feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/sparknotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_2_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 9-15
feat_summary_id: chapters 9-15
feat_summary: {"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section3/", "summary": "The next few chapters establish the rhythm of life on Bathsheba Everdene's farm and introduce a new plot line into the novel, Bathsheba's relationship with Mr. Boldwood. The day after Gabriel's arrival, the dignified bachelor Mr. Boldwood knocks on Bathsheba's door as she and her servant Liddy Smallbury are cleaning. Boldwood comes to ask if there is any news of Fanny Robin, whom he had helped when she was younger. From Liddy's gossip we learn that Boldwood is a confirmed bachelor whom many of the local women have tried unsuccessfully to woo. Bathsheba calls a meeting of the farm workers to announce that she has dismissed the Pennyways for thieving and that she will take on the bailiff's responsibilities herself. She also asks for news of Fanny Robin, who is still missing. Chapter 10 describes the meeting and consists primarily of a roll call, in which the various farm laborers identify themselves and their trades to both Bathsheba and the reader. Chapter 11 reveals what has happened to Fanny Robin; here we see her arrive at the barracks of Sergeant Troy, many miles north of Weatherbury. The narrator describes the scene from a distance; we see Fanny as \"a spot\" almost lost in the snow. She throws snowballs at a window to get the sergeant's attention, and they have a brief conversation in which she reminds him that he has promised to marry her. He responds callously but agrees to uphold his promise. When he shuts his window, the other soldiers are laughing. In the next chapter, it is market-day, and Bathsheba tries out her new role of farmer. The only woman in the group, she nonetheless comports herself well. The only man oblivious to her beauty is Mr. Boldwood, who does not look at her once, as Liddy remarks on the way home. When Bathsheba and Liddy are at home on Sunday, Bathsheba is about to send a valentine to a young boy when Liddy suggests that she send it to Boldwood instead. On a whim, Bathsheba agrees, setting in motion one of the novel's tragedies. The valentine contains a meaningless ditty, \"Roses are red, Violets are blue...\" but Bathsheba impulsively stamps it with a seal that reads, \"Marry Me.\" The narrator reflects that Bathsheba knows nothing of love. Unfortunately, the letter has a profound effect on Boldwood. It is the one ornate object in a puritanically plain home, and he places it on the mantlepiece, disturbed and excited. Then he receives a second letter; in his excitement he opens it hurriedly, only then noticing that it is addressed to Gabriel. He delivers it to Gabriel the next morning and Gabriel shares its contents with Boldwood: It is a letter from Fanny identifying herself as the girl Gabriel met in the forest and returning the shilling he had given her. The letter also announces her engagement to Sergeant Troy. As he leaves, Boldwood asks Gabriel to identify the handwriting on the valentine, and he tells Boldwood that it is Bathsheba's.", "analysis": "Commentary The most important event in this section is the sending of the valentine and the unintentional effect it has on Boldwood. This one act will haunt both Bathsheba and Boldwood until the end of the novel. Hardy uses this set of circumstances to analyze one of his favorite concerns: how a person's life is determined by minor, seemingly insignificant events. Sometimes these events are questions of luck or forces beyond human control. Here, however, Hardy examines human agency: Bathsheba sends the valentine in jest, without thinking, but her act results in extraordinary consequences. Another theme throughout this section is the imbalances of affection in human relations; this imbalance characterizes the relationship between Gabriel and Bathsheba, as well as that between Sergeant Troy and Fanny Price, and Liddy tells us that Boldwood has been unaware of several local women's efforts to win his affections. While this asymmetry is a natural part of relationships, its consequences can be dire."}
text: 
  
  THE HOMESTEAD--A VISITOR--HALF-CONFIDENCES
  
  
  By daylight, the bower of Oak's new-found mistress, Bathsheba
  Everdene, presented itself as a hoary building, of the early stage of
  Classic Renaissance as regards its architecture, and of a proportion
  which told at a glance that, as is so frequently the case, it had
  once been the memorial hall upon a small estate around it, now
  altogether effaced as a distinct property, and merged in the vast
  tract of a non-resident landlord, which comprised several such modest
  demesnes.
  
  Fluted pilasters, worked from the solid stone, decorated its front,
  and above the roof the chimneys were panelled or columnar, some coped
  gables with finials and like features still retaining traces of their
  Gothic extraction.  Soft brown mosses, like faded velveteen, formed
  cushions upon the stone tiling, and tufts of the houseleek or
  sengreen sprouted from the eaves of the low surrounding buildings.  A
  gravel walk leading from the door to the road in front was encrusted
  at the sides with more moss--here it was a silver-green variety, the
  nut-brown of the gravel being visible to the width of only a foot
  or two in the centre.  This circumstance, and the generally sleepy
  air of the whole prospect here, together with the animated and
  contrasting state of the reverse facade, suggested to the imagination
  that on the adaptation of the building for farming purposes the
  vital principle of the house had turned round inside its body to
  face the other way.  Reversals of this kind, strange deformities,
  tremendous paralyses, are often seen to be inflicted by trade upon
  edifices--either individual or in the aggregate as streets and
  towns--which were originally planned for pleasure alone.
  
  Lively voices were heard this morning in the upper rooms, the
  main staircase to which was of hard oak, the balusters, heavy as
  bed-posts, being turned and moulded in the quaint fashion of their
  century, the handrail as stout as a parapet-top, and the stairs
  themselves continually twisting round like a person trying to look
  over his shoulder.  Going up, the floors above were found to have a
  very irregular surface, rising to ridges, sinking into valleys; and
  being just then uncarpeted, the face of the boards was seen to be
  eaten into innumerable vermiculations.  Every window replied by a
  clang to the opening and shutting of every door, a tremble followed
  every bustling movement, and a creak accompanied a walker about the
  house, like a spirit, wherever he went.
  
  In the room from which the conversation proceeded Bathsheba and her
  servant-companion, Liddy Smallbury, were to be discovered sitting
  upon the floor, and sorting a complication of papers, books, bottles,
  and rubbish spread out thereon--remnants from the household stores
  of the late occupier.  Liddy, the maltster's great-granddaughter,
  was about Bathsheba's equal in age, and her face was a prominent
  advertisement of the light-hearted English country girl.  The beauty
  her features might have lacked in form was amply made up for by
  perfection of hue, which at this winter-time was the softened
  ruddiness on a surface of high rotundity that we meet with in a
  Terburg or a Gerard Douw; and, like the presentations of those great
  colourists, it was a face which kept well back from the boundary
  between comeliness and the ideal.  Though elastic in nature she was
  less daring than Bathsheba, and occasionally showed some earnestness,
  which consisted half of genuine feeling, and half of mannerliness
  superadded by way of duty.
  
  Through a partly-opened door the noise of a scrubbing-brush led up to
  the charwoman, Maryann Money, a person who for a face had a circular
  disc, furrowed less by age than by long gazes of perplexity at
  distant objects.  To think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak
  of her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy pippin.
  
  "Stop your scrubbing a moment," said Bathsheba through the door to
  her.  "I hear something."
  
  Maryann suspended the brush.
  
  The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of the
  building.  The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what
  was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door.  The door
  was tapped with the end of a crop or stick.
  
  "What impertinence!" said Liddy, in a low voice.  "To ride up the
  footpath like that!  Why didn't he stop at the gate? Lord!  'Tis a
  gentleman!  I see the top of his hat."
  
  "Be quiet!" said Bathsheba.
  
  The further expression of Liddy's concern was continued by aspect
  instead of narrative.
  
  "Why doesn't Mrs. Coggan go to the door?" Bathsheba continued.
  
  Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from Bathsheba's oak.
  
  "Maryann, you go!" said she, fluttering under the onset of a crowd of
  romantic possibilities.
  
  "Oh ma'am--see, here's a mess!"
  
  The argument was unanswerable after a glance at Maryann.
  
  "Liddy--you must," said Bathsheba.
  
  Liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the rubbish
  they were sorting, and looked imploringly at her mistress.
  
  "There--Mrs. Coggan is going!" said Bathsheba, exhaling her relief
  in the form of a long breath which had lain in her bosom a minute or
  more.
  
  The door opened, and a deep voice said--
  
  "Is Miss Everdene at home?"
  
  "I'll see, sir," said Mrs. Coggan, and in a minute appeared in the
  room.
  
  "Dear, what a thirtover place this world is!" continued Mrs. Coggan
  (a wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class of remark
  according to the emotion involved; who could toss a pancake or twirl
  a mop with the accuracy of pure mathematics, and who at this moment
  showed hands shaggy with fragments of dough and arms encrusted with
  flour).  "I am never up to my elbows, Miss, in making a pudding but
  one of two things do happen--either my nose must needs begin
  tickling, and I can't live without scratching it, or somebody knocks
  at the door.  Here's Mr. Boldwood wanting to see you, Miss Everdene."
  
  A woman's dress being a part of her countenance, and any disorder in
  the one being of the same nature with a malformation or wound in the
  other, Bathsheba said at once--
  
  "I can't see him in this state.  Whatever shall I do?"
  
  Not-at-homes were hardly naturalized in Weatherbury farmhouses, so
  Liddy suggested--"Say you're a fright with dust, and can't come
  down."
  
  "Yes--that sounds very well," said Mrs. Coggan, critically.
  
  "Say I can't see him--that will do."
  
  Mrs. Coggan went downstairs, and returned the answer as requested,
  adding, however, on her own responsibility, "Miss is dusting bottles,
  sir, and is quite a object--that's why 'tis."
  
  "Oh, very well," said the deep voice indifferently.  "All I wanted to
  ask was, if anything had been heard of Fanny Robin?"
  
  "Nothing, sir--but we may know to-night.  William Smallbury is gone
  to Casterbridge, where her young man lives, as is supposed, and the
  other men be inquiring about everywhere."
  
  The horse's tramp then recommenced and retreated, and the door
  closed.
  
  "Who is Mr. Boldwood?" said Bathsheba.
  
  "A gentleman-farmer at Little Weatherbury."
  
  "Married?"
  
  "No, miss."
  
  "How old is he?"
  
  "Forty, I should say--very handsome--rather stern-looking--and rich."
  
  "What a bother this dusting is!  I am always in some unfortunate
  plight or other," Bathsheba said, complainingly.  "Why should he
  inquire about Fanny?"
  
  "Oh, because, as she had no friends in her childhood, he took her and
  put her to school, and got her her place here under your uncle.  He's
  a very kind man that way, but Lord--there!"
  
  "What?"
  
  "Never was such a hopeless man for a woman!  He's been courted by
  sixes and sevens--all the girls, gentle and simple, for miles round,
  have tried him.  Jane Perkins worked at him for two months like a
  slave, and the two Miss Taylors spent a year upon him, and he cost
  Farmer Ives's daughter nights of tears and twenty pounds' worth of
  new clothes; but Lord--the money might as well have been thrown out
  of the window."
  
  A little boy came up at this moment and looked in upon them.  This
  child was one of the Coggans, who, with the Smallburys, were as
  common among the families of this district as the Avons and Derwents
  among our rivers.  He always had a loosened tooth or a cut finger to
  show to particular friends, which he did with an air of being thereby
  elevated above the common herd of afflictionless humanity--to which
  exhibition people were expected to say "Poor child!" with a dash of
  congratulation as well as pity.
  
  "I've got a pen-nee!" said Master Coggan in a scanning measure.
  
  "Well--who gave it you, Teddy?" said Liddy.
  
  "Mis-terr Bold-wood!  He gave it to me for opening the gate."
  
  "What did he say?"
  
  "He said, 'Where are you going, my little man?' and I said, 'To Miss
  Everdene's please,' and he said, 'She is a staid woman, isn't she, my
  little man?' and I said, 'Yes.'"
  
  "You naughty child!  What did you say that for?"
  
  "'Cause he gave me the penny!"
  
  "What a pucker everything is in!" said Bathsheba, discontentedly
  when the child had gone.  "Get away, Maryann, or go on with your
  scrubbing, or do something!  You ought to be married by this time,
  and not here troubling me!"
  
  "Ay, mistress--so I did.  But what between the poor men I won't have,
  and the rich men who won't have me, I stand as a pelican in the
  wilderness!"
  
  "Did anybody ever want to marry you miss?" Liddy ventured to ask when
  they were again alone.  "Lots of 'em, I daresay?"
  
  Bathsheba paused, as if about to refuse a reply, but the temptation
  to say yes, since it was really in her power was irresistible by
  aspiring virginity, in spite of her spleen at having been published
  as old.
  
  "A man wanted to once," she said, in a highly experienced tone, and
  the image of Gabriel Oak, as the farmer, rose before her.
  
  "How nice it must seem!" said Liddy, with the fixed features of
  mental realization.  "And you wouldn't have him?"
  
  "He wasn't quite good enough for me."
  
  "How sweet to be able to disdain, when most of us are glad to say,
  'Thank you!'  I seem I hear it.  'No, sir--I'm your better.' or 'Kiss
  my foot, sir; my face is for mouths of consequence.'  And did you
  love him, miss?"
  
  "Oh, no.  But I rather liked him."
  
  "Do you now?"
  
  "Of course not--what footsteps are those I hear?"
  
  Liddy looked from a back window into the courtyard behind, which was
  now getting low-toned and dim with the earliest films of night.  A
  crooked file of men was approaching the back door.  The whole string
  of trailing individuals advanced in the completest balance of
  intention, like the remarkable creatures known as Chain Salpae, which,
  distinctly organized in other respects, have one will common to a
  whole family.  Some were, as usual, in snow-white smock-frocks of
  Russia duck, and some in whitey-brown ones of drabbet--marked on the
  wrists, breasts, backs, and sleeves with honeycomb-work.  Two or
  three women in pattens brought up the rear.
  
  "The Philistines be upon us," said Liddy, making her nose white
  against the glass.
  
  "Oh, very well.  Maryann, go down and keep them in the kitchen till I
  am dressed, and then show them in to me in the hall."
  
  
  
  
  
  MISTRESS AND MEN
  
  
  Half-an-hour later Bathsheba, in finished dress, and followed by
  Liddy, entered the upper end of the old hall to find that her men had
  all deposited themselves on a long form and a settle at the lower
  extremity.  She sat down at a table and opened the time-book, pen in
  her hand, with a canvas money-bag beside her.  From this she poured
  a small heap of coin.  Liddy chose a position at her elbow and began
  to sew, sometimes pausing and looking round, or, with the air of
  a privileged person, taking up one of the half-sovereigns lying
  before her and surveying it merely as a work of art, while strictly
  preventing her countenance from expressing any wish to possess it as
  money.
  
  "Now before I begin, men," said Bathsheba, "I have two matters to
  speak of.  The first is that the bailiff is dismissed for thieving,
  and that I have formed a resolution to have no bailiff at all, but to
  manage everything with my own head and hands."
  
  The men breathed an audible breath of amazement.
  
  "The next matter is, have you heard anything of Fanny?"
  
  "Nothing, ma'am."
  
  "Have you done anything?"
  
  "I met Farmer Boldwood," said Jacob Smallbury, "and I went with him
  and two of his men, and dragged Newmill Pond, but we found nothing."
  
  "And the new shepherd have been to Buck's Head, by Yalbury, thinking
  she had gone there, but nobody had seed her," said Laban Tall.
  
  "Hasn't William Smallbury been to Casterbridge?"
  
  "Yes, ma'am, but he's not yet come home.  He promised to be back by
  six."
  
  "It wants a quarter to six at present," said Bathsheba, looking at
  her watch.  "I daresay he'll be in directly.  Well, now then"--she
  looked into the book--"Joseph Poorgrass, are you there?"
  
  "Yes, sir--ma'am I mane," said the person addressed.  "I be the
  personal name of Poorgrass."
  
  "And what are you?"
  
  "Nothing in my own eye.  In the eye of other people--well, I don't
  say it; though public thought will out."
  
  "What do you do on the farm?"
  
  "I do do carting things all the year, and in seed time I shoots the
  rooks and sparrows, and helps at pig-killing, sir."
  
  "How much to you?"
  
  "Please nine and ninepence and a good halfpenny where 'twas a bad
  one, sir--ma'am I mane."
  
  "Quite correct.  Now here are ten shillings in addition as a small
  present, as I am a new comer."
  
  Bathsheba blushed slightly at the sense of being generous in public,
  and Henery Fray, who had drawn up towards her chair, lifted his
  eyebrows and fingers to express amazement on a small scale.
  
  "How much do I owe you--that man in the corner--what's your name?"
  continued Bathsheba.
  
  "Matthew Moon, ma'am," said a singular framework of clothes with
  nothing of any consequence inside them, which advanced with the toes
  in no definite direction forwards, but turned in or out as they
  chanced to swing.
  
  "Matthew Mark, did you say?--speak out--I shall not hurt you,"
  inquired the young farmer, kindly.
  
  "Matthew Moon, mem," said Henery Fray, correctingly, from behind her
  chair, to which point he had edged himself.
  
  "Matthew Moon," murmured Bathsheba, turning her bright eyes to the
  book.  "Ten and twopence halfpenny is the sum put down to you, I
  see?"
  
  "Yes, mis'ess," said Matthew, as the rustle of wind among dead
  leaves.
  
  "Here it is, and ten shillings.  Now the next--Andrew Randle, you are
  a new man, I hear.  How come you to leave your last farm?"
  
  "P-p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-l-l-l-l-ease, ma'am, p-p-p-p-pl-pl-pl-pl-please,
  ma'am-please'm-please'm--"
  
  "'A's a stammering man, mem," said Henery Fray in an undertone, "and
  they turned him away because the only time he ever did speak plain
  he said his soul was his own, and other iniquities, to the squire.
  'A can cuss, mem, as well as you or I, but 'a can't speak a common
  speech to save his life."
  
  "Andrew Randle, here's yours--finish thanking me in a day or two.
  Temperance Miller--oh, here's another, Soberness--both women I
  suppose?"
  
  "Yes'm.  Here we be, 'a b'lieve," was echoed in shrill unison.
  
  "What have you been doing?"
  
  "Tending thrashing-machine and wimbling haybonds, and saying 'Hoosh!'
  to the cocks and hens when they go upon your seeds, and planting
  Early Flourballs and Thompson's Wonderfuls with a dibble."
  
  "Yes--I see.  Are they satisfactory women?" she inquired softly of
  Henery Fray.
  
  "Oh mem--don't ask me!  Yielding women--as scarlet a pair as ever
  was!" groaned Henery under his breath.
  
  "Sit down."
  
  "Who, mem?"
  
  "Sit down."
  
  Joseph Poorgrass, in the background twitched, and his lips became
  dry with fear of some terrible consequences, as he saw Bathsheba
  summarily speaking, and Henery slinking off to a corner.
  
  "Now the next.  Laban Tall, you'll stay on working for me?"
  
  "For you or anybody that pays me well, ma'am," replied the young
  married man.
  
  "True--the man must live!" said a woman in the back quarter, who had
  just entered with clicking pattens.
  
  "What woman is that?" Bathsheba asked.
  
  "I be his lawful wife!" continued the voice with greater prominence
  of manner and tone.  This lady called herself five-and-twenty, looked
  thirty, passed as thirty-five, and was forty.  She was a woman who
  never, like some newly married, showed conjugal tenderness in public,
  perhaps because she had none to show.
  
  "Oh, you are," said Bathsheba.  "Well, Laban, will you stay on?"
  
  "Yes, he'll stay, ma'am!" said again the shrill tongue of Laban's
  lawful wife.
  
  "Well, he can speak for himself, I suppose."
  
  "Oh Lord, not he, ma'am!  A simple tool.  Well enough, but a poor
  gawkhammer mortal," the wife replied.
  
  "Heh-heh-heh!" laughed the married man with a hideous effort of
  appreciation, for he was as irrepressibly good-humoured under ghastly
  snubs as a parliamentary candidate on the hustings.
  
  The names remaining were called in the same manner.
  
  "Now I think I have done with you," said Bathsheba, closing the book
  and shaking back a stray twine of hair.  "Has William Smallbury
  returned?"
  
  "No, ma'am."
  
  "The new shepherd will want a man under him," suggested Henery Fray,
  trying to make himself official again by a sideway approach towards
  her chair.
  
  "Oh--he will.  Who can he have?"
  
  "Young Cain Ball is a very good lad," Henery said, "and Shepherd Oak
  don't mind his youth?" he added, turning with an apologetic smile to
  the shepherd, who had just appeared on the scene, and was now leaning
  against the doorpost with his arms folded.
  
  "No, I don't mind that," said Gabriel.
  
  "How did Cain come by such a name?" asked Bathsheba.
  
  "Oh you see, mem, his pore mother, not being a Scripture-read woman,
  made a mistake at his christening, thinking 'twas Abel killed Cain,
  and called en Cain, meaning Abel all the time.  The parson put it
  right, but 'twas too late, for the name could never be got rid of in
  the parish.  'Tis very unfortunate for the boy."
  
  "It is rather unfortunate."
  
  "Yes.  However, we soften it down as much as we can, and call him
  Cainy.  Ah, pore widow-woman! she cried her heart out about it
  almost.  She was brought up by a very heathen father and mother, who
  never sent her to church or school, and it shows how the sins of the
  parents are visited upon the children, mem."
  
  Mr. Fray here drew up his features to the mild degree of melancholy
  required when the persons involved in the given misfortune do not
  belong to your own family.
  
  "Very well then, Cainey Ball to be under-shepherd.  And you quite
  understand your duties?--you I mean, Gabriel Oak?"
  
  "Quite well, I thank you, Miss Everdene," said Shepherd Oak from the
  doorpost.  "If I don't, I'll inquire."  Gabriel was rather staggered
  by the remarkable coolness of her manner.  Certainly nobody without
  previous information would have dreamt that Oak and the handsome
  woman before whom he stood had ever been other than strangers.  But
  perhaps her air was the inevitable result of the social rise which
  had advanced her from a cottage to a large house and fields.  The
  case is not unexampled in high places.  When, in the writings of the
  later poets, Jove and his family are found to have moved from their
  cramped quarters on the peak of Olympus into the wide sky above it,
  their words show a proportionate increase of arrogance and reserve.
  
  Footsteps were heard in the passage, combining in their character
  the qualities both of weight and measure, rather at the expense of
  velocity.
  
  (All.) "Here's Billy Smallbury come from Casterbridge."
  
  "And what's the news?" said Bathsheba, as William, after marching to
  the middle of the hall, took a handkerchief from his hat and wiped
  his forehead from its centre to its remoter boundaries.
  
  "I should have been sooner, miss," he said, "if it hadn't been for
  the weather."  He then stamped with each foot severely, and on
  looking down his boots were perceived to be clogged with snow.
  
  "Come at last, is it?" said Henery.
  
  "Well, what about Fanny?" said Bathsheba.
  
  "Well, ma'am, in round numbers, she's run away with the soldiers,"
  said William.
  
  "No; not a steady girl like Fanny!"
  
  "I'll tell ye all particulars.  When I got to Casterbridge Barracks,
  they said, 'The Eleventh Dragoon-Guards be gone away, and new troops
  have come.' The Eleventh left last week for Melchester and onwards.
  The Route came from Government like a thief in the night, as is his
  nature to, and afore the Eleventh knew it almost, they were on the
  march.  They passed near here."
  
  Gabriel had listened with interest.  "I saw them go," he said.
  
  "Yes," continued William, "they pranced down the street playing 'The
  Girl I Left Behind Me,' so 'tis said, in glorious notes of triumph.
  Every looker-on's inside shook with the blows of the great drum to
  his deepest vitals, and there was not a dry eye throughout the town
  among the public-house people and the nameless women!"
  
  "But they're not gone to any war?"
  
  "No, ma'am; but they be gone to take the places of them who may,
  which is very close connected.  And so I said to myself, Fanny's
  young man was one of the regiment, and she's gone after him.  There,
  ma'am, that's it in black and white."
  
  "Did you find out his name?"
  
  "No; nobody knew it.  I believe he was higher in rank than a
  private."
  
  Gabriel remained musing and said nothing, for he was in doubt.
  
  "Well, we are not likely to know more to-night, at any rate,"
  said Bathsheba.  "But one of you had better run across to Farmer
  Boldwood's and tell him that much."
  
  She then rose; but before retiring, addressed a few words to them
  with a pretty dignity, to which her mourning dress added a soberness
  that was hardly to be found in the words themselves.
  
  "Now mind, you have a mistress instead of a master. I don't yet know
  my powers or my talents in farming; but I shall do my best, and if
  you serve me well, so shall I serve you.  Don't any unfair ones among
  you (if there are any such, but I hope not) suppose that because I'm
  a woman I don't understand the difference between bad goings-on and
  good."
  
  (All.) "No'm!"
  
  (Liddy.) "Excellent well said."
  
  "I shall be up before you are awake; I shall be afield before you are
  up; and I shall have breakfasted before you are afield.  In short, I
  shall astonish you all."
  
  (All.) "Yes'm!"
  
  "And so good-night."
  
  (All.) "Good-night, ma'am."
  
  Then this small thesmothete stepped from the table, and surged out of
  the hall, her black silk dress licking up a few straws and dragging
  them along with a scratching noise upon the floor.  Liddy, elevating
  her feelings to the occasion from a sense of grandeur, floated
  off behind Bathsheba with a milder dignity not entirely free from
  travesty, and the door was closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  OUTSIDE THE BARRACKS--SNOW--A MEETING
  
  
  For dreariness nothing could surpass a prospect in the outskirts of a
  certain town and military station, many miles north of Weatherbury,
  at a later hour on this same snowy evening--if that may be called a
  prospect of which the chief constituent was darkness.
  
  It was a night when sorrow may come to the brightest without causing
  any great sense of incongruity: when, with impressible persons, love
  becomes solicitousness, hope sinks to misgiving, and faith to hope:
  when the exercise of memory does not stir feelings of regret at
  opportunities for ambition that have been passed by, and anticipation
  does not prompt to enterprise.
  
  The scene was a public path, bordered on the left hand by a river,
  behind which rose a high wall.  On the right was a tract of land,
  partly meadow and partly moor, reaching, at its remote verge, to a
  wide undulating upland.
  
  The changes of the seasons are less obtrusive on spots of this
  kind than amid woodland scenery.  Still, to a close observer, they
  are just as perceptible; the difference is that their media of
  manifestation are less trite and familiar than such well-known ones
  as the bursting of the buds or the fall of the leaf.  Many are not
  so stealthy and gradual as we may be apt to imagine in considering
  the general torpidity of a moor or waste.  Winter, in coming to the
  country hereabout, advanced in well-marked stages, wherein might
  have been successively observed the retreat of the snakes, the
  transformation of the ferns, the filling of the pools, a rising of
  fogs, the embrowning by frost, the collapse of the fungi, and an
  obliteration by snow.
  
  This climax of the series had been reached to-night on the aforesaid
  moor, and for the first time in the season its irregularities were
  forms without features; suggestive of anything, proclaiming nothing,
  and without more character than that of being the limit of something
  else--the lowest layer of a firmament of snow.  From this chaotic
  skyful of crowding flakes the mead and moor momentarily received
  additional clothing, only to appear momentarily more naked thereby.
  The vast arch of cloud above was strangely low, and formed as it were
  the roof of a large dark cavern, gradually sinking in upon its floor;
  for the instinctive thought was that the snow lining the heavens and
  that encrusting the earth would soon unite into one mass without any
  intervening stratum of air at all.
  
  We turn our attention to the left-hand characteristics; which were
  flatness in respect of the river, verticality in respect of the wall
  behind it, and darkness as to both.  These features made up the mass.
  If anything could be darker than the sky, it was the wall, and if any
  thing could be gloomier than the wall it was the river beneath.  The
  indistinct summit of the facade was notched and pronged by chimneys
  here and there, and upon its face were faintly signified the oblong
  shapes of windows, though only in the upper part.  Below, down to the
  water's edge, the flat was unbroken by hole or projection.
  
  An indescribable succession of dull blows, perplexing in their
  regularity, sent their sound with difficulty through the fluffy
  atmosphere.  It was a neighbouring clock striking ten.  The bell was
  in the open air, and being overlaid with several inches of muffling
  snow, had lost its voice for the time.
  
  About this hour the snow abated: ten flakes fell where twenty had
  fallen, then one had the room of ten.  Not long after a form moved
  by the brink of the river.
  
  By its outline upon the colourless background, a close observer
  might have seen that it was small.  This was all that was positively
  discoverable, though it seemed human.
  
  The shape went slowly along, but without much exertion, for the snow,
  though sudden, was not as yet more than two inches deep.  At this
  time some words were spoken aloud:--
  
  "One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five."
  
  Between each utterance the little shape advanced about half a dozen
  yards.  It was evident now that the windows high in the wall were
  being counted.  The word "Five" represented the fifth window from the
  end of the wall.
  
  Here the spot stopped, and dwindled smaller.  The figure was
  stooping.  Then a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the
  fifth window.  It smacked against the wall at a point several yards
  from its mark.  The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the
  execution of a woman.  No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or
  squirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utter
  imbecility as was shown here.
  
  Another attempt, and another; till by degrees the wall must have
  become pimpled with the adhering lumps of snow.  At last one fragment
  struck the fifth window.
  
  The river would have been seen by day to be of that deep smooth sort
  which races middle and sides with the same gliding precision, any
  irregularities of speed being immediately corrected by a small
  whirlpool.  Nothing was heard in reply to the signal but the gurgle
  and cluck of one of these invisible wheels--together with a few small
  sounds which a sad man would have called moans, and a happy man
  laughter--caused by the flapping of the waters against trifling
  objects in other parts of the stream.
  
  The window was struck again in the same manner.
  
  Then a noise was heard, apparently produced by the opening of the
  window.  This was followed by a voice from the same quarter.
  
  "Who's there?"
  
  The tones were masculine, and not those of surprise.  The high
  wall being that of a barrack, and marriage being looked upon with
  disfavour in the army, assignations and communications had probably
  been made across the river before to-night.
  
  "Is it Sergeant Troy?" said the blurred spot in the snow,
  tremulously.
  
  This person was so much like a mere shade upon the earth, and the
  other speaker so much a part of the building, that one would have
  said the wall was holding a conversation with the snow.
  
  "Yes," came suspiciously from the shadow. "What girl are you?"
  
  "Oh, Frank--don't you know me?" said the spot.  "Your wife, Fanny
  Robin."
  
  "Fanny!" said the wall, in utter astonishment.
  
  "Yes," said the girl, with a half-suppressed gasp of emotion.
  
  There was something in the woman's tone which is not that of the
  wife, and there was a manner in the man which is rarely a husband's.
  The dialogue went on:
  
  "How did you come here?"
  
  "I asked which was your window.  Forgive me!"
  
  "I did not expect you to-night.  Indeed, I did not think you would
  come at all.  It was a wonder you found me here.  I am orderly
  to-morrow."
  
  "You said I was to come."
  
  "Well--I said that you might."
  
  "Yes, I mean that I might.  You are glad to see me, Frank?"
  
  "Oh yes--of course."
  
  "Can you--come to me!"
  
  "My dear Fan, no!  The bugle has sounded, the barrack gates are
  closed, and I have no leave.  We are all of us as good as in the
  county gaol till to-morrow morning."
  
  "Then I shan't see you till then!"  The words were in a faltering
  tone of disappointment.
  
  "How did you get here from Weatherbury?"
  
  "I walked--some part of the way--the rest by the carriers."
  
  "I am surprised."
  
  "Yes--so am I.  And Frank, when will it be?"
  
  "What?"
  
  "That you promised."
  
  "I don't quite recollect."
  
  "O you do!  Don't speak like that.  It weighs me to the earth.  It
  makes me say what ought to be said first by you."
  
  "Never mind--say it."
  
  "O, must I?--it is, when shall we be married, Frank?"
  
  "Oh, I see.  Well--you have to get proper clothes."
  
  "I have money.  Will it be by banns or license?"
  
  "Banns, I should think."
  
  "And we live in two parishes."
  
  "Do we?  What then?"
  
  "My lodgings are in St. Mary's, and this is not.  So they will have
  to be published in both."
  
  "Is that the law?"
  
  "Yes.  O Frank--you think me forward, I am afraid!  Don't, dear
  Frank--will you--for I love you so.  And you said lots of times you
  would marry me, and--and--I--I--I--"
  
  "Don't cry, now!  It is foolish.  If I said so, of course I will."
  
  "And shall I put up the banns in my parish, and will you in yours?"
  
  "Yes"
  
  "To-morrow?"
  
  "Not to-morrow.  We'll settle in a few days."
  
  "You have the permission of the officers?"
  
  "No, not yet."
  
  "O--how is it?  You said you almost had before you left
  Casterbridge."
  
  "The fact is, I forgot to ask.  Your coming like this is so sudden
  and unexpected."
  
  "Yes--yes--it is.  It was wrong of me to worry you.  I'll go away
  now.  Will you come and see me to-morrow, at Mrs. Twills's, in North
  Street?  I don't like to come to the Barracks.  There are bad women
  about, and they think me one."
  
  "Quite, so.  I'll come to you, my dear.  Good-night."
  
  "Good-night, Frank--good-night!"
  
  And the noise was again heard of a window closing.  The little spot
  moved away.  When she passed the corner a subdued exclamation was
  heard inside the wall.
  
  "Ho--ho--Sergeant--ho--ho!" An  expostulation followed, but it was
  indistinct; and it became lost amid a low peal of laughter, which was
  hardly distinguishable from the gurgle of the tiny whirlpools
  outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  FARMERS--A RULE--AN EXCEPTION
  
  
  The first public evidence of Bathsheba's decision to be a farmer in
  her own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following
  market-day in the cornmarket at Casterbridge.
  
  The low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars,
  and latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged
  with hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the
  speaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditor's face and
  concentrating his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during
  delivery.  The greater number carried in their hands ground-ash
  saplings, using them partly as walking-sticks and partly for poking
  up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful
  things in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the
  course of their peregrinations.  During conversations each subjected
  his sapling to great varieties of usage--bending it round his back,
  forming an arch of it between his two hands, overweighting it on the
  ground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it was hastily
  tucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth and a
  handful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was
  flung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to
  half-a-dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the
  building unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of their anticipations
  with a high-stretched neck and oblique eye.
  
  Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of
  her sex that the room contained.  She was prettily and even daintily
  dressed.  She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard
  after them as a romance after sermons, was felt among them like a
  breeze among furnaces.  It had required a little determination--far
  more than she had at first imagined--to take up a position here, for
  at her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every
  face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned
  rigidly fixed there.
  
  Two or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba,
  and to these she had made her way.  But if she was to be the
  practical woman she had intended to show herself, business must
  be carried on, introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired
  confidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to
  her by hearsay.  Bathsheba too had her sample-bags, and by degrees
  adopted the professional pour into the hand--holding up the grains
  in her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect Casterbridge manner.
  
  Something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and
  in the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted
  lips, she somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with
  a tall man, suggested that there was potentiality enough in that
  lithe slip of humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring
  enough to carry them out.  But her eyes had a softness--invariably a
  softness--which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness;
  as they were, it lowered an expression that might have been piercing
  to simple clearness.
  
  Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigor, she always allowed
  her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with
  hers.  In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was
  natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was
  inevitable in a woman.  But there was an elasticity in her firmness
  which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a _naivete_ in her
  cheapening which saved it from meanness.
  
  Those of the farmers with whom she had no dealings (by far the
  greater part) were continually asking each other, "Who is she?"
  The reply would be--
  
  "Farmer Everdene's niece; took on Weatherbury Upper Farm; turned away
  the baily, and swears she'll do everything herself."
  
  The other man would then shake his head.
  
  "Yes, 'tis a pity she's so headstrong," the first would say.  "But we
  ought to be proud of her here--she lightens up the old place.  'Tis
  such a shapely maid, however, that she'll soon get picked up."
  
  It would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement
  in such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism
  as had the beauty of her face and movements.  However, the interest
  was general, and this Saturday's _debut_ in the forum, whatever it
  may have been to Bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was
  unquestionably a triumph to her as the maiden.  Indeed, the sensation
  was so pronounced that her instinct on two or three occasions was
  merely to walk as a queen among these gods of the fallow, like a
  little sister of a little Jove, and to neglect closing prices
  altogether.
  
  The numerous evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into
  greater relief by a marked exception.  Women seem to have eyes in
  their ribbons for such matters as these.  Bathsheba, without looking
  within a right angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the
  flock.
  
  It perplexed her first.  If there had been a respectable minority on
  either side, the case would have been most natural.  If nobody had
  regarded her, she would have taken the matter indifferently--such
  cases had occurred.  If everybody, this man included, she would have
  taken it as a matter of course--people had done so before.  But the
  smallness of the exception made the mystery.
  
  She soon knew thus much of the recusant's appearance.  He was a
  gentlemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features,
  the prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like
  richness of tone.  He was erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour.
  One characteristic pre-eminently marked him--dignity.
  
  Apparently he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age
  at which a man's aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of
  a dozen years or so; and, artificially, a woman's does likewise.
  Thirty-five and fifty were his limits of variation--he might have
  been either, or anywhere between the two.
  
  It may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and
  generous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate
  beauty they may discern by the way.  Probably, as with persons
  playing whist for love, the consciousness of a certain immunity under
  any circumstances from that worst possible ultimate, the having to
  pay, makes them unduly speculative.  Bathsheba was convinced that
  this unmoved person was not a married man.
  
  When marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting
  for her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to town.
  The horse was put in, and on they trotted--Bathsheba's sugar, tea,
  and drapery parcels being packed behind, and expressing in some
  indescribable manner, by their colour, shape, and general lineaments,
  that they were that young lady-farmer's property, and the grocer's
  and draper's no more.
  
  "I've been through it, Liddy, and it is over.  I shan't mind it
  again, for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there;
  but this morning it was as bad as being married--eyes everywhere!"
  
  "I knowed it would be," Liddy said.  "Men be such a terrible class of
  society to look at a body."
  
  "But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon
  me."  The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for a
  moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued.  "A very good-looking
  man," she continued, "upright; about forty, I should think.  Do you
  know at all who he could be?"
  
  Liddy couldn't think.
  
  "Can't you guess at all?" said Bathsheba with some disappointment.
  
  "I haven't a notion; besides, 'tis no difference, since he took less
  notice of you than any of the rest.  Now, if he'd taken more, it
  would have mattered a great deal."
  
  Bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they
  bowled along in silence.  A low carriage, bowling along still more
  rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed
  them.
  
  "Why, there he is!" she said.
  
  Liddy looked.  "That!  That's Farmer Boldwood--of course 'tis--the
  man you couldn't see the other day when he called."
  
  "Oh, Farmer Boldwood," murmured Bathsheba, and looked at him as he
  outstripped them.  The farmer had never turned his head once, but
  with eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as
  unconsciously and abstractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms were
  thin air.
  
  "He's an interesting man--don't you think so?" she remarked.
  
  "O yes, very.  Everybody owns it," replied Liddy.
  
  "I wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so far
  away from all he sees around him."
  
  "It is said--but not known for certain--that he met with some bitter
  disappointment when he was a young man and merry.  A woman jilted
  him, they say."
  
  "People always say that--and we know very well women scarcely ever
  jilt men; 'tis the men who jilt us.  I expect it is simply his nature
  to be so reserved."
  
  "Simply his nature--I expect so, miss--nothing else in the world."
  
  "Still, 'tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly, poor
  thing'!  Perhaps, after all, he has!"
  
  "Depend upon it he has.  Oh yes, miss, he has!  I feel he must have."
  
  "However, we are very apt to think extremes of people.  I shouldn't
  wonder after all if it wasn't a little of both--just between the
  two--rather cruelly used and rather reserved."
  
  "Oh dear no, miss--I can't think it between the two!"
  
  "That's most likely."
  
  "Well, yes, so it is.  I am convinced it is most likely. You may take
  my word, miss, that that's what's the matter with him."
  
  
  
  
  
  SORTES SANCTORUM--THE VALENTINE
  
  
  It was Sunday afternoon in the farmhouse, on the thirteenth of
  February.  Dinner being over, Bathsheba, for want of a better
  companion, had asked Liddy to come and sit with her.  The mouldy pile
  was dreary in winter-time before the candles were lighted and the
  shutters closed; the atmosphere of the place seemed as old as the
  walls; every nook behind the furniture had a temperature of its own,
  for the fire was not kindled in this part of the house early in the
  day; and Bathsheba's new piano, which was an old one in other annals,
  looked particularly sloping and out of level on the warped floor
  before night threw a shade over its less prominent angles and hid
  the unpleasantness.  Liddy, like a little brook, though shallow, was
  always rippling; her presence had not so much weight as to task
  thought, and yet enough to exercise it.
  
  On the table lay an old quarto Bible, bound in leather.  Liddy
  looking at it said,--
  
  "Did you ever find out, miss, who you are going to marry by means of
  the Bible and key?"
  
  "Don't be so foolish, Liddy.  As if such things could be."
  
  "Well, there's a good deal in it, all the same."
  
  "Nonsense, child."
  
  "And it makes your heart beat fearful.  Some believe in it; some
  don't; I do."
  
  "Very well, let's try it," said Bathsheba, bounding from her seat
  with that total disregard of consistency which can be indulged in
  towards a dependent, and entering into the spirit of divination at
  once.  "Go and get the front door key."
  
  Liddy fetched it.  "I wish it wasn't Sunday," she said, on returning.
  "Perhaps 'tis wrong."
  
  "What's right week days is right Sundays," replied her mistress in a
  tone which was a proof in itself.
  
  The book was opened--the leaves, drab with age, being quite worn away
  at much-read verses by the forefingers of unpractised readers in
  former days, where they were moved along under the line as an aid to
  the vision.  The special verse in the Book of Ruth was sought out by
  Bathsheba, and the sublime words met her eye.  They slightly thrilled
  and abashed her.  It was Wisdom in the abstract facing Folly in the
  concrete.  Folly in the concrete blushed, persisted in her intention,
  and placed the key on the book.  A rusty patch immediately upon the
  verse, caused by previous pressure of an iron substance thereon, told
  that this was not the first time the old volume had been used for the
  purpose.
  
  "Now keep steady, and be silent," said Bathsheba.
  
  The verse was repeated; the book turned round; Bathsheba blushed
  guiltily.
  
  "Who did you try?" said Liddy curiously.
  
  "I shall not tell you."
  
  "Did you notice Mr. Boldwood's doings in church this morning, miss?"
  Liddy continued, adumbrating by the remark the track her thoughts had
  taken.
  
  "No, indeed," said Bathsheba, with serene indifference.
  
  "His pew is exactly opposite yours, miss."
  
  "I know it."
  
  "And you did not see his goings on!"
  
  "Certainly I did not, I tell you."
  
  Liddy assumed a smaller physiognomy, and shut her lips decisively.
  
  This move was unexpected, and proportionately disconcerting.  "What
  did he do?" Bathsheba said perforce.
  
  "Didn't turn his head to look at you once all the service."
  
  "Why should he?" again demanded her mistress, wearing a nettled look.
  "I didn't ask him to."
  
  "Oh no.  But everybody else was noticing you; and it was odd he
  didn't.  There, 'tis like him.  Rich and gentlemanly, what does he
  care?"
  
  Bathsheba dropped into a silence intended to express that she had
  opinions on the matter too abstruse for Liddy's comprehension, rather
  than that she had nothing to say.
  
  "Dear me--I had nearly forgotten the valentine I bought yesterday,"
  she exclaimed at length.
  
  "Valentine! who for, miss?" said Liddy.  "Farmer Boldwood?"
  
  It was the single name among all possible wrong ones that just at
  this moment seemed to Bathsheba more pertinent than the right.
  
  "Well, no.  It is only for little Teddy Coggan.  I have promised him
  something, and this will be a pretty surprise for him.  Liddy, you
  may as well bring me my desk and I'll direct it at once."
  
  Bathsheba took from her desk a gorgeously illuminated and embossed
  design in post-octavo, which had been bought on the previous
  market-day at the chief stationer's in Casterbridge.  In the centre
  was a small oval enclosure; this was left blank, that the sender
  might insert tender words more appropriate to the special occasion
  than any generalities by a printer could possibly be.
  
  "Here's a place for writing," said Bathsheba.  "What shall I put?"
  
  "Something of this sort, I should think," returned Liddy promptly:--
  
  
     "The rose is red,
     The violet blue,
     Carnation's sweet,
     And so are you."
  
  
  "Yes, that shall be it.  It just suits itself to a chubby-faced child
  like him," said Bathsheba.  She inserted the words in a small though
  legible handwriting; enclosed the sheet in an envelope, and dipped
  her pen for the direction.
  
  "What fun it would be to send it to the stupid old Boldwood, and how
  he would wonder!" said the irrepressible Liddy, lifting her eyebrows,
  and indulging in an awful mirth on the verge of fear as she thought
  of the moral and social magnitude of the man contemplated.
  
  Bathsheba paused to regard the idea at full length.  Boldwood's had
  begun to be a troublesome image--a species of Daniel in her kingdom
  who persisted in kneeling eastward when reason and common sense said
  that he might just as well follow suit with the rest, and afford her
  the official glance of admiration which cost nothing at all.  She was
  far from being seriously concerned about his nonconformity.  Still,
  it was faintly depressing that the most dignified and valuable man
  in the parish should withhold his eyes, and that a girl like Liddy
  should talk about it.  So Liddy's idea was at first rather harassing
  than piquant.
  
  "No, I won't do that.  He wouldn't see any humour in it."
  
  "He'd worry to death," said the persistent Liddy.
  
  "Really, I don't care particularly to send it to Teddy," remarked her
  mistress.  "He's rather a naughty child sometimes."
  
  "Yes--that he is."
  
  "Let's toss as men do," said Bathsheba, idly.  "Now then, head,
  Boldwood; tail, Teddy.  No, we won't toss money on a Sunday, that
  would be tempting the devil indeed."
  
  "Toss this hymn-book; there can't be no sinfulness in that, miss."
  
  "Very well.  Open, Boldwood--shut, Teddy.  No; it's more likely to
  fall open.  Open, Teddy--shut, Boldwood."
  
  The book went fluttering in the air and came down shut.
  
  Bathsheba, a small yawn upon her mouth, took the pen, and with
  off-hand serenity directed the missive to Boldwood.
  
  "Now light a candle, Liddy.  Which seal shall we use? Here's a
  unicorn's head--there's nothing in that.  What's this?--two
  doves--no.  It ought to be something extraordinary, ought it not,
  Liddy? Here's one with a motto--I remember it is some funny one, but
  I can't read it. We'll try this, and if it doesn't do we'll have
  another."
  
  A large red seal was duly affixed.  Bathsheba looked closely at the
  hot wax to discover the words.
  
  "Capital!" she exclaimed, throwing down the letter frolicsomely.
  "'Twould upset the solemnity of a parson and clerke too."
  
  Liddy looked at the words of the seal, and read--
  
  
     "MARRY ME."
  
  
  The same evening the letter was sent, and was duly sorted in
  Casterbridge post-office that night, to be returned to Weatherbury
  again in the morning.
  
  So very idly and unreflectingly was this deed done.  Of love as a
  spectacle Bathsheba had a fair knowledge; but of love subjectively
  she knew nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  EFFECT OF THE LETTER--SUNRISE
  
  
  At dusk, on the evening of St. Valentine's Day, Boldwood sat down
  to supper as usual, by a beaming fire of aged logs.  Upon the
  mantel-shelf before him was a time-piece, surmounted by a spread
  eagle, and upon the eagle's wings was the letter Bathsheba had sent.
  Here the bachelor's gaze was continually fastening itself, till the
  large red seal became as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye;
  and as he ate and drank he still read in fancy the words thereon,
  although they were too remote for his sight--
  
  
     "MARRY ME."
  
  
  The pert injunction was like those crystal substances which,
  colourless themselves, assume the tone of objects about them.  Here,
  in the quiet of Boldwood's parlour, where everything that was not
  grave was extraneous, and where the atmosphere was that of a Puritan
  Sunday lasting all the week, the letter and its dictum changed their
  tenor from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep solemnity,
  imbibed from their accessories now.
  
  Since the receipt of the missive in the morning, Boldwood had felt
  the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in the
  direction of an ideal passion.  The disturbance was as the first
  floating weed to Columbus--the contemptibly little suggesting
  possibilities of the infinitely great.
  
  The letter must have had an origin and a motive.  That the latter
  was of the smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at all,
  Boldwood, of course, did not know.  And such an explanation did not
  strike him as a possibility even.  It is foreign to a mystified
  condition of mind to realize of the mystifier that the processes of
  approving a course suggested by circumstance, and of striking out a
  course from inner impulse, would look the same in the result.  The
  vast difference between starting a train of events, and directing
  into a particular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent
  to the person confounded by the issue.
  
  When Boldwood went to bed he placed the valentine in the corner of
  the looking-glass.  He was conscious of its presence, even when his
  back was turned upon it.  It was the first time in Boldwood's life
  that such an event had occurred.  The same fascination that caused
  him to think it an act which had a deliberate motive prevented
  him from regarding it as an impertinence.  He looked again at
  the direction.  The mysterious influences of night invested the
  writing with the presence of the unknown writer.  Somebody's--some
  WOMAN'S--hand had travelled softly over the paper bearing his name;
  her unrevealed eyes had watched every curve as she formed it; her
  brain had seen him in imagination the while.  Why should she have
  imagined him?  Her mouth--were the lips red or pale, plump or
  creased?--had curved itself to a certain expression as the pen went
  on--the corners had moved with all their natural tremulousness: what
  had been the expression?
  
  The vision of the woman writing, as a supplement to the words
  written, had no individuality.  She was a misty shape, and well she
  might be, considering that her original was at that moment sound
  asleep and oblivious of all love and letter-writing under the sky.
  Whenever Boldwood dozed she took a form, and comparatively ceased to
  be a vision: when he awoke there was the letter justifying the dream.
  
  The moon shone to-night, and its light was not of a customary kind.
  His window admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen
  had that reversed direction which snow gives, coming upward and
  lighting up his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in
  strange places, and putting lights where shadows had used to be.
  
  The substance of the epistle had occupied him but little in
  comparison with the fact of its arrival.  He suddenly wondered
  if anything more might be found in the envelope than what he had
  withdrawn.  He jumped out of bed in the weird light, took the
  letter, pulled out the flimsy sheet, shook the envelope--searched it.
  Nothing more was there.  Boldwood looked, as he had a hundred times
  the preceding day, at the insistent red seal: "Marry me," he said
  aloud.
  
  The solemn and reserved yeoman again closed the letter, and stuck
  it in the frame of the glass.  In doing so he caught sight of his
  reflected features, wan in expression, and insubstantial in form.
  He saw how closely compressed was his mouth, and that his eyes were
  wide-spread and vacant.  Feeling uneasy and dissatisfied with himself
  for this nervous excitability, he returned to bed.
  
  Then the dawn drew on.  The full power of the clear heaven was not
  equal to that of a cloudy sky at noon, when Boldwood arose and
  dressed himself.  He descended the stairs and went out towards the
  gate of a field to the east, leaning over which he paused and looked
  around.
  
  It was one of the usual slow sunrises of this time of the 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 with
  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 permanency.  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, expecting 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 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  A MORNING MEETING--THE LETTER AGAIN
  
  
  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 lump 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 inn.
  
  "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 beginning 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
  somewhere.  Do ye foller me?"
  
  "I do, 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."
  
  A 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 i' 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?"
  
  "Oh 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
  mathematical 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 Thor 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 bedstead, whither he had retired for safety.  "'Tis a
  great thing to be clever, I'm sure," he added, making movements
  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.
  
  "And that ye can make sun-dials, and prent folks' 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
  
  
     [the word J A M E S appears here with the "J" and the "E"
     printed backwards]
  
  
  "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 very bad affliction 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 her 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 necessary 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 lamentation after all.  "I think she's
  took against ye--that I do."
  
  "Oh 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 friendliness 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."
  
  "Oh yes--not a bit of difference, Mr. Boldwood--not a bit," said
  Gabriel, readily.  He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was there
  a possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish would
  not have been welcome to peruse.
  
  Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand:--
  
  
     DEAR FRIEND,--I do not know your name, but I 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 respectability 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 I blush to state it to one
     nearly a stranger.  The sergeant grew up in Weatherbury.
     Thanking 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 born; 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 imprinted 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--Bathsheba'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 earnestness 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.
  
  
  
  
target: The next few chapters establish the rhythm of life on Bathsheba Everdene's farm and introduce a new plot line into the novel, Bathsheba's relationship with Mr. Boldwood. The day after Gabriel's arrival, the dignified bachelor Mr. Boldwood knocks on Bathsheba's door as she and her servant Liddy Smallbury are cleaning. Boldwood comes to ask if there is any news of Fanny Robin, whom he had helped when she was younger. From Liddy's gossip we learn that Boldwood is a confirmed bachelor whom many of the local women have tried unsuccessfully to woo. Bathsheba calls a meeting of the farm workers to announce that she has dismissed the Pennyways for thieving and that she will take on the bailiff's responsibilities herself. She also asks for news of Fanny Robin, who is still missing. Chapter 10 describes the meeting and consists primarily of a roll call, in which the various farm laborers identify themselves and their trades to both Bathsheba and the reader. Chapter 11 reveals what has happened to Fanny Robin; here we see her arrive at the barracks of Sergeant Troy, many miles north of Weatherbury. The narrator describes the scene from a distance; we see Fanny as "a spot" almost lost in the snow. She throws snowballs at a window to get the sergeant's attention, and they have a brief conversation in which she reminds him that he has promised to marry her. He responds callously but agrees to uphold his promise. When he shuts his window, the other soldiers are laughing. In the next chapter, it is market-day, and Bathsheba tries out her new role of farmer. The only woman in the group, she nonetheless comports herself well. The only man oblivious to her beauty is Mr. Boldwood, who does not look at her once, as Liddy remarks on the way home. When Bathsheba and Liddy are at home on Sunday, Bathsheba is about to send a valentine to a young boy when Liddy suggests that she send it to Boldwood instead. On a whim, Bathsheba agrees, setting in motion one of the novel's tragedies. The valentine contains a meaningless ditty, "Roses are red, Violets are blue..." but Bathsheba impulsively stamps it with a seal that reads, "Marry Me." The narrator reflects that Bathsheba knows nothing of love. Unfortunately, the letter has a profound effect on Boldwood. It is the one ornate object in a puritanically plain home, and he places it on the mantlepiece, disturbed and excited. Then he receives a second letter; in his excitement he opens it hurriedly, only then noticing that it is addressed to Gabriel. He delivers it to Gabriel the next morning and Gabriel shares its contents with Boldwood: It is a letter from Fanny identifying herself as the girl Gabriel met in the forest and returning the shilling he had given her. The letter also announces her engagement to Sergeant Troy. As he leaves, Boldwood asks Gabriel to identify the handwriting on the valentine, and he tells Boldwood that it is Bathsheba's.
feat_summary_analysis: Commentary The most important event in this section is the sending of the valentine and the unintentional effect it has on Boldwood. This one act will haunt both Bathsheba and Boldwood until the end of the novel. Hardy uses this set of circumstances to analyze one of his favorite concerns: how a person's life is determined by minor, seemingly insignificant events. Sometimes these events are questions of luck or forces beyond human control. Here, however, Hardy examines human agency: Bathsheba sends the valentine in jest, without thinking, but her act results in extraordinary consequences. Another theme throughout this section is the imbalances of affection in human relations; this imbalance characterizes the relationship between Gabriel and Bathsheba, as well as that between Sergeant Troy and Fanny Price, and Liddy tells us that Boldwood has been unaware of several local women's efforts to win his affections. While this asymmetry is a natural part of relationships, its consequences can be dire.