. Still, the reluctance remained. She said in the same breath that it would be ungenerous not to marry Boldwood, 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, and luckily they always remained thoughts. Only a few were irrational 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 her garden, grinding his shears for the sheep shearing. All the surrounding cottages were more or less scenes of the same operation. The scur of wetting spread into the sky from all parts of the village, as from an armory previous to a campaign. Peace and war kiss each other at their hours of preparation. Sickles, skythes, 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 the 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 an 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 benumb the mind. It is a sort of attenuated variety of Ixian's punishment and contributes a dismal chapter to the history of Gauls. The brain gets muddle, the head grows heavy and the body's center of gravity seems to settle by degrees and 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 and sharpening. I wanted to ask you if the men made any observations on my going behind the sedge with Mr. Boldwood yesterday. Yes, they did, said Gabriel. You don't hold the shears right, miss. I knew you wouldn't know the way. Hold like this. He relinquished the winch and enclosing her two hands completely in his own, taking each as we sometimes slap a child's hand and teaching him to write. Grasp the shears with her. Incline the edge so, he said. Hands and shears were inclined to soothe the words and held thus 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. Odd was not the idea, miss. What did they say? That Farmer Boldwood's name and your own were likely to be flung over pulpit together before the year was out. I thought so by the look 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. Miss Everdeen, you mean, she said with dignity. I mean this, that if Mr. Boldwood 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 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 can say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdeen and I could likewise give an opinion to you 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 and a regular swell and cadence as he stooped to rows with the 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 insured. 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 Oakes. 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 disinterestiveness 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 the 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 comely woman. In an instant, Bathsheba's face colored with the angry crimson of a Danby sunset, but she forbore to utter this feeling and the reticence of her tongue only made the loquacity 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 good. She instantly replied sarcastically, on the contrary, my opinion of you is so low that I see in your abuse the praise of discerning people. I am 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? Am I 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 wishing it either. A woman may be treated with a bitterness which is sweet to her, and with a rudeness which is not offensive. Bathsheba would have submitted to an indignant chastisement for 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 is 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 that you are greatly to blame for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood merely as a pastime. Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action. And even, Miss Everdeen, if you seriously incline towards him, you might have let him find it out in some way of true loving kindness and not by sending him a Valentine's letter. Bathsheba laid down the shears. I cannot allow any man to criticize my private conduct, she exclaimed, nor will I for a minute, so you'll 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 it paint 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. Don't let me see your face anymore. Very well, Miss Everdeen, so it shall be. And he took his shears and went away from her in placid dignity as Moses left the presence of Pharaoh. End of chapter 20, recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 21 of Far From the Madding Crowd. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by E. Pline, Far From the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy. Chapter 21, Troubles in the Fold, A Message. Gabriel Oak had ceased to feed the Wetherbury flock for about four and twenty hours, when on Sunday afternoon the elderly gentleman, Joseph Porgras, Matthew Moon, Fray, 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 front 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 Porgras. Seventy, said Moon. Fifty, nine, said Susan Tall's husband. Sheep have broke the fence, said Fray, and got into a field of young clover, said Tall. Young clover, said Moon. Clover, said Joseph Porgras. And they be getting blasted, said Henry Fray. That they be, said Joseph, and will all die as dead as knits if they bane get out and cured, said Tall. Joseph's countenance was drawn into lines and puckers by his concern. Fray'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 was rigid. Matthew's jaws sank and his eyes turned whichever way the strongest muscle happened to pull them. Yes, said Joseph, and I was sitting at home looking for Ephesians, and says I to myself, to his nothing but Corinthians and Thessalonians in this danged testament. When who should come in here but Henry there? Joseph, he said, the sheep have blasted their selves. With Bathsheba it was a moment when thought was speech and speech explanation. Moreover, she had hardly recovered her equanimity since the disturbance which she had suffered from Oak's remarks. That's enough, that's enough! Oh, you fools, she cried, throwing the parasol and prayer book into the passage and running out of doors in the direction signified to come to me and not go and get them out directly. Oh, you stupid numskulls. Her eyes were at their darkest and brightest now, Bathsheba's beauty belonging rather to the demonian than to the angelic school. She never looked so well as when she was angry and particularly when the effect was heightened by a rather dashing dress carefully put on before a glass. All the ancient men ran in a jumbled throng after her to the clover field. Joseph sinking down in the midst went about halfway 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 the 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 adjoining 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 primus specimens of her prime flock as they rolled there. Swollen with the wind and the rank mist they drew. Many of them foamed at the mouth, their breathing 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. It must be done in a particular spot. If you go to the right or left but an inch, you stab the you and kill her. 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 neighborhood knows the way, said Joseph, now just coming 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 Porgras. True, he's the man, said Laban Tal. How dare you name that man in my presence, she said excitedly. I told you never to allude to him, nor shall you if you stay with me. Ah, she added, brightening. Farmer Bouldwood knows. Oh, no, ma'am, said Matthew. Two of his stories got into some vetches the other day and were just like these. He sent a man on horseback there, post-haste for Gable, and Gable went and saved him. Farmer Bouldwood have got that thing they do it with. Tis a holler pipe with a sharp prickle inside, isn't it, Joseph? Ah, a holler pipe, Echo Joseph. That's what tis. Ah, sure, that's the machine, chimed in Henry Frey reflectively with an oriental indifference to the flight of time. Well, burst out Bathsheba, don't stand there with your eyes and your shers talking at me. Get somebody to cure the sheep instantly. All then stocked 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 the dying flock. Never will I send for him, never, she said firmly. One of the yews here contracted its muscles horribly, extended itself and jumped high into the air. The leap was an astonishing one. The yew 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, ringing 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 assistants through the gate and lifted her hand to one of them. Laban answered to her signal. Where is Oak staying? Across the valley at Nest Cottage. Jump on the bay mare and ride across and say he must return instantly, that I say so. Tall scrambled off to the field and in two minutes was on pole, the bay barebacked and with only a halter by way of rain, he diminished down the hill. Bathsheba watched, so did all the rest. Tall cantered along the bridal path through sixteen acres, sheep lands, middle field, the flats, capels 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 endeavored 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 wearisome series had to be repeated in reverse order, white pits, spring mead, capels peace, the flats, middle field, sheep lands, sixteen acres. She hoped Tall had had presence of mind enough to give the mare to Gabriel and return himself on foot. The rider neared them, it was Tall. Oh, what folly said Bathsheba. Gabriel was not visible anywhere. Perhaps he's already gone, she said. Tall came into the enclosure and leapt off, his face tragic as mortons after the battle of Shrewsbury. Well, said Bathsheba, unwilling to believe that her verbal lettre de cachet 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. Joseph Porgras retired a few steps behind a hurdle. He says he shall not come unless you request him to come civilly and in a proper manner as becomes any human begging for a favor. Oh, oh, that's his answer. Where does he get his heirs? Who am I then to be treated like that? Shall I beg to a man who is beg to me? Another of the flock sprang into the air and fell dead. The men looked grave as if they suppressed opinion. Bathsheba turned aside her eyes full of tears. The strait she was in through pride and shrewishness 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 and 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. Gabriel was not angry. He was simply neutral, although her first command had been so haughty. Such imperiousness would have damned a little less beauty, and on the other hand such beauty would have redeemed a little less imperiousness. 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 and 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 the turgid prostate forms. He had flung off his coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and taken from his pocket the instrument of salvation. It was a small tube or trocar 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, forcible 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 creatures 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 upon the suffering you. Over 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, Bethsheba came and looked him in the face. 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 to 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 Bethsheba everdeen stole his time ruinously. The spring tides were going by without floating him off and the neat 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 the racing currents of juice. God was palpably present in the country, and the devil had gone with the world to town. See catkins of the latter kinds, fern sprouts like bishop's croziers, the square-headed moss-chuttle, the odd cuckoo-point, like an apoplectic saint in a niche of malachite, snow-white ladies' smocks, the tooth-wort, approximating to human flesh the enchanter's nightshade, and the black-pedal doleful bells, were among the quainter objects of the vegetable world in and about Weatherbury at this teeming time, and of the animal the metamorphist figures of Mr. Jan Kogan, the master-shearer, the second and third-shearers who traveled in the exercise of their calling and do not require definition by name. Henry Frey, the fourth-shearer, Susan Tall's husband the fifth, Joseph Porgras, the sixth, young Cain 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 in erections where more ornament had been attempted. The dusky-filmed chestnut-roof braced and tied in by huge collars, curves, and diagonals was far nobler in design, because more wealthy in material than nine-tenths 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 lancet openings, combining in their proportions the precise requirements of both 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 age and style, that the purpose which had dictated its original erection was the same with that to which it was still applied. Like 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 modern beholder. Standing before this abraded pile, the eye regarded its present usage, the mind dwelt upon its past history with a 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 battered it down, invested the simple gray 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 peers. For once medievalism and modernism had a common standpoint. The lancet late windows, the time-eaten archstones and chamfers, the orientation of the axis, the misty chest-network of the rafters referred to no exploded fortifying art or worn-out religious creed, the defense 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 toward the sun to admit a bountiful light to the immediate spot of the shearer's operations, which was the wood threshing floor in the center, formed of thick oak black 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 a weak-eyed man. Beneath them a captive sheep lay panting, quickening its pants as misgiving merged in terror till it quivered like the hot landscape outside. This picture of today and 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 Weatherbury was immutable. The citizens then and the rustics now. In London twenty or thirty years ago were old times. In Paris ten or five, in Weatherbury three or four score years were included in the mayor present. 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 frock by the breadth of a hair. Ten generations failed to alter the turn of a single phrase, and these wessex nooks, 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 sheet 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 Tony Shade, were the three women, Marianne 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 maltster who, when the malting season, from October to April had passed, made himself useful upon any of the bordering farmsteads. Behind all was Bathsheba carefully watching the men to see that there was no cutting or wounding through carelessness, and that the animals were shorn close. Gabriel, who flitted and hovered under her bright eyes like a moth, did not shear continuously. Half his time was 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, accautioned 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 lynching to drag a frightened ew 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 ew, where they were left bare by the clicking shears, a flush which was enviable for its delicacy by many queens of coterees, and would have been creditable for its promptness to any woman in the world. Poor Gabriel's soul was fed with a luxury of content by having her over him, her eyes critically regarding his skillful shears, which apparently were going to gather up a piece of the 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. Full of this dim and temperate bliss he went on to fling the ew over upon her other side, covering her head with his knee, gradually running the shears line after line round her dew-lap, then spout her flank and back, and finishing over the tail. "'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 is the first time I have ever seen one done in less than half an hour.' The clean, sleek creature rose from its fleece, how perfectly, like Aphrodite rising from the foam, should have been seen to be realized, looking 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 fleece only which never before exposed was white as snow, without flaw or blemish of the minutest kind. "'Cain ball!' "'Yes, Mr. Oak, here I be!' Cainy 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 shirtless flock outside. Then up comes Mary Ann, throws the loose locks into the middle of the fleece, rolls it up, and carries it into 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 unctuousness of its nature whilst in the living state has dried, stiffened, and been washed out, rendering it just now as 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 ewes, and two sheer ewes had duly undergone their stripping, and the men were proceeding with the shearlings and hogs, when oak's belief that she was going to stand pleasantly by and time him through another performance was painfully interrupted by Farmer Boldwood's appearance in the extremest corner of the barn. Nobody seemed to have perceived his entry, but there he certainly was. Boldwood 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 toward 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 humor 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 their dialogue was the taking of her hand by the courteous Farmer to help her over the spreading board into the bright June 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 manner 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 began more or less red in the cheek, the blood wavering in uncertain flux and reflux over the sensitive spaces between ebb and flood. Gabriel sheared 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 Coggin led on her mare, Bouldwood fetching his own horse from the tree under which it had been tied. Oak's eyes could not forsake them, and in endeavouring to continue his shearing at the same 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 ewe's wound. Because she had wounded the ewe'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 recognize boldly 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. Bouldwood gently tossed Bathsheba into the saddle, and before they turned away she again spoke out to Oak with same dominative and tantalizing graciousness. I'm going now to see Mr. Bouldwood's leisters, take my place in the barn, Gabriel, and keep the men carefully to their work. The horse's heads were put about, and they trotted away. Bouldwood's deep attachment was a matter of great interest among all around him, but, after having been pointed out for so many years as the perfect exemplar of thriving bachelorship, his laps was an anticlimax 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 Cogan, working along without looking up. Well, better wed over the mixen than over the moor, said Laban Tall, turning his sheep. Henry Frey spoke, exhibiting miserable eyes at the same time. I don't see why a mage should take a husband when she's bold enough to fight her own battles and don't want a home, or to keeping another woman out, but, let it be, for to tis a pity he and she should trouble two houses. As usual, decided characters Bathsheba invariably provoked the criticism of individuals like Henry Frey. Her emblazoned fault was to be too pronounced in her objections and not sufficiently overt in her likings. We learn that it is not the rays which bodies absorb but those which they reject that give them the colors they are known by, and in the same way people are specialized 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 hidden by mine to her on a few things, as nearly as a battered frame dared to do so to such a forward peace. You all know, neighbors, what a man I be, and how I come down with my powerful words when my pride is boiling with scorn. Oh, we do, we do, Henry. So I said, Mistress Everdeen, there's places empty and there's gifted men willing, but the spite, no, not the spite, I didn't say spite, but the villainy of the contrary kind, I said, meaning woman kind, keeps them out. That wasn't too strong for her, say? Possibly well put. Yes, and I would have said it had death and salvation overtook me for it, such as my spirit when I have a mind. A true man and proud as Lucifer. You see the artfulness. Why, it was about being Bailey, 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 to his high time. I believe Farmer Bold would kiss her behind the spear bed at the sheep-washing tether-day, that I do. What a lie, said Gabriel. Ah, neighbor Oak, how'st no, said Henry mildly. Because she told me all that past, said Oak with a fericycle, sense that he was not as other shears in this matter. Ye have a right to believe it, said Henry, with Dungeon, a very true right, but I mid-see a little distance into things, to be long-headed enough for a Bailey's place in a poor mere trifle, yet a trifle more than nothing. However I look round upon life quite cool, do you heed me, neighbors? My words, though made as simple as I can, mid-be rather deep for some heads. Oh, yes, Henry, we quite heady. A strange old peace-good men, world about from here to yonder, as if I were nothing, a little warp, too. But I have my depths, ha! And even my great depths, I might gird at a certain shepherd, brain to brain, but no, oh, no. A strange old peace, ye say, interposed the maltster in a queerless voice, at the same time ye be no old man worth naming, no old man at all, your teeth bane half gone yet, and what's an old man standing if so be his teeth bane gone? Weren't I stale in wedlock before ye were out of arms? Tis a poor thing to be sixty when there's people far past forescore, a boast weak as water. It was the unvarying custom in Weatherbury to sink minor differences when the maltster had to be pacified. Weak as water, yes, said Jan Cogan, Malter, we feel ye to be a wonderful veteran man, and nobody can gain say it. Nobody, said Joseph Porgras, ye be a very rare old spectacle maltre, and we all admire ye for that gift. I, and as a young man, when my senses were in prosperity, I was likewise liked by a good few who knowed me, said the maltster. Thou'd a doubt, ye was, a thou'd a doubt. The bent and whorey man was satisfied, and so apparently was Henry Frey. That matter should continue pleasant, Marianne spoke, who what with her brown complexion and the working wrapper of Russidy Lindsay, had at present the mellow hue of an old sketch in oils, notably some of Nicholas Poussaint's. Do any body know of a crooked man, or a lame or any second hand-fellow at all that would do for poor me, said Marianne? But one I don't expect to get at my time of life, if I could hear of such a thing to do me more good than toast and ale. Pogon furnished a suitable reply. Oak went on with his shearing, and said not another word. Pestilent moods had come, and teased away his quiet. Bathsheba had shown indications of anointing him above his fellows by installing him as the bailiff that the farm imperatively required. He did not covet the post relatively to the farm, in relation to herself, as beloved by him and unmarried to another, he had coveted it. His readings of her seemed now to be vapoury and indistinct. His lecture to her was, he thought, one of the absurdest mistakes. Far from coquettting with Bouldwood she had trifled with himself, and 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 day would see Bouldwood the accepted husband of Miss Everdeen. 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 is snares and nets. This was mere exclamation, the froth of the storm. He adored Bathsheba just the same. We work folk shall have some lordly junketing tonight, said Caneyball, casting forth his thoughts in a new direction. This morning I see him making the grand puddin's and the milk impales. Lumps of fat as big as your thumb, Mr. Oak. I've never seen such splendid large knobs of fat before in the days of my life. They never used to be bigger than a horse-bean. And there was a great black crock upon the brandish with his legs as sticking out, but I don't know what was within. And there's two bushels of biffens for apple-pies, said Mary Ann. Well I hope to do my duty by all, said Joseph Porgrass, in a pleasant masticating manner of anticipation. Yes, victuals and drinks is a cheerful thing, and gives nerves to the nerveless, if the form of words may be used, to the gospel of the body without which we perish, so to speak it. CHAPTER XXIII. 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 parlor 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. For red cheeks and lips contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair, she seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table was at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal. She then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertaining to that end, which he did with great readiness. At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate and crossed the green to Bathsheba at the window. He apologized for his lateness. His arrival was evidently by arrangement. Gabriel, said she, will you move again, please, and let Mr. Boldwood come there? Oak moved in silence back to his original seat. The gentleman farmer was dressed in a cheerful style and a new coat and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of gray. At night he was blithe and consequently chatty to an exceptional degree. So also was Bathsheba, now that he had come, though the uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while. Supper being ended, Coggin began on his own private account without reference to listeners. I have lost my love and I care not. I have lost my love and I care not. I shall soon have another that's better than to other. I've lost my love and I care not. This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those established authors who were independent of notices in the papers, was a well-known delight which required no applause. Now, Master Poorgrass, your song, said Coggin. I be all but in liquor and the gift is wanting in me, said Joseph, diminishing himself. Nonsense. Would's never be so ungrateful, Joseph, never, said Coggin, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. And Mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say, sing at once, Joseph Poorgrass. Faith, so she is. Well, I must suffer it. Just eye my features and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbors. No, your blushes be quite reasonable, said Coggin. I always tries to keep my colors from rising when a beauty's eyes get fixed on me, said Joseph differently. But if so be, tis willed they do, they must. Now, Joseph, your song, please, said Bathsheba from the window. Well, really, ma'am, he replied in a yielding tone. I don't know what to say. It would be a poor plain ballad of my own composure. Here, here, said the supper-party. Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the 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 sowed the, I sowed, I sowed the seeds of love. I, it was all in the spring. I, in April, May, and sunny June, with small birds, they do sing. Well put out of hand, said Coggin, at the end of the verse. They do sing was a very taking paragraph. I, and there was a pretty place at seeds of love, and twas well heaved out, though love is a nasty high corner when a man's voice is getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass. But during this rendering, young Bob Coggin exhibited one of those anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are particularly serious. In trying to check his laughter, he pushed down his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of. When, after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of indignation, instantly ceased singing. Coggin boxed Bob's ears immediately. Go on, Joseph, go on and never mind the young scamp, said Coggin, to his very catching ballot. Now then again, the next bar, I'll hope you to flourish up the shrill notes where your wind is rather wheezy. O, the willow tree will twist, and the willow tree will twine. But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggin was sent home for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable, as that with which the worthy topper old Salinas amused on a similar occasion, the Swains, Cromus, and Menacellus, and other jolly dogs of his day. It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shears lower parts becoming steeped in a browning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired. The sun went down in an ochreous mist, but they sat and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven. Bathsheba still remained enthroned inside the window and occupied herself in knitting, from which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene outside. The slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely before the signs of moving were shown. Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottom of the table. How long he had been gone oak did not know, but he had apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk. Whilst he was thinking of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of the room overlooking the shears 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 sing 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 into the coveted atmosphere. Have you brought your flute, she whispered? Yes, Miss. Play to my singing, then. She stood up in the window opening, facing the men, the candles behind her. Gabriel on her right hand immediately outside the sash frame. Boldwood had drawn up on her left within the room. Her singing was soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon swelled to a steady clearness. Subsequent events caused one of the verses to be remembered for many months and even years by more than one of those who were gathered there. For his bride a soldier sought her, and a winning tongue had he, on the banks of Alan Water, none was gay as she. In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel's flute, Boldwood supplied a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his 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 shears reclined against each other as it suffers in the early ages of the world, and so silent and absorbed were they that her breathing could almost be heard between the bars, and at the end of the ballad, when the last tone loitered on to an inexpressible close, there arose the buzz of pleasure which is the atter 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 Boldwood observed her. When they regarded her, he turned aside. When they thanked or praised, he was silent. When they were inattentive, he murmured his thanks. The meaning lay in the difference between actions, none of which had any meaning of itself, and the necessity of being jealous, which lovers are troubled with, did not lead oak to underestimate these signs. Bathsheba then wished them good night, withdrew from the window, and retired to the back part of the room. Boldwood thereupon closing the sash on 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, Coggin 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 it do so. He remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as if he were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist. I'm sure I should never have believed it if we hadn't proved it so to elude, pick up Joseph Porgras, that every cup, every one of the best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their place is perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all. I'm sure I don't deserve half the praise you give me, said the virtuous thief grimly. Well, I'll say this for pennyways, added Coggin, 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 is generally able to carry it out. Yes, I'm proud to say, neighbors, that he stole nothing at all. Well, it is an honest deed, and we thank you for it, pennyways, said Joseph, to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed unanimously. At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of the inside of the parlor than a thin and still chink of light between the shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there. Miss Everdeen and Bouldwood were alone. Her cheeks had lost a great deal of their helpful fire from the very seriousness of her position, but her eye was bright with the excitement of a triumph, though it was a triumph which had rather been contemplated than desired. She was standing behind a low armchair, from which she had just risen and he was kneeling in it, leaning himself over its back towards her and holding her hand in both his own. His body moved restlessly, and it was with what Keats daintily calls a too-happy happiness. This unwanted abstraction by love of all dignity from a man of whom it had ever seen 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, and a trembling voice quite unlike her usual self-confidence. And if I can believe in any way that I shall make you a good wife, I shall indeed be willing to marry you. But Mr. Bouldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honorable in any woman, and I don't want to give a solemn promise to-night. I would rather ask you to wait a few weeks till I can see my situation better. But you have every reason to believe that then I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks between this time and harvest, that you say you are going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife, she said firmly. But remember this distinctly, I don't promise yet. It is enough. I don't ask for more. I can wait on those dear words. And now, Miss Everdeen, good night. Good night, she said graciously, almost tenderly, and Bouldwood withdrew with a serene smile. Ascibo knew more of him now, he had entirely bared his heart before her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry look of a grand bird without the feathers that make it grand. She had been awestruck at her past temerity and was struggling to make amends without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penalty she was schooling herself to pay. To have brought all this about her ears was terrible, but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph is marvelous. End of chapter 23, recording by Leanne Howlett.