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CHAPTER XXVII - 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 manoeuvre 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.
Content of CHAPTER XXVII - HIVING THE BEES [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
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