CHAPTER XXVII

HIVING THE BEES

The Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. It was in

the latter part of June, and the day after the interview with Troy in

the hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a

swarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place. Not only

were they late this year, but unruly. Sometimes throughout a whole

season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable bough—such

as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-tree; next year they would,

with just the same unanimity, make straight off to the uppermost member

of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrenden, and there defy all invaders

who did not come armed with ladders and staves to take them.

This was the case at present. Bathsheba’s eyes, shaded by one hand,

were following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable stretch

of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy trees spoken

of. A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged formations of the

universe, time and times ago, was observable. The bustling swarm had

swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze, which now thickened to a

nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough and grew still denser, till

it formed a solid black spot upon the light.

The men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay—even Liddy

had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand—Bathsheba resolved

to hive the bees herself, if possible. She had dressed the hive with

herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made herself

impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and large gauze

veil—once green but now faded to snuff colour—and ascended a dozen

rungs of the ladder. At once she heard, not ten yards off, a voice that

was beginning to have a strange power in agitating her.

“Miss Everdene, let me assist you; you should not attempt such a thing

alone.”

Troy was just opening the garden gate.

Bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pulled the skirt

of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous flurry, and as

well as she could slid down the ladder. By the time she reached the

bottom Troy was there also, and he stooped to pick up the hive.

“How fortunate I am to have dropped in at this moment!” exclaimed the

sergeant.

She found her voice in a minute. “What! and will you shake them in for

me?” she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way;

though, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave way enough.

“Will I!” said Troy. “Why, of course I will. How blooming you are

to-day!” Troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the ladder to

ascend.

“But you must have on the veil and gloves, or you’ll be stung

fearfully!”

“Ah, yes. I must put on the veil and gloves. Will you kindly show me

how to fix them properly?”

“And you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap has no brim

to keep the veil off, and they’d reach your face.”

“The broad-brimmed hat, too, by all means.”

So a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off—veil and

all attached—and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his own into a

gooseberry bush. Then the veil had to be tied at its lower edge round

his collar and the gloves put on him.

He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried as

she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal of

yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept him

off.

Bathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweeping and

shaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the other hand

for them to fall into. She made use of an unobserved minute whilst his

attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her plumes a little.

He came down holding the hive at arm’s length, behind which trailed a

cloud of bees.

“Upon my life,” said Troy, through the veil, “holding up this hive

makes one’s arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise.” When the

manœuvre was complete he approached her. “Would you be good enough to

untie me and let me out? I am nearly stifled inside this silk cage.”

To hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of untying the

string about his neck, she said:—

“I have never seen that you spoke of.”

“What?”

“The sword-exercise.”

“Ah! would you like to?” said Troy.

Bathsheba hesitated. She had heard wondrous reports from time to time

by dwellers in Weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned awhile in

Casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious

performance, the sword-exercise. Men and boys who had peeped through

chinks or over walls into the barrack-yard returned with accounts of

its being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutrements and

weapons glistening like stars—here, there, around—yet all by rule and

compass. So she said mildly what she felt strongly.

“Yes; I should like to see it very much.”

“And so you shall; you shall see me go through it.”

“No! How?”

“Let me consider.”

“Not with a walking-stick—I don’t care to see that. It must be a real

sword.”

“Yes, I know; and I have no sword here; but I think I could get one by

the evening. Now, will you do this?”

Troy bent over her and murmured some suggestion in a low voice.

“Oh no, indeed!” said Bathsheba, blushing. “Thank you very much, but I

couldn’t on any account.”

“Surely you might? Nobody would know.”

She shook her head, but with a weakened negation. “If I were to,” she

said, “I must bring Liddy too. Might I not?”

Troy looked far away. “I don’t see why you want to bring her,” he said

coldly.

An unconscious look of assent in Bathsheba’s eyes betrayed that

something more than his coldness had made her also feel that Liddy

would be superfluous in the suggested scene. She had felt it, even

whilst making the proposal.

“Well, I won’t bring Liddy—and I’ll come. But only for a very short

time,” she added; “a very short time.”

“It will not take five minutes,” said Troy.