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, Lidd? 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 clerk 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.
Chapter 14
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 fascin ation 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
