"Gabriel." said she, " will you move again, please, and let Mr. Boldwood come there?"
Oak moved in silence back to his original seat.
The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of grey.
Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an exceptional degree.
So also was Bathsheba now that he had come, though the uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for theft, disturbed her equan- imity for a while.
Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, without reference to listeners: — l've lost my love and l care not, I've lost my love, and l care not; I shall soon have another That's better than t'other!
I've lost my love, and I care not.
This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those established authors who are independent of notices in the papers, was a well-known delight which required no applause.
"Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!" said Coggan.
"I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me." said Joseph, diminishing himself.
"Nonsense; wou'st never be so ungrateful, Joseph — never!" said Coggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice.
"And mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say,
"Sing at once, Joseph Poor- grass."
"Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it! … Just eye my features, and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?"
"No, yer blushes be quite reasonable." said Coggan.
"I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty's eyes get fixed on me." said Joseph, differently; "but if so be 'tis willed they do, they must."
"Now, Joseph, your song, please." said Bathsheba, from the window.
"Well, really, ma'am." he replied, in a yielding tone, "I don't know what to say.
It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure."
Hear, hear!" said the supper-party.
Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon.
This was so successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, after a few false starts: — I sow'-ed th'-e I sow'-ed I sow'-ed the'-e seeds' of love', I-it was' all' i'-in the'-e spring', I-in A'-pril', Ma'-ay, a'-nd sun'-ny' June', When sma'-all bi'-irds they' do' sing.
"Well put out of hand." said Coggan, at the end of the verse. `They do sing' was a very taking paragraph."
"Ay; and there was a pretty place at "seeds of love." and 'twas well heaved out. Though "love " is a nasty high corner when a man's voice is getting crazed.
Next verse, Master Poorgrass."
But during this rendering young Bob Coggan ex- hibited one of those anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when, after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst out through his nose.
Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing.
Coggan boxed Bob's ears immediately.
"Go on, Joseph — go on, and never mind the young scamp." said Coggan. "'Tis a very catching ballet.
Now then again — the next bar; I'll help ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy: — O the wi'-il-lo'-ow tree' will' twist', And the wil'-low' tre'-ee wi'ill twine'.
But the singer could not be set going again.
Bob Coggan was sent home for his ill manners, and tran- quility was restored by Jacob Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar occasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day.
It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of light taking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all.
The sun had crept round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers' lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of self- sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired.
The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven.
Bathsheba still remained enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself in knitting, from which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene outside.
The slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely before the signs of moving were shown.
Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottom of the table.
How long he had been gone Oak did not know; but he had apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk.
Whilst he was thinking of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of the room overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone down the table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows behind.
Bathsheba's form, still in its original position, was now again distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed that Boldwood had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her.
Next came the question of the evening.
Would Miss Everdene sing to them the song she always sang so charmingly — " The Banks of Allan Water" — before they went home?
After a moment's consideration Bathsheba assented, beckoning to Gabriel, who hastened up into the coveted atmosphere.
"Have you brought your flute? " she whispered.
"Yes, miss."
"Play to my singing, then."
She stood up in the window-opening, facing the men, the candles behind her, Gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside the sash-frame.
Boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room.
Her singing was soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon swelled to a steady clearness.