Far from the Madding Crowd

HIVING THE BEES

The Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. It was in
the latter part of June, and the day after the interview with Troy in
the hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a
swarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place. Not only
were they late this year, but unruly. Sometimes throughout a whole
season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable bough—such
as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-tree; next year they would,
with just the same unanimity, make straight off to the uppermost member
of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrenden, and there defy all invaders
who did not come armed with ladders and staves to take them.

This was the case at present. Bathsheba’s eyes, shaded by one hand,
were following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable stretch
of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy trees spoken
of. A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged formations of the
universe, time and times ago, was observable. The bustling swarm had
swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze, which now thickened to a
nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough and grew still denser, till
it formed a solid black spot upon the light.

The men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay—even Liddy
had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand—Bathsheba resolved
to hive the bees herself, if possible. She had dressed the hive with
herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made herself
impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and large gauze
veil—once green but now faded to snuff colour—and ascended a dozen
rungs of the ladder. At once she heard, not ten yards off, a voice that
was beginning to have a strange power in agitating her.

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

Troy was just opening the garden gate.

Bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pulled the skirt
of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous flurry, and as
well as she could slid down the ladder. By the time she reached the
bottom Troy was there also, and he stooped to pick up the hive.

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

She found her voice in a minute. “What! and will you shake them in for
me?” she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way;
though, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave way enough.

“Will I!” said Troy. “Why, of course I will. How blooming you are
to-day!” Troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the ladder to
ascend.

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

“Ah, yes. I must put on the veil and gloves. Will you kindly show me
how to fix them properly?”

“And you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap has no brim
to keep the veil off, and they’d reach your face.”

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

So a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off—veil and
all attached—and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his own into a
gooseberry bush. Then the veil had to be tied at its lower edge round
his collar and the gloves put on him.

He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried as
she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal of
yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept him
off.

Bathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweeping and
shaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the other hand
for them to fall into. She made use of an unobserved minute whilst his
attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her plumes a little.
He came down holding the hive at arm’s length, behind which trailed a
cloud of bees.

“Upon my life,” said Troy, through the veil, “holding up this hive
makes one’s arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise.” When the
manœuvre was complete he approached her. “Would you be good enough to
untie me and let me out? I am nearly stifled inside this silk cage.”

To hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of untying the
string about his neck, she said:—

“I have never seen that you spoke of.”

“What?”

“The sword-exercise.”

“Ah! would you like to?” said Troy.

Bathsheba hesitated. She had heard wondrous reports from time to time
by dwellers in Weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned awhile in
Casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious
performance, the sword-exercise. Men and boys who had peeped through
chinks or over walls into the barrack-yard returned with accounts of
its being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutrements and
weapons glistening like stars—here, there, around—yet all by rule and
compass. So she said mildly what she felt strongly.

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

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

“No! How?”

“Let me consider.”

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

“Yes, I know; and I have no sword here; but I think I could get one by
the evening. Now, will you do this?”

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

“Oh no, indeed!” said Bathsheba, blushing. “Thank you very much, but I
couldn’t on any account.”

“Surely you might? Nobody would know.”

She shook her head, but with a weakened negation. “If I were to,” she
said, “I must bring Liddy too. Might I not?”

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

An unconscious look of assent in Bathsheba’s eyes betrayed that
something more than his coldness had made her also feel that Liddy
would be superfluous in the suggested scene. She had felt it, even
whilst making the proposal.

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

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