THE MALTHOUSE -- THE CHAT -- NEWS
WARREN'S Malthouse was enclosed by an old wallinwrapped with ivy, and though not much of the exteriorwas visible at this hour, the character and purposes ofthe building were clearly enough shown by its outlineupon the sky. From the walls an overhanging thatchedroof sloped up to a point in the centre, upon which rosea small wooden lantern, fitted with louvre-boards on allthe four sides, and from these openings a mist was dimlyperceived to be escaping into the night air. There wasno window in front; but a square hole in the door wasglazed with a single pane, through which red, comfortablerays now stretched out upon the ivied wall in front.Voices were to be heard inside.Oak's hand skimmed the surface of the door withfingers extended to an Elymas-the-Somerer pattern, tillhe found a leathern strap, which he pulled. This lifteda wooden latch, and the door swung open.The room inside was lighted only by the, ruddy glowfrom the kiln mouth, which shone over ,the floor withthe streaming, horizontality of the setting sun, and threwupwards the shadows of all facial irregularities in thoseassembled around. The stone-flag floor was worn intoa path from the doorway to the kiln, and into undula-tions everywhere. A curved settle of unplaned oakstretched along one side, and in a remote corner was asmall bed and bedstead, the owner and frequent occupierof which was the maltster.This aged man was now sitting opposite the fire, hisfrosty white hair and beard overgrowing his gnarledfigure like the grey moss and lichen upon a leaflessapple-tree. He wore breeches and the laced-up shoescalled ankle-jacks; he kept his eyes fixed upon thefire.Gabriel's nose was greeted by an atmosphere ladenwith the sweet smell of new malt. The conversation(which seemed to have been concerning the origin of thefire) immediately ceased, and every one ocularly criticisedhim to the degree expressed by contracting the flesh oftheir foreheads and looking at him with narrowed eye-lids, as if he had been a light too strong for their sight.Several exclaimed meditatively, after this operation hadbeen completed: --Oh, 'tis the new shepherd, 'a b'lieve.We thought we heard a hand pawing about thedoor for the bobbin, but weren't sure 'twere not a deadleaf blowed across. said another. Come in, shepherd;sure ye be welcome, though we don't know yer name.Gabriel Oak, that's my name, neighbours.The ancient maltster sitting in the midst turned upthis -- his turning being as the turning of a rustycrane.That's never Gable Oak's grandson over at Nor-combe -- never! he said, as a formula expressive ofsurprise, which nobody was supposed to take literally'.My father and my grandfather were old men of thename of Gabriel. said the shepherd, placidly.Thought I knowed the man's face as I seed himon the rick! -- thought I did! And where be ye tradingo't to now, shepherd?I'm thinking of biding here. said Mr. Oak.Knowed yer grandfather for years and years!continued the maltster, the words coming forth of theirown accord as if the momentum previously impartedhad been sufficient.Ah -- and did you!Knowed yer grandmother.And her too!Likewise knowed yer father when he was a child.Why, my boy Jacob there and your father were swornbrothers -- that they were sure -- weren't ye, Jacob?Ay, sure. said his son, a young man about sixty-five, with a semi-bald head and one tooth in the leftcentre of his upper jaw, which made much of itself bystanding prominent, like a milestone in a bank. Buttwas Joe had most to do with him. However, my sonWilliam must have knowed the very man afore us --didn't ye, Billy, afore ye left Norcombe?No, 'twas Andrew. said Jacob's son Billy, a childof forty, or thereabouts, who manifested the peculiarityof possessing a cheerful soul in a gloomy body, andwhose whiskers were assuming a chinchilla shade hereand there.I can mind Andrew. said Oak, as being a man inthe place when I was quite a child.Ay -- the other day I and my youngest daughter,Liddy, were over at my grandson's christening. continuedBilly. We were talking about this very family, andtwas only last Purification Day in this very world, whenthe use-money is gied away to the second-best poorfolk, you know, shepherd, and I can mind the daybecause they all had to traypse up to the vestry -- yes,this very man's family.Come, shepherd, and drink. 'Tis gape andswaller with us -- a drap of sommit, but not of muchaccount. said the maltster, removing from the fire hiseyes, which were vermilion-red and bleared by gazinginto it for so many years. Take up the God-forgive-me, Jacob. See if 'tis warm, Jacob.Jacob stooped to the God-forgive-me, which was atwo-handled tall mug standing in the ashes, crackedand charred with heat: it was rather furred with ex-traneous matter about the outside, especially in thecrevices of the handles, the innermost curves of whichmay not have seen daylight for several years by reasonof this encrustation thereon -- formed of ashes accident-ally wetted with cider and baked hard; but to the mindof any sensible drinker the cup was no worse for that,being incontestably clean on the inside and about therim. It may be observed that such a class of mug iscalled a God-forgive-me in Weatherbury and its vicinityfor uncertain reasons; probably because its size makesany given toper feel ashamed of himself when he seesits bottom in drinking it empty.Jacob, on receiving the order to see if the liquor waswarm enough, placidly dipped his forefinger into it byway of thermometer, and having pronounced it nearlyof the proper degree, raised the cup and very civillyattempted to dust some of the ashes from the bottomwith the skirt of his smock-frock, because Shepherd Oakwas a stranger.A clane cup for the shepherd. said the maltstercommandingly.No -- not at all, said Gabriel, in a reproving toneof considerateness. I never fuss about dirt in its purestate, and when I know what sort it is. Taking themug he drank an inch or more from the depth of itscontents, and duly passed it to the next man.wouldn't think of giving such trouble to neighbours inwashing up when there's so much work to be done inthe world already. continued Oak in a moister tone,after recovering from the stoppage of breath which isoccasioned by pulls at large mugs.A right sensible man. said Jacob.True, true; it can't be gainsaid! observed a briskyoung man -- Mark Clark by name, a genial and pleasantgentleman, whom to meet anywhere in your travels wasto know, to know was to drink with, and to drink withwas, unfortunately, to pay for.And here's a mouthful of bread and bacon thatmis'ess have sent, shepherd. The cider will go downbetter with a bit of victuals. Don't ye chaw quite close,shepherd, for I let the bacon fall in the road outside asI was bringing it along, and may be 'tis rather gritty.There, 'tis clane dirt; and we all know what that is,as you say, and you bain't a particular man we see,shepherd.True, true -- not at all. said the friendly Oak.Don't let your teeth quite meet, and you won't feelthe sandiness at all. Ah! 'tis wonderful what can bedone by contrivance!My own mind exactly, neighbour.Ah, he's his grandfer's own grandson! -- his grandferwere just such a nice unparticular man! said the maltster.Drink, Henry Fray -- drink. magnanimously saidJan Coggan, a person who held Saint-Simonian notionsof share and share alike where liquor was concerned, asthe vessel showed signs of approaching him in its gradualrevolution among them.Having at this moment reached the end of a wistfulgaze into mid-air, Henry did not refuse. He was a manof more than middle age, with eyebrows high up in hisforehead, who laid it down that the law of the worldwas bad, with a long-suffering look through his listenersat the world alluded to, as it presented itself to hisimagination. He always signed his name Henery --strenuously insisting upon that spelling, and if anypassing schoolmaster ventured to remark that the seconde was superfluous and old-fashioned, he received thereply that H-e-n-e-r-y was the name he was christenedand the name he would stick to -- in the tone of oneto whom orthographical differences were matters whichhad a great deal to do with personal character.Mr. Jan Coggan, who had passed the cup to Henery,was a crimson man with a spacious countenance, andprivate glimmer in his eye, whose name had appearedon the marriage register of Weatherbury and neighbour-ing parishes as best man and chief witness in countlessunions of the previous twenty years; he also veryfrequently filled the post of head godfather in baptismsof the subtly-jovial kind.Come, Mark Clark -- come. Ther's plenty morein the barrel. said Jan.Ay -- that I will, 'tis my only doctor. replied Mr.Clark, who, twenty years younger than Jan Coggan,revolved in the same orbit. He secreted mirth on alloccasions for special discharge at popular parties.Why, Joseph Poorgrass, ye han't had a drop! saidMr. Coggan to a self-conscious man in the background,thrusting the cup towards him.Such a modest man as he is! said Jacob Smallbury.Why, ye've hardly had strength of eye enough to lookin our young mis'ess's face, so I hear, Joseph?All looked at Joseph Poorgrass with pitying reproach.No -- I've hardly looked at her at all. simperedJoseph, reducing his body smaller whilst talking,apparently from a meek sense of undue prominence.And when I seed her, 'twas nothing but blushes withme!Poor feller. said Mr. Clark.'Tis a curious nature for a man. said Jan Coggan.Yes. continued Joseph Poorgrass -- his shyness,which was so painful as a defect, filling him with amild complacency now that it was regarded as aninteresting study. 'Twere blush, blush, blush withme every minute of the time, when she was speakingto me.I believe ye, Joseph Poorgrass, for we all know yeto be a very bashful man.'Tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul. said themaltster. And ye have suffered from it a long time,we know.Ay ever since I was a boy. Yes -- mother wasconcerned to her heart about it -- yes. But twas allnought.Did ye ever go into the world to try and stop it,Joseph Poorgrass?Oh ay, tried all sorts o' company. They took meto Greenhill Fair, and into a great gay jerry-go-nimbleshow, where there were women-folk riding round --standing upon horses, with hardly anything on but theirsmocks; but it didn't cure me a morsel. And then Iwas put errand-man at the Women's Skittle Alley at theback of the Tailor's Arms in Casterbridge. 'Twas ahorrible sinful situation, and a very curious place for agood man. I had to stand and look ba'dy people inthe face from morning till night; but 'twas no use -- Iwas just as-bad as ever after all. Blushes hev beenin the family for generations. There, 'tis a happy pro-vidence that I be no worse.True. said Jacob Smallbury, deepening his thoughtsto a profounder view of the subject. 'Tis a thoughtto look at, that ye might have been worse; but evenas you be, 'tis a very bad affliction for 'ee, Joseph. Forye see, shepherd, though 'tis very well for a woman,dang it all, 'tis awkward for a man like him, poorfeller?'Tis -- 'tis. said Gabriel, recovering from a medita-tion. Yes, very awkward for the man.Ay, and he's very timid, too. observed Jan Coggan.Once he had been working late at Yalbury Bottom,and had had a drap of drink, and lost his way as he wascoming home-along through Yalbury Wood, didn't ye,Master Poorgrass?No, no, no; not that story! expostulated themodest man, forcing a laugh to bury his concern.-- -- And so 'a lost himself quite. continued MrCoggan, with an impassive face, implying that a truenarrative, like time and tide, must run its course andwould respect no man. And as he was coming alongin the middle of the night, much afeared, and not ableto find his way out of the trees nohow, 'a cried out,Man-a-lost! man-a-lost! A owl in a tree happenedto be crying Whoo-whoo-whoo! as owls do, youknow, shepherd (Gabriel nodded), and Joseph, allin a tremble, said, Joseph Poorgrass, of Weatherbury,sir!No, no, now -- that's too much! said the timidman, becoming a man of brazen courage all of a sudden.I didn't say sir. I'll tike my oath I didn't say JosephPoorgrass o' Weatherbury, sir. No, no; what's rightis right, and I never said sir to the bird, knowing verywell that no man of a gentleman's rank would behollering there at that time o' night. Joseph Poor-grass of Weatherbury, -- that's every word I said, andI shouldn't ha' said that if 't hadn't been for KeeperDay's metheglin.... There, 'twas a merciful thing itended where it did.The question of which was right being tacitly waivedby the company, Jan went on meditatively: --And he's the fearfullest man, bain't ye, Joseph?Ay, another time ye were lost by Lambing-Down Gate,weren't ye, Joseph?I was. replied Poorgrass, as if there were someconditions too serious even for modesty to rememberitself under, this being one.Yes; that were the middle of the night, too. Thegate would not open, try how he would, and knowingthere was the Devil's hand in it, he kneeled down.Ay. said Joseph, acquiring confidence from thewarmth of the fire, the cider, and a perception of thenarrative capabilities of the experience alluded to.My heart died within me, that time; but I kneeleddown and said the Lord's Prayer, and then the Belieright through, and then the Ten Commandments, inearnest prayer. But no, the gate wouldn't open; andthen I went on with Dearly Beloved Brethren, and,thinks I, this makes four, and 'tis all I know out ofbook, and if this don't do it nothing will, and I'm alost man. Well, when I got to Saying After Me, Irose from my knees and found the gate would open -- yes, neighbours, the gate opened the same as ever. A meditation on the obvious inference was indulgedin by all, and during its continuance each directed hisvision into the ashpit, which glowed like a desert inthe tropics under a vertical sun, shaping their eyes longand liny, partly because of the light, partly from thedepth of the subject discussed. Gabriel broke the silence. What sort of a placeis this to live at, and what sort of a mis'ess is she towork under? Gabriel's bosom thrilled gently as hethus slipped under the notice of the assembly the inner-most subject of his heart. We d' know little of her -- nothing. She onlyshowed herself a few days ago. Her uncle was tookbad, and the doctor was called with his world-wideskill; but he couldn't save the man. As I take it,she's going to keep on the farm. That's about the shape o't, 'a b'lieve. said Januncle was a very fair sort of man. Did ye know en,be under 'em as under one here and there. Heruncle was a very fair sort of man. Did ye know 'en,shepherd -- a bachelor-man? Not at all. I used to go to his house a-courting my first wife,Charlotte, who was his dairymaid. Well, a very good-hearted man were Farmer Everdene, and I being arespectable young fellow was allowed to call and seeher and drink as much ale as I liked, but not to carryaway any -- outside my skin I mane of course. Ay, ay, Jan Coggan; we know yer meaning. And so you see 'twas beautiful ale, and I wishedto value his kindness as much as I could, and not tobe so ill-mannered as to drink only a thimbleful, whichwould have been insulting the man's generosity -- -- True, Master Coggan, 'twould so. corroboratedMark Clark. -- -- And so I used to eat a lot of salt fish aforegoing, and then by the time I got there I were as dryas a lime-basket -- so thorough dry that that ale wouldslip down -- ah, 'twould slip down sweet! Happytimes! heavenly times! Such lovely drunks as Iused to have at that house! You can mind, Jacob?You used to go wi' me sometimes. I can -- I can. said Jacob. That one, too, thatwe had at Buck's Head on a White Monday was apretty tipple. 'Twas. But for a wet of the better class, thatbrought you no nearer to the horned man than you wereafore you begun, there was none like those in FarmerEverdene's kitchen. Not a single damn allowed; no,not a bare poor one, even at the most cheerful momentwhen all were blindest, though the good old word ofsin thrown in here and there at such times is a greatrelief to a merry soul. True. said the maltster. Nater requires herswearing at the regular times, or she's not herself; andunholy exclamations is a necessity of life. But Charlotte. continued Coggan -- not a word ofthe sort would Charlotte allow, nor the smallest item oftaking in vain.... Ay, poor Charlotte, I wonder if shehad the good fortune to get into Heaven when 'a died!But 'a was never much in luck's way, and perhaps 'awent downwards after all, poor soul. And did any of you know Miss Everdene's-fatherand mother? inquired the shepherd, who found somedifficulty in keeping the conversation in the desiredchannel. I knew them a little. said Jacob Smallbury; butthey were townsfolk, and didn't live here. They'vebeen dead for years. Father, what sort of people weremis'ess' father and mother? Well. said the maltster, he wasn't much to lookat; but she was a lovely woman. He was fond enoughof her as his sweetheart. Used to kiss her scores and long-hundreds o times,so 'twas said. observed Coggan. He was very proud of her, too, when they weremarried, as I've been told. said the maltster. Ay. said Coggan. He admired her so much thathe used to light the candle three time a night to lookat her. Boundless love; I shouldn't have supposed it in theuniverse! murmered Joseph Poorgrass, who habituallyspoke on a large scale in his moral reflections. Well, to be sure. said Gabriel. Oh, 'tis true enough. I knowed the man andwoman both well. Levi Everdene -- that was the man'sname, sure. Man. saith I in my hurry, but he wereof a higher circle of life than that -- 'a was a gentleman-tailor really, worth scores of pounds. And he becamea very celebrated bankrupt two or three times. Oh, I thought he was quite a common man! saidJoseph. O no, no! That man failed for heaps of money;hundreds in gold and silver. The maltster being rather short of breath, Mr. Coggan,after absently scrutinising a coal which had fallen amongthe ashes, took up the narrative, with a private twirl ofhis eye: -- Well, now, you'd hardly believe it, but that man --husbands alive, after a while. Understand? 'a didn'twant to be fickle, but he couldn't help it. The poorfeller were faithful and true enough to her in his wish,but his heart would rove, do what he would. He spoketo me in real tribulation about it once. Coggan,he said, I could never wish for a handsomer womanthan I've got, but feeling she's ticketed as my lawfulwife, I can't help my wicked heart wandering, do whatI will. But at last I believe he cured it by making hertake off her wedding-ring and calling her by her maidenname as they sat together after the shop was shut, andso 'a would get to fancy she was only his sweetheart, andnot married to him at all. And as soon as he couldthoroughly fancy he was doing wrong and committingthe seventh, 'a got to like her as well as ever, and theylived on a perfect picture of mutel love. Well, 'twas a most ungodly remedy. murmuredJoseph Poorgrass; but we ought to feel deep cheerful-ness that a happy Providence kept it from being anyworse. You see, he might have gone the bad road andgiven his eyes to unlawfulness entirely -- yes, gross un-lawfulness, so to say it. You see. said Billy Smallbury, The man's will wasto do right, sure enough, but his heart didn't chime in. He got so much better, that he was quite godlyin his later years, wasn't he, Jan? said Joseph Poor-grass. He got himself confirmed over again in a moreserious way, and took to saying Amen almost as loudas the clerk, and he liked to copy comforting versesfrom the tombstones. He used, too, to hold the money-plate at Let Your Light so Shine, and stand godfatherto poor little come-by-chance children; and he kept amissionary box upon his table to nab folks unawareswhen they called; yes, and he would-box the charity-boys' ears, if they laughed in church, till they couldhardly stand upright, and do other deeds of pietynatural to the saintly inclined. Ay, at that time he thought of nothing but highthings. added Billy Smallbury. One day Parson Thirdlymet him and said, Good-Morning, Mister Everdene; 'tisa fine day! Amen said Everdene, quite absent-like, thinking only of religion when he seed a parson- Their daughter was not at all a pretty chile at thattime. said Henery Fray. Never should have. thoughtshe'd have growed up such a handsome body as she is. 'Tis to be hoped her temper is as good as her face. Well, yes; but the baily will have most to do withthe business and ourselves. Ah! Henery gazed intothe ashpit, and smiled volumes of ironical knowledge. A queer Christian, like the Devil's head in a cowl, He is. said Henery, implying that irony must ceaseat a certain point. Between we two, man and man, Ibelieve that man would as soon tell a lie Sundays asworking-days -- that I do so. Good faith, you do talk! said Gabriel. True enough. said the man of bitter moods, lookinground upon the company with the antithetic laughterthat comes from a keener appreciation of the miseriesof life than ordinary men are capable of. 'Ah, there'speople of one sort, and people of another, but that man -- bless your souls! Gabriel thought fit to change the subject. Youmust be a very aged man, malter, to have sons growedmild and ancient he remarked. Father's so old that 'a can't mind his age, can ye,father? interposed Jacob. And he growled terriblecrooked too, lately Jacob continued, surveying hisfather's figure, which was rather more bowed than his own.Really one may say that father there is three-double. Crooked folk will last a long while. said the maltster,grimly, and not in the best humour. Shepherd would like to hear the pedigree of yerlife, father -- wouldn't ye, shepherd? Ay that I should. said Gabriel with the heartinessof a man who had longed to hear it for several months.What may your age be, malter? The maltster cleared his throat in an exaggeratedform for emphasis, and elongating his gaze to theremotest point of the ashpit! said, in the slow speechjustifiable when the importance of a subject is sogenerally felt that any mannerism must be toleratedin getting at it, Well, I don't mind the year I wereborn in, but perhaps I can reckon up the places I'velived at, and so get it that way. I bode at Upper Long-puddle across there (nodding to the north) till I wereeleven. I bode seven at Kingsbere (nodding to theeast) where I took to malting. I went therefrom toNorcombe, and malted there two-and-twenty years, and-two-and-twenty years I was there turnip-hoeing andharvesting. Ah, I knowed that old place, Norcombe,years afore you were thought of, Master Oak (Oak smiledsincere belief in the fact). Then I malted at Dur-nover four year, and four year turnip-hoeing; andI was fourteen times eleven months at Millpond St.Jude's (nodding north-west-by-north). Old Twillswouldn't hire me for more than eleven months at atime, to keep me from being chargeable to the parishif so be I was disabled. Then I was three year atMellstock, and I've been here one-and-thirty year comeCandlemas. How much is that? Hundred and seventeen. chuckled another oldgentleman, given to mental arithmetic and little con-versation, who had hitherto sat unobserved in a corner. Well, then, that's my age. said the maltster, em-phatically. O no, father! said Jacob. Your turnip-hoeingwere in the summer and your malting in the winter ofthe same years, and ye don't ought to count-both halvesfather. Chok' it all! I lived through the summers, didn'tI? That's my question. I suppose ye'll say next I beno age at all to speak of? Sure we shan't. said Gabriel, soothingly. Ye be a very old aged person, malter. attested Janmust have a wonderful talented constitution to be ableto live so long, mustn't he, neighbours? True, true; ye must, malter, wonderful, said themeeting unanimously. The maltster, being know pacified, was even generousenough to voluntarily disparage in a slight degree thevirtue of having lived a great many years, by mentioningthat the cup they were drinking out of was three yearsolder than he. While the cup was being examined, the end ofGabriel Oak's flute became visible over his smock-frockI seed you blowing into a great flute by now at Caster-bridge? You did. said Gabriel, blushing faintly. I've beenin great trouble, neighbours, and was driven to it.take it careless-like, shepherd and your time will cometired? Neither drum nor trumpet have I heard sinceChristmas. said Jan Coggan. Come, raise a tune,Master Oak! That I will. said Gabriel, pulling out his flute andputting it together. A poor tool, neighbours; butsuch as I can do ye shall have and welcome. Oak then struck up Jockey to the Fair. and playedthat sparkling melody three times through accenting thenotes in the third round in a most artistic and livelymanner by bending his body in small jerks and tappingwith his foot to beat time. He can blow the flute very well -- that 'a can. saida young married man, who having no individuality worthmentioning was known as Susan Tall's husband. Hecontinued, I'd as lief as not be able to blow into aflute as well-as that. He's a clever man, and 'tis a true comfort for us tohave such a shepherd. murmured Joseph Poorgrass, ina soft cadence. We ought to feel full o' thanksgivingthat he's not a player of ba'dy songs 'instead of thesemerry tunes; for 'twould have been just as easy for Godto have made the shepherd a loose low man -- a man ofiniquity, so to speak it -- as what he is. Yes, for our wivesand daughters' sakes we should feel real thanks giving. True, true, -- real thanksgiving! dashed in MarkClark conclusively, not feeling it to be of any conse-quence to his opinion that he had only heard about aword and three-quarters of what Joseph had said. Yes. added Joseph, beginning to feel like a man inthe Bible; for evil do thrive so in these times that yemay be as much deceived in the cleanest shaved andwhitest shirted man as in the raggedest tramp upon theturnpike, if I may term it so. Ay, I can mind yer face now, shepherd. saidHenery Fray, criticising Gabriel with misty eyes as heentered upon his second tune. Yes -- now I see 'eeblowing into the flute I know 'ee to be the same manI see play at Casterbridge, for yer mouth were scrimpedup and yer eyes a-staring out like a strangled man's --just as they be now. 'Tis a pity that playing the flute should make a manlook such a scarecrow. observed Mr. Mark Clark, withadditional criticism of Gabriel's countenance, the latterperson jerking out, with the ghastly grimace required bythe instrument, the chorus of Dame Durden! I hope you don't mind that young man's badmanners in naming your features? whispered Joseph toGabriel. Not at all. said Mr. Oak. For by nature ye be a very handsome man,shepherd. continued Joseph Poorgrass, with winningsauvity. Ay, that ye be, shepard. said the company. Thank you very much. said Oak, in the modesttone good manners demanded, thinking, however, thathe would never let Bathsheba see him playing theflute; in this severe showing a discretion equal to thatrelated to its sagacious inventress, the divine Minervaherself. Ah, when I and my wife were married at NorcombeChurch. said the old maltster, not pleased at findinghimself left out of the subject we were called thehandsomest couple in the neighbourhood -- everybodysaid so. Danged if ye bain't altered now, malter. said a voicewith the vigour natural to the enunciation of a remark-ably evident truism. It came from the old man in thebackground, whose offensiveness and spiteful ways werebarely atoned for by the occasional chuckle he con-tributed to general laughs. O no, no. said Gabriel. Don't ye play no more shepherd said Susan Tall'shusband, the young married man who had spoken oncebefore. I must be moving and when there's tunesgoing on I seem as if hung in wires. If I thought afterI'd left that music was still playing, and I not there, Ishould be quite melancholy-like. What's yer hurry then, Laban? inquired Coggan.You used to bide as late as the latest. Well, ye see, neighbours, I was lately married to awoman, and she's my vocation now, and so ye see -- -- The young man hated lamely. New Lords new laws, as the saying is, I suppose,remarked Coggan. Ay, 'a b'lieve -- ha, ha! said Susan Tall's husband,in a tone intended to imply his habitual reception ofjokes without minding them at all. The young manthen wished them good-night and withdrew. Henery Fray was the first to follow. Then Gabrielarose and went off with Jan Coggan, who had offeredhim a lodging. A few minutes later, when the remainingones were on their legs and about to depart, Fray cameback again in a hurry. Flourishing his finger ominouslyhe threw a gaze teeming with tidings just -- where his eyealighted by accident, which happened to be in JosephPoorgrass's face. O -- what's the matter, what's the matter, Henery?said Joseph, starting back. What's a-brewing, Henrey? asked Jacob and MarkClark. Baily Pennyways -- Baily Pennyways -- I said so; yes,I said so! What, found out stealing anything? Stealing it is. The news is, that after MissEverdene got home she went out again to see all wassafe, as she usually do, and coming in found BailyPennyways creeping down the granary steps with half aa bushel of barley. She fleed at him like a cat -- neversuch a tomboy as she is -- of course I speak with closeddoors? You do -- you do, Henery. She fleed at him, and, to cut a long story short,he owned to having carried off five sack altogether, uponher promising not to persecute him. Well, he's turnedout neck and crop, and my question is, who's going tobe baily now? The question was such a profound one that Henerywas obliged to drink there and then from the largecup till the bottom was distinctly visible inside. Beforehe had replaced it on the table, in came the young man,Susan Tall's husband, in a still greater hurry. Have ye heard the news that's all over parish? About Baily Pennyways? But besides that? No -- not a morsel of it! they replied, looking intothe very midst of Laban Tall as if to meet his wordshalf-way down his throat. What a night of horrors! murmured Joseph Poor-grass, waving his hands spasmodically. I've had thenews-bell ringing in my left ear quite bad enough for amurder, and I've seen a magpie all alone! Fanny Robin -- Miss everdene's youngest servant --can't be found. They've been wanting to lock up thedoor these two hours, but she isn't come in. And theydon't know what to do about going to hed for fear oflocking her out. They wouldn't be so concerned if shehadn't been noticed in such low spirits these last fewdays, and Maryann d'think the beginning of a crowner'sinquest has happened to the poor girl. O -- 'tis burned -- 'tis burned! came from JosephPoorgrass's dry lips. No -- 'tis drowned! said Tall. Or 'tis her father's razor! suggested Billy Smallbury,with a vivid sense of detail. Well -- Miss Everdene wants to speak to one or twoof us before we go to bed. What with this trouble aboutthe baily, and now about the girl, mis'ess is almost wild. They all hastened up the lane to the farmhouse,excepting the old maltster, whom neither news, fire,rain, nor thunder could draw from his hole. There, asthe others' footsteps died away he sat down again andcontinued gazing as usual into the furnace with his red,bleared eyes. From the bedroom window above their heads Bath-sheba's head and shoulders, robed in mystic white, weredimly seen extended into the air. Are any of my men among you? she said anxiously. Yes, ma'am, several. said Susan Tall's husband. Tomorrow morning I wish two or three of you tomake inquiries in the villages round if they have seensuch a person as Fanny Robin. Do it quietly; there isno reason for alarm as yet. She must have left whilstwe were all at the fire. I beg yer pardon, but had she any young man court-ing her in the parish, ma'am? asked Jacob Smallbury. I don't know. said Bathsheba. I've never heard of any such thing, ma'am. saidtwo or three. It is hardly likely, either. continued Bathsheba.For any lover of hers might have come to the house ifhe had been a respectable lad. The most mysteriousmatter connected with her absence -- indeed, the onlything which gives me serious alarm -- is that she wasseen to go out of the house by Maryann with only herindoor working gown on -- not even a bonnet. And you mean, ma'am, excusing my words, that ayoung woman would hardly go to see her young manwithout dressing up. said Jacob, turning his mentalvision upon past experiences. That's true -- she wouldnot, ma'am. She had, I think, a bundle, though I couldn't seevery well. said a female voice from another window,which seemed that of Maryann. But she had noyoung man about here. Hers lives in Casterbridge, andI believe he's a soldier. Do you know his name? Bathsheba said. No, mistress; she was very close about it. Perhaps I might be able to find out if I went toCasterbridge barracks. said William Smallbury. Very well; if she doesn't return tomorrow, mindyou go there and try to discover which man it is, andsee him. I feel more responsible than I should if shehad had any friends or relations alive. I do hope shehas come to no harm through a man of that kind....And then there's this disgraceful affair of the bailiff --but I can't speak of him now. Bathsheba had so many reasons for uneasiness thatit seemed she did not think it worth while to dwellupon any particular one. Do as I told you, thenshe said in conclusion, closing the casement. Ay, ay, mistress; we will. they replied, and movedaway. That night at Coggan's, Gabriel Oak, beneath thescreen of closed eyelids, was busy with fancies, and fullof movement, like a river flowing rapidly under its ice.Night had always been the time at which he saw Bath-sheba most vividly, and through the slow hours ofshadow he tenderly regarded her image now. It israrely that the pleasures of the imagination will compen-sate for the pain of sleeplessness, but they possibly didwith Oak to-night, for the delight of merely seeing hereffaced for the time his perception of the great differ-ence between seeing and possessing. He also thought of Plans for fetching his few utensilsand books from Norcombe. The Young Man's BestCompanion, The Farrier's Sure Guide, The VeterinarySurgeon, Paradise Lost, The Pilgrim's Progress, RobinsonCrusoe, Ash's Dictionary, the Walkingame's Arithmetic,constituted his library; and though a limited series, it wasone from which he had acquired more sound informa-tion by diligent perusal than many a man of opportunitieshas done from a furlong of laden shelves.
CHAPTER IX