THE scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse didnot penetrate to its interior, which was, as usual, lightedby a rival glow of similar hue, radiating from the hearth.The maltster, after having lain down in his clothesfor a few hours, was now sitting beside a three-leggedtable, breakfasting of bread and bacon. This waseaten on the plateless system, which is performed byplacing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flatupon the bread, a mustard plaster upon the meat, anda pinch of salt upon the whole, then cutting themvertically downwards with a large pocket-knife till woodis reached, when the severed lamp is impaled on theknife, elevated, and sent the proper way of food.The maltster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensiblydiminish his powers as a mill. He had been withoutthem for so many years that toothlessness was felt lessto be a defect than hard gums an acquisition. Indeed,he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperbolic curveapproaches 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 aboiling pipkin of charred bread, called coffee. for thebenefit of whomsoever should call, for Warren's was asort of clubhouse. used as an alternative to the in!I say, says I, we get a fine day, and then downcomes a snapper at night. was a remark now suddenlyheard spreading into the malthouse from the door, whichhad been opened the previous moment. The form ofHenery Fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snowfrom his boots when about half-way there. The speechand entry had not seemed to be at all an abrupt begin-ning to the maltster, introductory matter being oftenomitted in this neighbourhood, both from word anddeed, and the maltster having the same latitude allowedhim, did not hurry to reply. He picked up a fragmentof cheese, by pecking upon it with his knife, as a butcherpicks up skewers.Henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat,buttoned over his smock-frock, the white skirts of thelatter being visible to the distance of about a foot belowthe coat-tails, which, when you got used to the style ofdress, looked natural enough, and even ornamental -- itcertainly was comfortable.Matthew Moon, Joseph Poorgrass, and other cartersand waggoners followed at his heels, with great lanternsdangling from their hands, which showed that they hadjust come from the cart-horse stables, where they hadbeen busily engaged since four o'clock that morning.And how is she getting on without a baily? themaltster inquired.Henery shook his head, and smiled one of the bittersmiles, dragging all the flesh of his forehead into acorrugated heap in the centre.She'll rue it -- surely, surely! he said BenjyPennyways were not a true man or an honest baily --as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariot himself. But to thinkshe can carr' on alone! He allowed his head to swinglaterally three or four times in silence. Never in all mycreeping up -- never!This was recognized by all as the conclusion of somegloomy speech which had been expressed in thoughtalone during the shake of the head; Henery meanwhileretained several marks of despair upon his face, toimply that they would be required for use again directlyhe should go on speaking.All will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there's nomeat in gentlemen's houses! said Mark Clark.A headstrong maid, that's what she is -- and won'tlisten to no advice at all. Pride and vanity have ruinedmany 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 JosephPoorgrass in a voice of thorough attestation, and witha wire-drawn smile of misery.'Twould do a martel man no harm to have what'sunder her bonnet. said Billy Smallbury, who had justentered, bearing his one tooth before him. She canspaik real language, and must have some sense some-where. Do ye foller me?I do: but no baily -- I deserved that place. wailedHenery, signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly atvisions of a high destiny apparently visible to him onBilly Smallbury's smock-frock. There, 'twas to be, Isuppose. Your lot is your lot, and Scripture is nothing;for if you do good you don't get rewarded according toyour works, but be cheated in some mean way out ofyour recompense.No, no; I don't agree with'ee there. said MarkClark. God's a perfect gentleman in that respect.Good works good pay, so to speak it. attestedJoseph Poorgrass.A short pause ensued, and as a sort of entr'acteHenery turned and blew out the lanterns, which theincrease of daylight rendered no longer necessary evenin the malthouse, with its one pane of glass.I wonder what a farmer-woman can want with aharpsichord, dulcimer, pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'callit? said the maltster. Liddy saith she've a new one.Got a pianner?Ay. Seems her old uncle's things were not goodenough for her. She've bought all but everything new.There's heavy chairs for the stout, weak and wiry onesfor the slender; great watches, getting on to the sizeof 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. Likewiselooking-glasses for the pretty, and lying books for thewicked. firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside;the door was opened about six inches, and somebody onthe other side exclaimed --Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-bornlambs?Ay, sure, shepherd. said the conclave.The door was flung back till it kicked the wall andtrembled 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, aleather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock,and looking altogether an epitome of the world's healthand vigour. Four lambs hung in various embarrassingattitudes over his shoulders, and the dog George, whomGabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe, stalkedsolemnly 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 throughtwice 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 lambingthis year. We shan't have done by Lady Day.And last year 'twer all over by SexajessamineSunday. Joseph remarked.Bring on the rest Cain. said Gabriel, and then runback to the ewes. I'll follow you soon.Cainy Ball -- a cheery-faced young lad, with a smallcircular orifice by way of mouth, advanced and depositedtwo others, and retired as he was bidden. Oak loweredthe lambs from their unnatural elevation, wrapped themin hay, and placed them round the fire.We've no lambing-hut here, as I used to have atNorcombe. said Gabriel, and 'tis such a plague to bringthe weakly ones to a house. If 'twasn't for your placehere, malter, I don't know what I should do! this keenweather. And how is it with you to-day, malter?Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd, but noyounger.Ay -- I understand.Sit down, Shepherd Oak, continued the ancient manof malt. And how was the old place at Norcombe,when ye went for your dog? I should like to see theold familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn't know a soulthere now.I suppose you wouldn't. 'Tis altered very much.Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house ispulled 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 thatused to bear two hogsheads of cider; and no help fromother trees.Rooted? -- you don't say it! Ah! stirring times welive in -- stirring times.And you can mind the old well that used to be inthe middle of the place? That's turned into a solidiron pump with a large stone trough, and all complete.Dear, dear -- how the face of nations alter, andwhat we live to see nowadays! Yes -- and 'tis the samehere. They've been talking but now of the mis'ess'sstrange doings.What have you been saying about her? inquiredOak, sharply turning to the rest, and getting verywarm.These middle-aged men have been pulling her overthe coals for pride and vanity. said Mark Clark; butI say, let her have rope enough. Bless her pretty faceshouldn't I like to do so -- upon her cherry lips!The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and wellknown sound with his own.Mark. said Gabriel, sternly, now you mind this!none of that dalliance-talk -- that smack-and-coddle styleof yours -- about Miss Everdene. I don't allow it. Doyou hear? With all my heart, as I've got no chance. repliedMr. Clark, cordially.I suppose you've been speaking against her? saidOak, turning to Joseph Poorgrass with a very grimlook.No, no -- not a word I -- 'tis a real joyful thing thatshe's no worse, that's what I say. said Joseph, tremblingand blushing with terror. Matthew just said -- -- Matthew Moon, what have you been saying? askedOak.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 gentlemen on earth, rose to the occasion, with martialpromptness and vigour. That's my fist. Here heplaced his fist, rather smaller in size than a commonloaf, in the mathemarical centre of the maltster's littletable, and with it gave a bump or two thereon, as ifto ensure that their eyes all thoroughly took in theidea of fistiness before he went further. Now -- thefirst man in the parish that I hear prophesying bad ofour mistress, why (here the fist was raised and let fallas T'hor might have done with his hammer in assayingit) -- he'll smell and taste that -- or I'm a Dutchman.All earnestly expressed by their features that theirminds did not wander to Holland for a moment onaccount of this statement, but were deploring thedifference which gave rise to the figure; and MarkClark cried Hear, hear; just what I should ha' said.The dog George looked up at the same time after theshepherd's menace, and though he understood Englishbut imperfectly, began to growl.Now, don't ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!said Henery, with a deprecating peacefulness equal toanything of the kind in Christianity.We hear that ye be a extraordinary good andclever man, shepherd. said Joseph Poorgrass withconsiderable anxiety from behind the maltster's bed-stead whither he had retired for safety. 'Tis a greatthing 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, witha small anxious laugh towards Oak, to show how veryfriendly 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 aswell by the stars as we can by the sun and moon,shepherd.Yes, I can do a little that way. said Gabriel, as aman of medium sentiments on the subject.names upon their waggons almost like copper-plate,with beautiful flourishes, and great long tails. Aexcellent fine thing for ye to be such a clever man,shepherd. Joseph Poorgrass used to prent to FarmerJames Everdene's waggons before you came, and 'acould never mind which way to turn the J's and E's -- could ye, Joseph? Joseph shook his head to expresshow absolute was the fact that he couldn't. And soyou used to do 'em the wrong way, like this, didn't ye,Joseph? Matthew marked on the dusty floor with hiswhip-handle.And how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee afool, wouldn't he, Joseph, when 'a seed his namelooking so inside-out-like? continued Matthew Moonwith feeling.Ay -- 'a would. said Joseph, meekly. But, you see,I wasn't so much to blame, for them J's and E's besuch trying sons o' witches for the memory to mindwhether they face backward or forward; and I alwayshad such a forgetful memory, too.'Tis a bad afiction for ye, being such a man ofcalamities in other ways.Well, 'tis; but a happy Providence ordered that itshould be no worse, and I feel my thanks. As toshepherd, there, I'm sure mis'ess ought to have madeye 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 sametime, Miss Everdene has a right to be own baily ifshe choose -- and to keep me down to be a commonshepherd only. Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadlyinto the bright ashpit, and seemed lost in thoughts notof the most hopeful hue.The genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulatethe nearly lifeless lambs to bleat and move their limbsbriskly upon the hay, and to recognize for the first timethe fact that they were born. Their noise increased to achorus of baas, upon which Oak pulled the milk-can frombefore the fire, and taking a small tea-pot from the pocketof his smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those ofthe helpless creatures which were not to be restored totheir dams how to drink from the spout -- a trick theyacquired with astonishing aptitude.And she don't even let ye have the skins of thedead lambs, I hear? resumed Joseph Poorgrass, hiseyes 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 Josephagain, in the hope of getting Oak as an ally in lamenta-tion after all. I think she's took against ye -- thatI do.O no -- not at all. replied Gabriel, hastily, and asigh escaped him, which the deprivation of lamb skinscould hardly have caused.Before any further remark had been added a shadedarkened 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. Imet the mail-cart ten minutes ago, and a letter was putinto my hand, which I opened without reading theaddress. I believe it is yours. You must excuse theaccident 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 comingto him whose contents the whole parish would not havebeen welcome to persue.Oak stepped aside, and read the following in anunknown hand: --DEAR FRIEND, -- I do not know your name, but l thinkthese few lines will reach you, which I wrote to thank youfor your kindness to me the night I left Weatherbury in areckless way. I also return the money I owe you, whichyou will excuse my not keeping as a gift. All has endedwell, and I am happy to say I am going to be married tothe young man who has courted me for some time -- SergeantTroy, of the 11th Dragoon Guards, now quartered in thistown. He would, I know, object to my having receivedanything 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 thecontents of this letter a secret for the present, dear friend.We mean to surprise Weatherbury by coming there soonas husband and wife, though l blush to state it to one nearlya 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 interestedin Fanny Robin.Boldwood read the letter and looked grieved.Fanny -- poor Fanny! the end she is so confidentof has not yet come, she should remember -- and maynever come. I see she gives no address.What sort of a man is this Sergeant Troy? saidGabriel.H'm -- I'm afraid not one to build much hope uponin such a case as this. the farmer murmured, thoughhe's a clever fellow, and up to everything. A slightromance attaches to him, too. His mother was a Frenchgoverness, and it seems that a secret attachment existedbetween her and the late Lord Severn. She was marriedto a poor medical man, and soon after an infant washorn; and while money was forthcoming all went onwell. Unfortunately for her boy, his best friends died;and he got then a situation as second clerk at a lawyer'sin Casterbridge. He stayed there for some time, andmight have worked himself into a dignified position ofsome sort had he not indulged in the wild freak ofenlisting. I have much doubt if ever little Fanny willsurprise us in the way she mentions -- very much doubtA silly girl! -- silly girl!The door was hurriedly burst open again, and incame running Cainy Ball out of breath, his mouth redand open, like the bell of a penny trumpet, from whichhe coughed with noisy vigour and great distension of face.Now, Cain Ball. said Oak, sternly, why will yourun so fast and lose your breath so? I'm always tellingyou of it.Oh -- I -- a puff of mee breath -- went -- the -- wrongway, 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 thedoorpost, that you must come directly'. Two more eweshave twinned -- that's what's the matter, Shepherd Oak.Oh, that's it. said Oak, jumping up, and dimissingfor the present his thoughts on poor Fanny. You area good boy to run and tell me, Cain, and you shallsmell a large plum pudding some day as a treat. But,before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll markthis lot and have done with 'em.Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron,dipped it into the pot, and imprintcd on the buttocksof the infant sheep the initials of her he delighted tomuse on -- B. E.. which signified to all the regionround that henceforth the lambs belonged to FarmerBathsheba Everdene, and to no one else.Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off Goodmorning, Mr. Boldwood. The shepherd lifted thesixteen large legs and four small bodies he had himselfbrought, and vanished with them in the direction ofthe lambing field hard by -- their frames being now in asleek and hopeful state, pleasantly contrasting with theirdeath's-door plight of half an hour before.Boldwood followed him a little way up the field,hesitated, and turned back. He followed him againwith a last resolve, annihilating return. On approachingthe nook in which the fold was constructed, the farmerdrew out-his pocket-book, unfastened-it, and allowed itto lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed -- Bath-sheba's.I was going to ask you, Oak. he said, with unrealcarelessness, 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 ofsounding her name. He now felt a strangely distressingqualm from a new thought. The letter could of coursebe no other than anonymous, or the inquiry would nothave been necessary.Boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive personsare always ready with their Is it I? in preference toobjective reasoning.The question was perfectly fair. he returned -- andthere was something incongruous in the serious earnest-ness with which he applied himself to an argument ona valentine. You know it is always expected thatprivy inquiries will be made: that's where the -- funlies. If the word fun had been torture. it couldnot have been uttered with a more constrained andrestless countenance than was Boldwood's then.Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reservedman returned to his house to breakfast -- feeling twingesof shame and regret at having so far exposed his moodby those fevered questions to a stranger. He againplaced the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down tothink of the circumstances attending it by the light ofGabriel's information.
CHAPTER XVI