CHAPTER XXIII

EVENTIDE—A SECOND DECLARATION

For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot

beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of

the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene

sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head

without mingling with the men.

This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lips

contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair. She

seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table

was at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal. She

then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertaining to

that end, which he did with great readiness.

At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed the green

to Bathsheba at the window. He apologized for his lateness: his arrival

was evidently by arrangement.

“Gabriel,” said she, “will you move again, please, and let Mr. Boldwood

come there?”

Oak moved in silence back to his original seat.

The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat and

white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of grey.

Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an exceptional

degree. So also was Bathsheba now that he had come, though the

uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for

theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while.

Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, without

reference to listeners:—

I’ve lost my love, and I care not,

I’ve lost my love, and I care not;

I shall soon have another

That’s better than t’other;

I’ve lost my love, and I care not.

This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative

gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those

established authors who are independent of notices in the papers, was a

well-known delight which required no applause.

“Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!” said Coggan.

“I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me,” said Joseph,

diminishing himself.

“Nonsense; wou’st never be so ungrateful, Joseph—never!” said Coggan,

expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. “And mistress is

looking hard at ye, as much as to say, ‘Sing at once, Joseph

Poorgrass.’”

“Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it!... Just eye my features, and

see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?”

“No, yer blushes be quite reasonable,” said Coggan.

“I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty’s eyes get

fixed on me,” said Joseph, differently; “but if so be ’tis willed they

do, they must.”

“Now, Joseph, your song, please,” said Bathsheba, from the window.

“Well, really, ma’am,” he replied, in a yielding tone, “I don’t know

what to say. It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure.”

“Hear, hear!” said the supper-party.

Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable

piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and

another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was so

successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath,

after a few false starts:—

I sow′-ed th′-e.....

I sow′-ed.....

I sow′-ed th′-e seeds′ of′ love′,

I-it was′ all′ i′-in the′-e spring′,

I-in A′-pril′, Ma′-ay, a′-nd sun′-ny′ June′,

When sma′-all bi′-irds they′ do′ sing.

“Well put out of hand,” said Coggan, at the end of the verse. “‘They do

sing’ was a very taking paragraph.”

“Ay; and there was a pretty place at ‘seeds of love.’ and ’twas well

heaved out. Though ‘love’ is a nasty high corner when a man’s voice is

getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass.”

But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of those

anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are

particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down

his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when,

after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst

out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of

indignation instantly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob’s ears

immediately.

“Go on, Joseph—go on, and never mind the young scamp,” said Coggan.

“’Tis a very catching ballet. Now then again—the next bar; I’ll help ye

to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy:—

Oh the wi′-il-lo′-ow tree′ will′ twist′,

And the wil′-low′ tre′-ee wi′-ill twine′.

But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggan was sent home

for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob Smallbury,

who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with

which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar occasion the

swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day.

It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily

making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of

light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or

illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the tree

as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers’

lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads

and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of

self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired.

The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and talked on, and

grew as merry as the gods in Homer’s heaven. Bathsheba still remained

enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself in knitting, from

which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene outside. The

slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely before the signs

of moving were shown.

Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottom of

the table. How long he had been gone Oak did not know; but he had

apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk. Whilst he was thinking

of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of the room

overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone down the

table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows behind.

Bathsheba’s form, still in its original position, was now again

distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed that Boldwood

had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her.

Next came the question of the evening. Would Miss Everdene sing to them

the song she always sang so charmingly—“The Banks of Allan

Water”—before they went home?

After a moment’s consideration Bathsheba assented, beckoning to

Gabriel, who hastened up into the coveted atmosphere.

“Have you brought your flute?” she whispered.

“Yes, miss.”

“Play to my singing, then.”

She stood up in the window-opening, facing the men, the candles behind

her, Gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside the sash-frame.

Boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room. Her singing was

soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon swelled to a steady

clearness. Subsequent events caused one of the verses to be remembered

for many months, and even years, by more than one of those who were

gathered there:—

For his bride a soldier sought her,

And a winning tongue had he:

On the banks of Allan 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 notes so softly,

however, as to abstain entirely from making anything like an ordinary

duet of the song; they rather formed a rich unexplored shadow, which

threw her tones into relief. The shearers reclined against each other

as at suppers in the early ages of the world, and so silent and

absorbed were they that her breathing could almost be heard between the

bars; and at the end of the ballad, when the last tone loitered on to

an inexpressible close, there arose that buzz of pleasure which is the

attar of applause.

It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not avoid noting

the farmer’s bearing to-night 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 and the shutters, and remaining inside with her. Oak wandered away

under the quiet and scented trees. Recovering from the softer

impressions produced by Bathsheba’s voice, the shearers rose to leave,

Coggan turning to Pennyways as he pushed back the bench to pass out:—

“I like to give praise where praise is due, and the man deserves

it—that ’a do so,” he remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as if he

were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist.

“I’m sure I should never have believed it if we hadn’t proved it, so to

allude,” hiccupped Joseph Poorgrass, “that every cup, every one of the

best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their place as

perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all.”

“I’m sure I don’t deserve half the praise you give me,” said the

virtuous thief, grimly.

“Well, I’ll say this for Pennyways,” added Coggan, “that whenever he do

really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the shape of a good

action, as I could see by his face he did to-night afore sitting down,

he’s generally able to carry it out. Yes, I’m proud to say, neighbours,

that he’s stole nothing at all.”

“Well, ’tis an honest deed, and we thank ye for it, Pennyways,” said

Joseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed

unanimously.

At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of the inside

of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light between the

shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there.

Miss Everdene and Boldwood were alone. Her cheeks had lost a great deal

of their healthful fire from the very seriousness of her position; but

her eye was bright with the excitement of a triumph—though it was a

triumph which had rather been contemplated than desired.

She was standing behind a low arm-chair, from which she had just risen,

and he was kneeling in it—inclining himself over its back towards her,

and holding her hand in both his own. His body moved restlessly, and it

was with what Keats daintily calls a too happy happiness. This unwonted

abstraction by love of all dignity from a man of whom it had ever

seemed the chief component, was, in its distressing incongruity, a pain

to her which quenched much of the pleasure she derived from the proof

that she was idolized.

“I will try to love you,” she was saying, in a trembling voice quite

unlike her usual self-confidence. “And if I can believe in any way that

I shall make you a good wife I shall indeed be willing to marry you.

But, Mr. Boldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honourable in any

woman, and I don’t want to give a solemn promise 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 more. I can wait on those dear words. And

now, Miss Everdene, good-night!”

“Good-night,” she said, graciously—almost tenderly; and Boldwood

withdrew with a serene smile.

Bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his heart before

her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry look of a

grand bird without the feathers that make it grand. She had been

awe-struck at her past temerity, and was struggling to make amends

without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penalty she was

schooling herself to pay. To have brought all this about her ears was

terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful

joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes

acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a

little triumph, is marvellous.