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CHAPTER XIII - 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.
Content of CHAPTER XIII - SORTES SANCTORUM -- THE VALENTINE [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
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