Far from the Madding Crowd

HE 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
façade, 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 Salpæ, 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.”