Part 3 out of 9the year, and the sky, pure violet in the zenith, was leaden to the northward, and murky to the east, where, over the snowy down or ewe-lease on Weatherbury Upper Farm, and apparently resting upon the ridge, the only half of the sun yet visible burnt rayless, like a red and flameless fire shining over a white hearthstone. The whole effect resembled a sunset as childhood resembles age. In other directions, the fields and sky were so much of one colour by the snow, that it was difficult in a hasty glance to tell whereabouts the horizon occurred; and in general there was here, too, that before-mentioned preternatural inversion of light and shade which attends the prospect when the garish brightness commonly in the sky is found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the sky. Over the west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like tarnished brass. Boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened and glazed the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light wit-h the polish of marble; how, in some portions of the slope, withered grass-bents, encased in icicles, bristled through the smooth wan coverlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old Venetian glass; and how the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow whilst it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a short perma- nency. A half-muffled noise of light wheels interrupted him. Boldwood turned back into the road. It was the mail-cart -- a crazy, two-wheeled vehicle, hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of wind. The driver held out a letter. Boldwood seized it and opened it, ex- pecting another anonymous one -- so greatly are people's ideas of probability a mere sense that precedent will repeat itself. "I don't think it is for you, sir." said the man, when he saw Boldwood's action. "Though there is no name I think it is for your shepherd." Boldwood looked then at the address -- To the New Shepherd, Weatherbury Farm, Near Casterbridge. "Oh -- what a mistake! -- it is not mine. Nor is it for my shepherd. It is for Miss Everdene's." You had better take it on to him -- Gabriel Oak -- and say I opened it in mistake." At this moment, on the ridge, up against the blazing sky, a figure was visible, like the black snuff in the midst of a candle-flame. Then it moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to place, carrying square skeleton masses, which were riddled by the same rays. A small figure on all fours followed behind. The tall form was that of Gabriel Oak; the small one that of George; the articles in course of transit were hurdles. "Wait," said Boldwood." That's the man on the hill. I'll take the letter to him myself." To Boldwood it was now no longer merely a letter to I another man. It was an opportunity. Exhibiting a face pregnant with intention, he entered the snowy field. Gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right. The glow stretched down in this direction now, and touched the distant roof of Warren's Malthouse whither the shepherd was apparently bent: Boldwood followed at a distance. CHAPTER XV THE scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse 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 of 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 lamp 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 an 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 ashpit 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 in! "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 malthouse from the door, which had been opened the previous moment. The form of Henery Fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his boots when about half-way there. The speech and entry had not seemed to be at all an abrupt begin- ning to the maltster, introductory matter being often omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, and the maltster 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. Henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat, 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 Poorgrass, and other carters and waggoners 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 is she getting on without a baily?" the maltster inquired. Henery 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 baily -- as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariot himself. But to think she can carr' on alone!" He allowed his head to swing laterally three or four times in silence. "Never in all my creeping up -- never!" This was recognized by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speech which had been expressed in thought alone during the shake of the head; Henery meanwhile retained several marks of despair upon his face, to imply that they would be required for use again directly he should go on speaking. "All will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there's no meat in gentlemen's houses!" said Mark Clark. "A headstrong maid, that's what she is -- and won't listen to no advice at all. Pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler's dog. Dear, dear, when I think o' it, I sorrows like a man in travel!" "True, Henery, you do, I've heard ye." said Joseph Poorgrass in a voice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery. "'Twould do a martel man no harm to have what's under her bonnet." said Billy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one tooth before him. "She can spaik real language, and must have some sense some- where. Do ye foller me?" "I do: but no baily -- I deserved that place." wailed Henery, signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a high destiny apparently visible to him on Billy Smallbury's smock-frock. "There, 'twas to be, 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'ee there." said Mark Clark. God's a perfect gentleman in that respect." "Good works good pay, so to speak it." attested Joseph Poorgrass. A short pause ensued, and as a sort of entr'acte Henery 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, pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'call it?" said the maltster. "Liddy saith she've a new one." "Got a pianner?" "Ay. Seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for her. She've bought all but everything new. There's heavy chairs for the stout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, getting on to the size of clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece." Pictures, for the most part wonderful frames." "And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse- hair pillows at each end." said Mr. Clark. "Likewise looking-glasses for the pretty, and lying books for the wicked." firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door was opened about six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed -- "Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?"Ay, 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 wound about his ankles to keep out the snow, a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and looking altogether 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 Oak, and how's lambing this year, if I mid say it?" inquired Joseph Poorgrass. "Terrible trying," said Oak. "I've been wet through twice a-day, either in snow or rain, this last fortnight. Cainy and I haven't tined our eyes to-night." "A good few twins, too, I hear?" "Too many by half. Yes; 'tis a very queer lambing this year. We shan't have done by Lady Day." "And last year 'twer all over by Sexajessamine Sunday." Joseph remarked. "Bring on the rest Cain." said Gabriel, " and then run back to the ewes. I'll follow you soon." Cainy Ball -- a cheery-faced young lad, with a small circular orifice by way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired as he was bidden. Oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation, wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the fire. "We've no lambing-hut here, as I used to have at Norcombe." said Gabriel, " and 'tis such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a house. If 'twasn't for your place here, malter, I don't know what I should do! this keen weather. And how is it with you to-day, malter?" "Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd, but no younger." "Ay -- I understand." "Sit down, Shepherd Oak," continued the ancient man of malt. "And how was the old place at Norcombe, when ye 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. 'Tis altered very much." "Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down?" "O yes -- years ago, and Dicky's cottage just above it." "Well, to be sure!, "Yes; and Tompkins's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees." "Rooted? -- you don't say it! Ah! stirring times we live in -- stirring times." And you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of the place? That's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone trough, and all complete." "Dear, dear -- how the face of nations alter, and what we live to see nowadays! Yes -- and 'tis the same here. They've been talking but now of the mis'ess'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 pulling her over the coals for pride and vanity." said Mark Clark; "but I say, let her have rope enough. Bless her pretty face shouldn't I like to do so -- upon her cherry lips!" The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well known sound with his own. "Mark." said Gabriel, sternly, "now you mind this! none of that dalliance-talk -- that smack-and-coddle style of yours -- about Miss Everdene. I don't allow it. Do you hear? " "With all my heart, as I've got no chance." replied Mr. Clark, cordially. "I suppose you've been speaking against her?" said Oak, turning to Joseph Poorgrass with a very grim look. "No, no -- not a word I -- 'tis 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? Why ye know I wouldn't harm 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 gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion, with martial promptness and vigour. "That's my fist." Here he placed his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the mathemarical centre of the maltster's little table, and with it gave a bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly took in the idea of fistiness before he went further. "Now -- the first man in the parish that I hear prophesying bad of our mistress, why" (here the fist was raised and let fall as T'hor might have done with his hammer in assaying it) -- "he'll 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; and Mark Clark cried "Hear, hear; just what I should ha' 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 ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!" said Henery, with a deprecating peacefulness equal to anything of the kind in Christianity. "We hear that ye be a extraordinary good and clever man, shepherd." said Joseph Poorgrass with considerable anxiety from behind the maltster's bed- stead whither he had retired for safety. "'Tis a great thing to be clever, I'm sure." he added, making move- ments associated with states of mind rather than body; "we wish we were, don't we, neighbours?" "Ay, 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. "'Tis blowed about from pillar to 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. names upon their waggons almost like copper-plate, with beautiful flourishes, and great long tails. A excellent fine thing for ye to be such a clever man, shepherd. Joseph Poorgrass used to prent to Farmer James Everdene's waggons before you came, and 'a could never mind which way to turn the J's and E's -- could ye, Joseph?" Joseph shook his head to express how absolute was the fact that he couldn't. "And so you used to do 'em the wrong way, like this, didn't ye, Joseph?" Matthew marked on the dusty floor with his whip-handle. "And how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn't he, Joseph, when 'a seed his name looking so inside-out-like?" continued Matthew Moon with feeling. "Ay -- 'a would." said Joseph, meekly. "But, you see, I wasn't so much to blame, for them J's and E's be such trying sons o' witches for the memory to mind whether they face backward or forward; and I always had such a forgetful memory, too." "'Tis a bad afiction for ye, being such a man of calamities in other ways." "Well, 'tis; but a happy Providence ordered that it should be no worse, and I feel my thanks. As to shepherd, there, I'm sure mis'ess ought to have made ye her baily -- such a fitting man for't as you be." "I don't mind owning that I expected it." said Oak, frankly." Indeed, I hoped for the place. At the same time, Miss Everdene has a right to be own baily if she choose -- and to keep me down to be a common shepherd only." Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly into the bright ashpit, 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 recognize for the first time the fact that they were born. Their noise increased to a chorus of baas, upon which Oak pulled the milk-can from before the fire, and taking a small tea-pot 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 don't even let ye have the skins of the dead lambs, I hear?" resumed Joseph Poorgrass, his eyes lingering on the operations of Oak with the neces- sary melancholy. "I don't have them." said Gabriel. "Ye be very badly used, shepherd." hazarded Joseph again, in the hope of getting Oak as an ally in lamenta- tion after all. "I think she's took against ye -- that I do." "O no -- not at all." replied Gabriel, hastily, and a sigh escaped him, which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have caused. Before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the door, and Boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod of a quality between friendli- ness and condescension. "Ah! Oak, I thought you 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." "O yes -- not a bit of difference, Mr. Boldwood -- not a bit." said Gabriel, readily. He had not a corre- spondent on earth, nor was there a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would not have been welcome to persue. Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand: -- "DEAR FRIEND, -- I do not know your name, but l think these few lines will reach you, which I wrote 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 11th Dragoon Guards, now quartered in this town. He would, I know, object to my having received anything except as a loan, being a man of great respecta- bility 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 l blush to state it to one nearly a stranger. The sergeant grew up in Weatherbury. Thank- ing you again for your kindness, "I am, your sincere well-wisher, "FANNY ROBIN." "Have you read it, Mr. Boldwood?" said Gabriel; "if not, you had better do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin." Boldwood 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 Gabriel. "H'm -- I'm afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a case as this." the farmer murmured, "though he's a clever fellow, and up to everything. A slight romance attaches to him, too. His mother was a French governess, and it seems that a secret attachment existed between her and the late Lord Severn. She was married to a poor medical man, and soon after an infant was horn; 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 had he not indulged in the wild freak of enlisting. I have much doubt if ever little Fanny will surprise us in the way she mentions -- very much doubt A silly girl! -- silly girl!" The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running Cainy Ball out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of a penny trumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great distension of face. "Now, Cain Ball." said Oak, sternly, "why will you run so fast and lose your breath so? I'm always telling you of it." "Oh -- I -- a puff of mee breath -- went -- the -- wrong way, please, Mister Oak, and made me cough -- hok -- hok!" "Well -- what have you come for?" "I've run to tell ye." said the junior shepherd, supporting his exhausted youthful frame against the doorpost," that you must come directly'. Two more ewes have twinned -- that's what's the matter, Shepherd Oak." "Oh, that's it." said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the present his thoughts on poor Fanny. "You are a good boy to run and tell me, Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat. But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll mark this lot and have done with 'em." Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped it into the pot, and imprintcd 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 Everdene, and to no one else. "Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off Good morning, Mr. Boldwood." 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 being now in a sleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door plight of half an hour before. Boldwood 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 allowed it to lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed -- Bath- sheba's. "I was going to ask you, Oak." he said, with unreal carelessness, "if you know whose writing this is? " Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushed face, " Miss Everdene's." Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name. He now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought." The letter could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquiry would not have been necessary. Boldwood 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 earnest- ness 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 Boldwood'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 those fevered questions to a stranger. He again placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think of the circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel's information. CHAPTER XVI ALL SAINTS' AND ALL SOULS' ON a week-day morning a small congregation, con- sisting mainly of women and girls, rose from its knees in the mouldy nave of a church called All Saints', in the distant barrack-town before mentioned, at the end of a service without a sermon. They were about to disperse, when a smart footstep, entering the porch and coming up the central passage, arrested their attention. The step echoed with a ring unusual in 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 more marked by the intense vigour of his step, and by the deter- mination upon his face to show none. A slight flush had mounted his cheek by the time he had run the gauntlet between these women; but, passing on through the chancel arch, he never paused till he came close to the altar railing. Here for a moment he stood alone. The officiating curate, who had not yet doffed his surplice, perceived the new-comer, and followed him to the communion-space. He whispered to the soldier, and then beckoned to the clerk, who in his turn whispered to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they also went up the chancel steps. "'Tis a wedding!" murmured some of the women, brightening. "Let's wait!" The majority again sat down. There was a creaking of machinery behind, and some of the young ones turned their heads. From the interior face of the west wall of the tower projected a little canopy with a quarter-jack and small bell beneath it, the automaton being driven by the same clock machinery that struck the large bell in the tower. Be- tween the tower and the church was a close screen, the door of which was kept shut during services, hiding this grotesque clockwork from sight. At present, how- ever, the door was open, and the egress of the jack, the blows on the bell, and the mannikin's retreat into.the nook again, were visible to many, and audible through- out 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 south- east, and was as silent as he was still. The silence grew to be a noticeable thing as the minutes went on, and nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved. The rattle of the quarter-jack again from its niche, its blows for three-quarters, its fussy retreat, were almost painfully abrupt, and caused many of the congregation to start palpably. "I wonder where the woman is!" a voice whispered again. There began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial coughing among several, which betrays a nervous suspense. At length there was a titter. But the soldier never moved. There he stood, his face to the south-east, upright as 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. Every one was waiting for the end. Some persons may have noticed how extraordinarily the striking of quarters. seems to quicken the flight of time. It was hardly credible that the jack had not got wrong with the minutes when the rattle began again, the puppet emerged, and the four quarters were struck fitfully as before: One could al- most 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 tower above. The women were impressed, and there was no giggle this time. The clergyman glided into the vestry, and the clerk vanished. The sergeant had not yet turned; every woman in the church was waiting to see his face, and he appeared to know it. At last he did turn, and stalked resolutely down the nave, braving them all, with a compressed lip. Two bowed and toothless old almsmen then looked at each other and chuckled, innocently enough; but the sound had a strange weird effect in that place. Opposite to the church was a paved square, around which several overhanging wood buildings of old time cast a picturesque shade. The young man on leaving the door went to cross the square, when, in the middle, he met a little woman. The expression of her face, which had been one of intense anxiety, sank at the sight of his nearly to terror. "Well?" he said, in a suppressed passion, fixedly looking at her. "O, Frank -- I made a mistake! -- I thought that church with the spire was All Saints', and I was at the door at half-past eleven to a minute as you said. 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 it be to-morrow, Frank?" she asked blankly. "To-morrow!" 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?" "Ah, when? God knows!" he said, with a light irony, and turning from her walked rapidly away. CHAPTER XVII IN THE MARKET-PLACE ON Saturday Boldwood was in Casterbridge market house 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 in the production of any movement of a mental nature is sometimes as tremendous as the cause itself is absurdly minute. When women are in a freakish mood, their usual intuition, either from carelessness or inherent defect, seemingly fails to teach them this, and hence it was that Bathsheba was fated to be astonished today. Boldwood looked at her -- not slily, 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 Bold- wood women had been remote phenomena rather than necessary complements -- comets of such uncertain aspect, movement, and permanence, that whether their orbits were as geometrical, unchangeable, and as subject to laws as his own, or as absolutely erratic as they superficially appeared, he had not deemed it his duty to consider. He saw her black hair, her correct facial curves and profile, and the roundness of her chin and throat. He saw then the side of her eyelids, eyes, and lashes, and the shape of her ear. Next he noticed her figure, her skirt, and the very soles of her shoes. Boldwood 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 pro- voking more inquiry than Bathsheba had done, even though that was not a little. To the best of his judge- ment neither nature nor art could improve this perfect one of an imperfect many. His heart began to move within him. Boldwood, it must be remembered, though forty years of age, had never before inspected a woman with the very centre and force of his glance; they had struck upon all his senses at wide angles. Was she really beautiful? He could not assure himself that his opinion was true even now. He fur- tively said to a neighbour, "Is Miss Everdene considered handsome?" "O 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 favourable 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. Boldwood was satisfied now. And this charming woman had in effect said to him, "Marry me." Why should she have done that strange thing? Boldwood'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 indiffer- ently 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 Boldwood 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. Boldwood 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 piquing delay. But it had been brought about by misdirected ingenuity, and she valued it only as she valued an artificial flower or a wax fruit. Being a woman with some good sense in reasoning on subjects wherein her heart was not involved, Bath- sheba 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 in- crease the offence by being disbelieved; and if he thought she wanted him to woo her, it would read like additional evidence of her forwardness. CHAPTER XVIII BOLDWOOD IN MEDITATION -- REGRET BOLDWOOD was tenant of what was called Little Weatherbury Farm, and his person was the nearest ap- proach to aristocracy that this remoter quarter of the parish could boast of. Genteel strangers, whose god was their town, who might happen to be compelled to linger about this nook for a day, heard the sound of light wheels, and prayed to see good society, to the degree of a solitary lord, or squire at the very least, but it was only Mr. Boldwood going out for the day. They heard the sound of wheels yet once more, and were re-animated to expectancy: it was only Mr. Bold- wood 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 half-way 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 pre- sented alternations of roan and bay, in shapes like a Moorish arch, the tail being a streak down the midst of each. Over these, and lost to the eye gazing in from the outer light, the mouths of the same animals could be heard busily sustaining the above-named warmth and plumpness by quantities of oats and hay. The restless and shadowy figure of a colt wandered about a loose-box at the end, whilst the steady grind of all the eaters was occasionally diversified by the rattle of a rope or the stamp of a foot. Pacing up and down at the heels of the animals was Farmer Boldwood himself. This place was his almonry and cloister in one: here, after looking to the feeding of his four-footed dependants, 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 though rather prominent and broad chin. A few clear and thread-like horizontal lines were the only interruption to the otherwise smooth surface of his large forehead. The phases of Boldwood's life were ordinary enough, but his was not an ordinary nature. That stillness, which struck casual observers more than anything else in his character and habit, and seemed so precisely like the rest of inanition, may have been the perfect balance of enormous antagonistic forces -- positives and negatives in fine adjustment. His equilibrium disturbed, he was in extremity at once. If an emotion possessed him at all, it ruled him; a feeling not mastering him was entirely latent. Stagnant or rapid, it was never slow. He was always hit mortally, or he was missed. He had no light and careless touches in his constitu- tion, 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 treat- ment 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 tran- quillity, her understanding had not yet told her what Boldwood was. Nobody knew entirely; for though it was possible to form guesses concerning his wild capa- bilities from old floodmarks 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 map suppose the Dryads to be waking for the season. The vegetable world begins to move and swell and the saps to rise, till in the completest silence of lone gardens and trackless plantations, where- everything seems -help- less and still after the bond and slavery of frost, there are bustlings, strainings, united thrusts, and pulls-all- together, in comparison with which the powerful tugs of cranes and pulleys in a noisy city are but pigmy efforts. Boldwood, looking into the distant meadows, saw there three figures. They were those of Miss Everdene, Shepherd Oak, and Cainy Ball. When Bathsheba's figure shone upon the farmer's eyes it lighted him up as the moon lights up a great tower. A man's body is as the shell; or the tablet, of his soul, as he is reserved or ingenuous, overflowing or self-contained. There was a change in Boldwood's exterior from its former impassibleness; and his face showed that he was now living outside his defences 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 bleating of the flock mingling with both. Mistress and man were engaged in the operation of making a lamb "take." which is performed whenever an ewe has lost her own offspring, one of the twins of another ewe being given her as a substitute. Gabriel had skinned the dead lamb, and was tying the skin over the body of the live lamb, in the customary manner, whilst Bathsheba was holding open a little pen of four hurdles, into which the Mother and foisted lamb were driven, where they would remain till the old sheep conceived an affection for the young one. Bathsheba looked up at the completion of the manouvre, 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 and beheld Boldwood. At onee connecting these signs with the letter Bold- wood 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 in 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 trifler with the affections of men, and a censor's experience on seeing an actual flirt after observing her would have been a feeling of surprise that Bathsheba could be so different from such a one, and yet so like what a flirt is supposed to be. She resolved never again, by 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. CHAPTER XIX THE SHEEP-WASHING -- THE OFFER BOLDWOOD did eventually call upon her. She was not at home. "Of course not." he murmured. In con- templating Bathsheba as a woman, he had forgotten the accidents of her position as an agriculturist -- 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 in 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 accident 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. On inquiring for her at her house they had told him she was at the sheepwashing, 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 in a green face. The grass about the margin at this season was a sight to remember long -- in a minor sort of way. Its activity in sucking the moisture from the rich damp sod. was almost a pro- cess 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 colour being yellow beside a green -- green beside a yellow. From the recesses of this knot of foliage the loud notes of three cuckoos were resounding through the still air. 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 tribu- tary of the main stream flowed through the basin of the pool by an inlet and outlet at opposite points of its diameter. Shepherd Oak, Jan Coggan, Moon, Poor- grass, Cain Ball, and several others were assembled here, all dripping wet to the very roots of their hair, and Bathsheba was standing by in a new riding-habit -- the most elegant she had ever worn -- the reins of her horse being looped over her arm. Flagons of cider were rolling about upon the green. The meek sheep were pushed into the pool by Coggan and Matthew Moon, who stood by the lower hatch, immersed to their waists; then Gabriel, who stood on the brink, thrust them under as they swam along, with an instrument like a crutch, formed for the purpose, and also for assisting the exhausted animals when the wool became saturated and they began to sink. They were let out against the stream, and through the upper opening, all impurities flowing away below. Cainy Ball and Joseph, who performed this latter operation, were if possible wetter than the rest; they resembled dolphins under a fountain, every protuberance and angle of their clothes dribbling forth a small rill. Boldwood came close and bade her good-morning, with such constraint that she could not but think he had stepped across to the washing for its own sake, hoping not to find her there; more, she fancied his brow severe and his eye slighting. 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 Everdene!" 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: an emphasis of deep meanings, their form, at the same time, being scarcely expressed. Silence has sometimes a remarkable power of showing itself as the disembodied soul of feeling wandering without its carcase, 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 fancied to be the rumble of wheels is the reverbera- tion 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 with- out preface. My life is not my own since I have beheld you clearly, Miss Everdene -- I come to make you an offer of marriage." Bathsheba tried to preserve an absolutely neutral countenance, and all the motion she made was that of closing lips which had previously been a little parted. "I am now forty-one years old." he went on. "I may have been called a confirmed bachelor, and I was a confirmed bachelor. I had never any views of myself as a husband in my earlier days, nor have I made any calculation on the subject since I have been older. But we all change, and my change, in this matter, came with seeing you. I have felt lately, more and more, that my present way of living is bad in every respect. Beyond all things, I want you as my wife." "I feel, Mr. Boldwood, that though I respect you much, I do not feel -- what would justify me to -- 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 mare 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 conceited assumption on Boldwood's part, it was but the natural conclusion of serious reflec- tion 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! O that valentine!" she said to herself, but not a word to him. "If you can love me say so, Miss Everdene. 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 am only just able to speak out my feeling -- I mean my meaning; that I am afraid I can't marry you, much as I respect you. You are too dignified for me to suit you, sir." "But, Miss Everdene!" "I -- 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 thought- lessness, 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 heartless- ness, which was immediately contradicted by the pleasant eyes. "But you will just think -- in kindness and conde- scension 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 Everdene. The dairy superintendence shall be done by a man -- I can afford it will -- you shall never have so much as to look out of doors at haymaking time, or to think of weather in the harvest. I rather cling; to the chaise, because it is he same my poor father and mother drove, but if you don't like it I will sell it, and you shall have a pony-carriage of your own. I cannot say how far above every other idea and object on earth you seem to me -- nobody knows -- God only knows -- how much you are to me!" Bathsheba's heart was young, and it swelled with sympathy for the deep-natured man who spoke so simply. "Don't say it! don't! I cannot bear you to feel so much, and me to feel nothing. And I am afraid they will notice us, Mr. Boldwood. Will you let the matter rest now? I cannot think collectedly. I did not know you were going to say this to me. O, I am wicked to have made you suffer so!" She was frightened as well as agitated at his 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 to-morrow." "No -- please not. Give me time." "Yes -- I will give you any time." he said earnestly and gratefully. "I am happier now." "No -- I beg you! Don't be happier if happiness only comes from my agreeing. Be neutral, Mr. Bold- wood! 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. Realities then returned upon him like the pain of a wound received in an excitement which eclipses it, and he, too, then went on. CHAPTER XX PERPLEXITY -- GRINDING THE SHEARS -- A QUARREL "HE is so disinterested and kind to offer me all that I can desire." Bathsheba mused. Yet Farmer 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 the least in love with him, was eventually able to look calmly at his offer. It was one which many women of her own station in the neighbour- hood, 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 supererogatory. 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 under, standing 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 with, out 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, Bath- sheba'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 men- tioned reasons with which she combated her objections, she had a strong feeling that, having been the one who began the game, she ought in honesty to accept the conse- quences. 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 delibera- tive aspect. An Elizabeth in 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; unluckily 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 scurr of whetting spread into the sky from all parts of the village as from an armury previous to a campaign. Peace and war kiss each other at their hours of prepara- tion -- sickles, scythes, shears, and pruning-hooks, ranking with swords, bayonets, and lances, in their common necessity for point and edge. Cainy Ball turned the handle of Gabriel's grindstone, his head performing a melancholy see-saw 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 side- ways, with a critical compression of the lips and contrac- tion 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 -- "Cain, 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. Cain departed, and Bathsheba took the handle. Gabriel had glanced up in intense surprise, quelled its expression, and looked down again. Bathsheba turned the winch, and Gabriel applied the shears. The peculiar motion involved in turning a wheel has a wonderful tendency to benumb the mind. It is a sort of attenuated variety of Ixion's punishment, and contributes a dismal chapter to the history of heavy, and the body's centre of gravity seems to settle by degrees in a leaden lump somewhere be- tween 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 occasion- ally from her story to attend to the shears, which required a little nicety in sharpening. "I wanted to ask you if the men made any observa- tions 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 inclosing her two hands completely in his own (taking each as we some- times slap a child's hand in teaching him to write), grasped the shears with her. "Incline the edge so," he said. Hands and shears were inclined to suit the words, and held thus for a peculiarly long time by the in- structor 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 Everdene, you mean," she said, with dignity. "I mean this, that if Mr. Boldwood really spoke of marriage, I bain't going to tell a story and say he didn't to please you. I have 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 mur- mured, with a slight decline in her assurance. "I can say that to them if you wish, Miss Everdene. And I could likewise give an opinion to 'ee on what you have done." "I daresay. But I don't want your opinion."I suppose not." said Gabriel bitterly, and going on with his turning, his words rising and falling in a regular swell and cadence as he stooped or rose 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 Oak's. 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 disinter- estedness 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 sub- ject would be. Such is the selfishness of some charm- ing 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 coloured 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 notice- able. The next thing Gabriel did was to make a mistake. "Perhaps you don't like the rudeness of my repri- manding 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? In my not marrying you, perhaps! "Not by any means." said Gabriel quietly. "I have long given up thinking of that matter."Or wishing it, I suppose." she said; and it was apparent that she expected an unhesitating denial of this supposition. Whatever Gabriel felt, he coolly echoed her words -- "Or 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 pro- tested 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 it) 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 Everdene, if you seriously inclined 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 -- to criticise 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 pained him to spoil by breaking, rather than by a chain he could not break. "I should be even better pleased to go at once." he added. "Go at once then, in Heaven's name!" said she,her eyes flashing at his, though never meeting them. "Don't let me see your face any more." "Very well, Miss Everdene -- so it shall be." And he took his shears and went away from her in placid dignity, as Moses left the presence of Pharaoh. CHAPTER XXI TROUBLES IN THE FOLD -- A MESSAGE GABRIEL OAK had ceased to feed the Weatherbury flock for about four-and-twenty hours, when on Sunday afternoon the elderly gentlemen Joseph Poorgrass, 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 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 Poorgrass. "Seventy!" said Moon. "Fifty-nine!" said Susan Tall's husband. "-- Sheep have broke fence." said Fray. "-- And got into a field of young clover." said Tall. "-- Young clover!" said Moon. "-- Clover!" said Joseph Poorgrass. "And they be getting blasted." said Henery Fray. "That they be." said Joseph. "And will all die as dead as nits, if they bain't got 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 were 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, "'Tis nothing but Corinthians and Thessalonians in this danged Testament." when who should come in but Henery there: "Joseph," he said, "the sheep have With Bathsheba it was a moment when thought was blasted theirselves -- " With Bathsheba it was a moment when thought was speech and speech exclamation. Moreover, she had hardly recovered her equanimity since the disturbance which she had suffered from Oak's remarks. "That's enought -- 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, the stupid numskulls!" Her eyes were at their darkest and brightest now. Bathsheba's beauty belonged 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 velvet dress, care- fully 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 when about half-way, like an individual withering in a world which was more and more insupportable. Having once received the stimulus that her presence always gave them they went round among the sheep with a will. The majority of the afflicted animals were lying down, and could not be stirred. These were bodily lifted out, and the others driven into the adjoining field. Here, after the lapse of a few minutes, several more fell down, and lay helpless and livid as the rest. Bathsheba, with a sad, bursting heart, looked at these primest specimens of her prime flock as they rolled there -- Swoln with 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. "O, 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 Tall. "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 ye go to the right or left but an inch you stab the ewe 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 neighbourhood knows the way," said Joseph, now just come up. "He could cure 'em 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 Poorgrass. "True -- he's the man." said Laban Tall. "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, brighten- ing, "Farmer Boldwood knows!" "O no, ma'am" said Matthew. "Two of his store ewes got into some vetches t'other day, and were just like these. He sent a man on horseback here post-haste for Gable, and Gable went and saved 'em, Farmer Boldwood hev got the thing they do it with. 'Tis a holler pipe, with a sharp pricker inside. Isn't it, Joseph?" "Ay -- a holler pipe." echoed Joseph. "That's what 'tis." "Ay, sure -- that's the machine." chimed in Henery Fray, reflectively, with an Oriental indifference to the flight of time. "Well," burst out Bathsheba, "don't stand there with your "ayes" and your "sures" talking at me! Get somebody to cure the sheep instantly!" All then stalked or in consternation, to get some- body 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 ewes here contracted its muscles horribly, extended itself, and jumped high into the air. The leap was an astonishing one. The ewe fell heavily, and lay still. Bathsheba went up to it. The sheep was dead. "O, what shall I do -- what shall I do!" she again exclaimed, wringing 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 vigour of the resolution itself. It is often flung out as a sort of prop to support a decaying conviction which, whilst 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 Poll, the bay, bare-backed, and with only a halter by way of rein. He diminished down the hill. Bathsheba watched. So did all the rest. Tall cantered along the bridle-path through Sixteen Acres, Sheeplands, Middle Field The Flats, Cappel's Piece, shrank almost to a point, crossed the bridge, and ascended from the valley through Springmead and Whitepits 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 firs. Bathsheba walked up and down. The men entered the field and endeavoured to ease the anguish of the dumb creatures by rubbing them. Nothing availed. Bathsheba continued walking. The horse was seen descending the hill, and the wearisome series had to be repeated in reverse order: Whitepits, Springmead, Cappel's Piece, The Flats, Middle Field, Sheeplands, Sixteen Acres. She hoped Tall had had presence of mind enough to give the mare up to Gabriel, and return himself on foot. The rider neared them. It was Tall. "O, what folly!" said Bathsheba. Gabriel was not visible anywhere. "Perhaps he is already gone!" she said. Tall came into the inclosure, and leapt off, his face tragic as Morton's 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 Poorgrass retired a few steps behind a hurdle. "He says he shall not come unless you request en to come civilly and in a proper manner, as becomes any "woman begging a favour." "Oh, oh, that's his answer! Where does he get his airs? Who am I, then, to be treated like that? Shall I beg to a man who has begged 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 Small- bury, 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. "O, 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 ground-swell follows a storm. The note was none the less polite for being written in a hurry. She held it at a distance, was about to fold it, then added these words at the bottom: -- "Do not desert me, Gabriel!" She looked a little redder in refolding it, and closed her lips, as if thereby to suspend till too late the action of conscience in examining whether such strategy were justifiable. The note was despatched 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 in receding. Gabriel looked at her. It was a moment when a woman's eyes and tongue tell distinctly opposite tales. Bathsheba looked full of gratitude, and she said: -- "O, 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, prostrate 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 trochar, 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 de- light 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 ewe. Four had died; three recovered without an operation. The total number of sheep which had thus strayed and injured themselves so dangerously was fifty-seven. When the love-led man had ceased from his labours, Bathsheba 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 is barren, would have given him a sure lift upwards when the favourable-con- junction should have occurred. But this incurable loitering beside Bathsheba Everdene stole his time ruinously. The spring tides were going by without floating him off, and the neap might soon come which could not. It was the first day of June, and the sheep-shearing season culminated, the landscape, even to the leanest pasture, being all health and colour. Every green was young, every pore was open, and every stalk was swollen with racing currents of juice. God was palpably present in the country, and the devil had gone with the world to town. Flossy catkins of the later kinds, fern-sprouts like bishops' croziers, the square-headed moschatel, the odd cuckoo-pint, -- like an apoplectic saint in a niche of malachite, -- snow-white ladies'-smocks, the toothwort, approximating to human flesh, the enchanter's night- shade, and the black-petaled doleful-bells, were among the quainter objects of the vegetable world in and about Weatherbury at this teeming time; and of the animal, the metamorphosed figures of Mr. Jan Coggan, the master-shearer; the second and third shearers, who travelled in the exercise of their calling, and do not re- quire definition by name; Henery Fray the fourth shearer, Susan Tall's husband the fifth, Joseph Poorgrass 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 Hindoo. 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-barn, 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 conventual buildings nobody seemed to be aware; no trace of such surroundings remained. The vast porches at the sides, lofty enough to admit a waggon 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 has 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 both of beauty and ventilation. One could say about this barn, what could hardly be said of either the church or the castle, akin to it in age and style, that the purpose which had dictated its original erection was the same with that to which it was still applied. Unlike and superior to either of those two typical remnants of mediaevalism, the old barn embodied practices which had suffered no mutila- tion at the hands of time. Here at least the spirit of the ancient builders was at one with the spirit of the modern beholder. Standing before this abraded pile, the eye regarded its present usage, the mind-dwelt upon its past history, with 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 this simple grey effort of old minds with a repose, if not a grandeur, which a too curious reflection was apt to disturb in its ecclesiastical and military compeers. For once medievalism and modernism had a common stand- point. The lanccolate windows, the time-eaten arch- stones and chamfers, the orientation of the axis, the misty chestnut work of the rafters, referred to no exploded fortifying art or worn-out religious creed. The defence and salvation of the body by daily bread is still a study, a religion, and a desire. To-day the large side doors were thrown open towards the sun to admit a bountiful light to the immediate spot of the shearers' operations, which was the wood threshing-floor in the centre, 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 to-day in its frame of four hundred years ago did not produce that marked contrast between ancient and modern which is implied by the contrast of date. In comparison with cities, Weatherbury was immutable. The citizen's Then is the rustic's Now. In London, twenty or thirty-years ago are old times; in Paris ten years, or five; in Weatherbury three or four score years were included in the mere present, and nothing less than a century set a mark on its face or tone. Five decades hardly modified the cut of a gaiter, the embroidery of a smock-frock, by the breadth of a hair. Ten generations failed to alter the turn of a single phrase. In these Wessex nooks the busy out- sider's 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 ecclesi- astically to nave and chancel extremities, were fenced off with hurdles, the sheep being all collected in a crowd within these two enclosures; and in one angle a catching- pen was formed, in which three or four sheep were continuously kept ready for the shearers to seize without loss of time. In the background, mellowed by tawny shade, were the three women, Maryann 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 being spent in attending to the others and selecting the sheep for them. At the present moment he was engaged in handing round a mug of mild liquor, supplied from a barrel in the corner, and cut pieces of bread and cheese. Bathsheba, after throwing a glance here, a caution there, and lecturing one of the younger operators who had allowed his last finished sheep to go off among the flock without re-stamping it with her initials, came again to Gabriel, as he put down the luncheon to drag a frightened ewe to his shear-station, flinging it over upon its back with a dexterous twist of the arm He lopped off the tresses about its head, and opened up the neck and collar, his mistress quietly looking on: "She blushes at the insult." murmured Bathsheba, watching the pink flush which arose and overspread the neck and shoulders of the ewe where they were left bare by the clicking shears -- a flush which was enviable, for its delicacy, by many queens of coteries, and would have been creditable, for its promptness, to any woman in the world. Poor Gabriel's soul was fed with a luxury of content by having her over him, her eyes critically regarding his skilful shears, which apparently were going to gather up a piece of 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 ewe over upon her other side, covering her head with his knee, gradually running the shears line after line round her dewlap; thence about 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 that I have ever seen one done in less than half an hour." The clean, sleek creature arose 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 surface only, which, never before exposed, was white as snow, and without flaw or blemish of the minutest kind. "Cain Ball!" "Yes, Mister 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 Maryann; 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 enjoy- ment 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 a 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-shear ewes had duly undergone their stripping, and the men were proceeding with the shear- lings 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 Bold- wood'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 towards Bathsheba, who turned to greet him with a carriage of perfect ease. He spoke to her in low tones, and she instinctively modulated her own to the same pitch, and her voice ultimately even caught the inflection of his. She was far from having a wish to appear mysteriously connected with him; but woman at the impressionable age gravitates to the larger body not only in her choice of words, which is apparent every day, but even in her shades of tone and humour, when the influence is great. What they conversed about was not audible to Gabriel, who was too independent to get near, though too concerned to disregard. The issue of 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 matter within reach of the speakers' eyes, these are usually fixed upon it. Bathsheba demurely regarded a contemptible straw lying upon the ground, in a way which suggested less ovine criticism than womanly embarrassment. She became more or less red in the cheek, the blood wavering in uncertain flux and reflux over the sensitive space between ebb and flood. Gabriel sheared on, constrained and sad. She left Boldwood's side, and he walked up and down alone for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then she reappeared in her new riding-habit of myrtle-green, which fitted her to the waist as a rind fits its fruit; and young Bob Coggan led -on -her mare, Boldwood fetching his own horse from the tree under which it had been tied. Oak's eyes could not forsake them; and in en- deavouring to continue his shearing at the same time that he watched Boldwood's manner, he snipped the sheep in the groin. The animal plunged; Bathsheba instantly gazed towards it, and saw the blood. "O, Gabriel!" she exclaimed, with severe remon- strance 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 Boldwood 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. Cainy Ball ran up, the wound was anointed, and the shearing continued. Boldwood gently tossed Bathsheba into the saddle, and before they turned away she again spoke out to Oak with the same dominative and tantalizing graciousness. "I am going now to see Mr. Boldwood's Leicesters. Take my place in the barn, Gabriel, and keep the men carefully to their work." The horses' heads were put about, and they trotted away. Boldwood'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 lapse 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 o't." said Coggan, working along without looking up. "Well, better wed over the mixen than over the moor," said Laban Tall, turning his sheep. Henery Fray spoke, exhibiting miserable eyes at the same time: "I don't see why a maid should take a husband when she's bold enough to fight her own battles, and don't want a home; for 'tis keeping another woman out. But let it be, for 'tis a pity he and she should trouble two houses." As usual with decided characters, Bathsheba invari- ably provoked the criticism of individuals like Henery Fray. Her emblazoned fault was to be too pronounced
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