by Thomas Hardy
Graded Reader – Intermediate level
Chapter 1
When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth nearly reached his ears. Lines spread around his eyes like the rays in a childish picture of the sun.
His first name was Gabriel. On weekdays he was an honest and sensible young man, happy at his work. On Sundays, dressed uncomfortably in his best clothes, he went to church. Here he usually got bored and began to think of his dinner.
It was always easy to recognize Oak at work because he put on similar clothes day after day. He wore a shapeless low hat, an old-fashioned coat, rough trousers, and a pair of very large, strong boots. Indeed, a man wearing these boots could stand in a river all day long and not get his feet wet. Beneath his jacket Mr Oak carried a watch that was almost as big as a clock. He had great difficulty in reaching it. It had to be pulled out by its chain like a bucket from a well. This watch was older than Oak’s grandfather and went either too fast or not at all. Oak had to hit the watch to make it work. When this did not mend it, he usually guessed the time by looking at the sun and stars.
In Oak’s face there were still many of the colours and shapes of youth. Although he was a big man he was quiet in mind and manner, never wanting to make a show in the world. He was at the best time of a man’s life because his intelligence and feelings were clearly separated. He was neither a fool nor a man of habits; he was twenty-eight, and he was unmarried.
On a sunny and warm December morning Gabriel Oak was in a field on the side of Norcombe Hill. Along part of this hill ran the highway between Emminster and Chalk-Newton. He looked over the hedge and saw a waggon coming down the hill towards him. It was painted bright yellow and was pulled by two horses. A waggoner walked along beside. The waggon was loaded with furniture and window-plants, and on top of it all sat a woman, young and pretThe back of the waggon is gone, Miss,’ said the waggoner.
‘Yes, I must have heard it fall,’ said the girl, in a soft but strong voice, ‘I heard a strange noise when we were coming up the hill.’
‘I’ll run back.’
‘Do,’ she answered.
The horses stood quietly, and the waggoner disappeared. The beautiful girl sat still for some time. She then looked down at a parcel that was lying among her other belongings. She turned to see if the waggoner was in sight and then picked up the parcel and opened it. A small looking-glass was inside, and the girl began to look closely at herself in it. She smiled.
The girl’s red jacket glowed in the sun, and there was a soft light upon her bright face and dark hair. Oak found the scene really delightful because of its unusual place and time, out of doors instead of inside a bedroom. It was completely unnecessary for the girl to look at herself in the looking-glass. She did not move her hat, or press her hair or change anything in her appearance. She simply admired herself, probably dreaming of men and likely victories over them.
She heard the waggoner returning, and quickly she put everything back in its place.
When the waggon had passed on, Gabriel followed it downhill to the turnpike-gate at the bottom. Here the girl stopped to pay her toll. Gabriel was twenty yards away from the gate, when he heard them arguing about it with the gatekeeper.
Oak went up to the gatekeeper and gave him twopence.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘let the young woman pass.’
The young woman looked carelessly at Oak and told her man to drive on. She said nothing to Gabriel.
The gatekeeper looked at the disappearing waggon.
‘That’s a beautiful girl,’ he said to Oak.
‘But she has her faults,’ said Gabriel.
‘True, farmer.’
‘And the greatest of them is – well, what it is always.’
‘What is that, then?’
Gabriel was perhaps a little hurt by the girl’s rudeness. He looked back to the place where he had seen her with the looking-glass.
‘She is too proud,’ he said.
It was nearly midnight on St Thomas’s Eve, the shortest day in the year. A cold north wind blew over the low round hill where Oak had seen the girl in the sunshine a few days earlier.
Norcombe Hill was covered on its northern side by an ancient wood. Tonight these trees sheltered the southern side from the worst of the wind, which cried out as it ran through the wood. Dry leaves were picked up and blown around, while the thin grass lay flat beneath it all.
The sky was very clear. All of the stars shone brightly in their different colours. Sirius was the colour of steel. The star called Capella was yellow; Aldebaran and Betelgueux shone with a bloody red.
On such clear nights, alone on a hill, it is almost possible to feel the earth moving towards the east. We can truly believe that the planet is riding along through the stars. How can ordinary people have such grand thoughts?
Suddenly a new sound began to be heard in this wild place. It was neither the wind nor the trees, but the sound of Farmer Oak on his flute.
The tune came from a shepherd’s hut near the edge of the wood. Shepherds use these huts when the lambs are born.
It was only recently that people had begun to call Gabriel ‘Farmer’ Oak. He had worked hard that year and now had a small sheep-farm with two hundred sheep. He had worked with sheep since he was a child, helping his father look after other farmer’s sheep. As a result, Oak understood the risks of farming. He had little money and no help. If the lambs died, the farm would be in great trouble.
The flute-playing stopped. A light appeared in the side of the hut and Farmer Oak stepped out. He carried a lamp. Closing the door behind him, he worked slowly around this corner of the field for nearly twenty minutes. His sheep lay under rough shelters, and their bells rang as he moved about them. When Oak returned to the hut he brought a new-born lamb with him. It seemed to be all legs and no body. He placed it in front of the fire. He blew out the light and lay down; soon he was asleep.
Later, the lamb got warmer and began to cry. Gabriel woke up immediately, put on his hat and took the lamb back to its mother. Afterwards he stood carefully studying the sky.
‘One o’clock,’ said Gabriel.
He remained there, held by the lonely beauty of the scene. Human shapes, troubles and pleasures were all absent. He seemed to be completely alone in the world.
Slowly, however, Oak realized that this was not true. One of the stars was in fact a lamp. It was quite near, low down behind the wood. Farmer Oak went towards the wood and pushed through to the windy side. A dark shape under the hillside reminded him that there was a hut close by. The back of the roof was almost level with the ground, and light spread out through small holes in the roof and sides. That was what he had seen.
Oak leant down upon the roof and put his eye close to a hole. He could easily see down into the hut,
There were two women and two cows in there, Beside the animals stood a bucket of animal food. One of the women was past middle age, but her companion seemed to be young. Oak could not see her properly because she was directly beneath him. Her head was covered.
‘I was very frightened about Daisy,’ said the older woman. ‘Let’s hope she gets better.’
‘I wish we had enough money to pay a man to do these things,’ said the young woman.
‘Well, we haven’t. We must do it ourselves,’ said the other.
‘I’ve lost my hat,’ said the younger. ‘The wind blew it over the hedge, I think.’
‘We need more animal food,’ said the older woman, ‘there’s none left.’
‘Yes, aunt. I’ll ride to get some in the morning. Don’t worry.’
Although he had tried, Oak still had not seen the girl’s face. She now uncovered her head, and out fell black hair over a red jacket. Oak knew her immediately. She was the heroine of the yellow waggon. More simply, she was the woman who owed him twopence.
The women then left the hut, and their light disappeared down the hill. Gabriel Oak returned to his sleep.
He got up early the next morning. He was now interested in this girl. At daybreak, he saw her on a horse, coming uphill towards him. Oak immediately remembered the hat that she had lost in the wind, the night before. He quickly found it, and returned to his hut. Now indoors, he continued to watch the rider. At the edge of the wood, the girl looked around. Suddenly, as quick as a bird, she lay down flat upon the horse’s back. Her feet touched the horse’s shoulders, and her face was turned to trees. The horse walked quietly through the wood, and then the girl sat up again. Gabriel saw that she used a man’s saddle. He was so amused and surprised by the girl’s unusual behaviour, that he forgot to give the hat back to her. The girl rode away towards Tewnell Mill.
An hour later, the girl returned and went to milk the cows. Gabriel took her hat, and waited beside the path. When she came out she was carrying a bucket of milk. Her manner was bright and confident. This was the first time Gabriel had seen her so clearly. He looked with pleasure at her firm and strong face, and at the fine shape of the rest of her body. There was no doubt. She was beautiful. Gabriel moved forward, and surprised the girl. But only GAbriel turned red in the face.
‘I found a hat,’ said Oak.
‘It’s mine,’ she said, wanting to laugh. ‘It blew away last night.’
‘One o’clock this morning?’
Yes, that’s right.’ She was surprised. ‘How did you know?’
‘I was here.’
‘You are Farmer Oak, aren’t you?
‘Yes. I’ve just arrived here.’
‘Have you got a large farm?’ she asked, looking around. Her black hair shone in the sun.
‘No, not very large.’
‘I wanted my hat this morning,’ she continued. ‘I had to ride to Tewnell Mill.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw you going through the wood,’ said Oak.
This time, it was the girl who went very deep red. He had hurt her feelings. It wasn’t Oak’s fault that he had seen her behave oddly. But he should not have told her. She felt ashamed of herself. Oak’s face was turned away from the girl. Before he could say anything, he heard a small noise. He turned back. The girl had gone.
They might not have met again but something happened five days later. It was a very cold afternoon. Gabriel had worked all day, and he was tired and cold. He entered his hut, where a fire was lit. Generally, when the fire was going, he kept a window open. Today, in order to get warm quickly, he decided to keep the window shut for a few minutes. He sat down. Then he fell asleep.
Gabriel never knew for how long he had slept. He woke up very slowly. His dog was making a strange noise. His head ached badly. Somebody was opening his shirt.
Gabriel opened his eyes. The young girl with very pleasant lips and white teeth was beside him. That was not all. His head rested against her, and his face and neck were rather wet. Her fingers were opening his shirt.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Oak slowly.
She gave a small smile.
‘NOthing now,’ she replied. ‘There was no air in this hut. It’s a wonder that you aren’t dead. You ought to have left the window open. You were very foolish.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Oak. He was trying to catch and enjoy the feeling of his head upon her dress. He couldn’t say anything.
She made him sit up.
‘How can I thank you?’ said Oak at last.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said the girl, smiling.
‘How did you find me?’
‘I heard your dog crying outside your hut. I had come to milk our cow. You’re very lucky, because Daisy’s milk is nearly finished for this season. I shan’t come here again after next week. I came across and saw the closed windows, so I opened the door. There you were, on the floor, like a dead man. I threw the milk over you, and that woke you up.’
‘O nearly died,’ said Gabriel.
‘Oh no!’ the girl replied. She seemed to think that the conversation was becoming too difficult.
‘I believe you saved my life, Miss – I don’t know your name.’
‘I don’t want to tell you. We probably won’t meet again.’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘You can ask my aunt. She’ll tell you.’
‘My name is Gabriel Oak.’
‘And mine isn’t. You seem to like your name. You said it very strongly, Gabriel Oak.’
‘Well, it’s the only name I have.’
‘I always think mine is an odd name.’
‘I’d think you might have a new one soon.’
‘Well, well! You’re full of ideas about other people, Gabriel Oak.’
‘Excuse me, Miss. I can’t speak as well as you, I know. I never was very clever in my words. But I thank you. Give me your hand!’
She thought for a moment.
‘Very well,’ she said, and gave him her hand.
He held it, but he was shy. He only touched it lightly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said the next moment.
‘What for?’
‘Letting your hand go so quickly.’
‘You may have it again if you like. There it is.’
Oak held it longer this time. ‘How soft it is, even in winter. It’s not rough at all!’ he said.
‘That’s long enough,’ she said, but she didn’t take it back. ‘I suppose that you would like to kiss it? You may if you want to.’
‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ said Gabriel simply. ‘But I will – ‘
‘No, you won’t!’ She pulled back her hand. Gabriel felt foolish again.
‘Now find out my name,’ she said, and left the hut.
Unabridged version
CHAPTER I
Description of Farmer Oak—An Incident
When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun.
His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character. On Sundays he was a man of misty views, rather given to postponing, and hampered by his best clothes and umbrella: upon the whole, one who felt himself to occupy morally that vast middle space of Laodicean neutrality which lay between the Communion people of the parish and the drunken section,—that is, he went to church, but yawned privately by the time the congregation reached the Nicene creed, and thought of what there would be for dinner when he meant to be listening to the sermon. Or, to state his character as it stood in the scale of public opinion, when his friends and critics were in tantrums, he was considered rather a bad man; when they were pleased, he was rather a good man; when they were neither, he was a man whose moral colour was a kind of pepper-and-salt mixture.
Since he lived six times as many working-days as Sundays, Oak’s appearance in his old clothes was most peculiarly his own—the mental picture formed by his neighbours in imagining him being always dressed in that way. He wore a low-crowned felt hat, spread out at the base by tight jamming upon the head for security in high winds, and a coat like Dr. Johnson’s; his lower extremities being encased in ordinary leather leggings and boots emphatically large, affording to each foot a roomy apartment so constructed that any wearer might stand in a river all day long and know nothing of damp—their maker being a conscientious man who endeavoured to compensate for any weakness in his cut by unstinted dimension and solidity.
Mr. Oak carried about him, by way of watch, what may be called a small silver clock; in other words, it was a watch as to shape and intention, and a small clock as to size. This instrument being several years older than Oak’s grandfather, had the peculiarity of going either too fast or not at all. The smaller of its hands, too, occasionally slipped round on the pivot, and thus, though the minutes were told with precision, nobody could be quite certain of the hour they belonged to. The stopping peculiarity of his watch Oak remedied by thumps and shakes, and he escaped any evil consequences from the other two defects by constant comparisons with and observations of the sun and stars, and by pressing his face close to the glass of his neighbours’ windows, till he could discern the hour marked by the green-faced timekeepers within. It may be mentioned that Oak’s fob being difficult of access, by reason of its somewhat high situation in the waistband of his trousers (which also lay at a remote height under his waistcoat), the watch was as a necessity pulled out by throwing the body to one side, compressing the mouth and face to a mere mass of ruddy flesh on account of the exertion required, and drawing up the watch by its chain, like a bucket from a well.
But some thoughtful persons, who had seen him walking across one of his fields on a certain December morning—sunny and exceedingly mild—might have regarded Gabriel Oak in other aspects than these. In his face one might notice that many of the hues and curves of youth had tarried on to manhood: there even remained in his remoter crannies some relics of the boy. His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. But there is a way some men have, rural and urban alike, for which the mind is more responsible than flesh and sinew: it is a way of curtailing their dimensions by their manner of showing them. And from a quiet modesty that would have become a vestal, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world’s room, Oak walked unassumingly and with a faintly perceptible bend, yet distinct from a bowing of the shoulders. This may be said to be a defect in an individual if he depends for his valuation more upon his appearance than upon his capacity to wear well, which Oak did not.
He had just reached the time of life at which “young” is ceasing to be the prefix of “man” in speaking of one. He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated: he had passed the time during which the influence of youth indiscriminately mingles them in the character of impulse, and he had not yet arrived at the stage wherein they become united again, in the character of prejudice, by the influence of a wife and family. In short, he was twenty-eight, and a bachelor.
The field he was in this morning sloped to a ridge called Norcombe Hill. Through a spur of this hill ran the highway between Emminster and Chalk-Newton. Casually glancing over the hedge, Oak saw coming down the incline before him an ornamental spring waggon, painted yellow and gaily marked, drawn by two horses, a waggoner walking alongside bearing a whip perpendicularly. The waggon was laden with household goods and window plants, and on the apex of the whole sat a woman, young and attractive. Gabriel had not beheld the sight for more than half a minute, when the vehicle was brought to a standstill just beneath his eyes.
“The tailboard of the waggon is gone, Miss,” said the waggoner.
“Then I heard it fall,” said the girl, in a soft, though not particularly low voice. “I heard a noise I could not account for when we were coming up the hill.”
“I’ll run back.”
“Do,” she answered.
The sensible horses stood—perfectly still, and the waggoner’s steps sank fainter and fainter in the distance.
The girl on the summit of the load sat motionless, surrounded by tables and chairs with their legs upwards, backed by an oak settle, and ornamented in front by pots of geraniums, myrtles, and cactuses, together with a caged canary—all probably from the windows of the house just vacated. There was also a cat in a willow basket, from the partly-opened lid of which she gazed with half-closed eyes, and affectionately surveyed the small birds around.
The handsome girl waited for some time idly in her place, and the only sound heard in the stillness was the hopping of the canary up and down the perches of its prison. Then she looked attentively downwards. It was not at the bird, nor at the cat; it was at an oblong package tied in paper, and lying between them. She turned her head to learn if the waggoner were coming. He was not yet in sight; and her eyes crept back to the package, her thoughts seeming to run upon what was inside it. At length she drew the article into her lap, and untied the paper covering; a small swing looking-glass was disclosed, in which she proceeded to survey herself attentively. She parted her lips and smiled.
It was a fine morning, and the sun lighted up to a scarlet glow the crimson jacket she wore, and painted a soft lustre upon her bright face and dark hair. The myrtles, geraniums, and cactuses packed around her were fresh and green, and at such a leafless season they invested the whole concern of horses, waggon, furniture, and girl with a peculiar vernal charm. What possessed her to indulge in such a performance in the sight of the sparrows, blackbirds, and unperceived farmer who were alone its spectators,—whether the smile began as a factitious one, to test her capacity in that art,—nobody knows; it ended certainly in a real smile. She blushed at herself, and seeing her reflection blush, blushed the more.
The change from the customary spot and necessary occasion of such an act—from the dressing hour in a bedroom to a time of travelling out of doors—lent to the idle deed a novelty it did not intrinsically possess. The picture was a delicate one. Woman’s prescriptive infirmity had stalked into the sunlight, which had clothed it in the freshness of an originality. A cynical inference was irresistible by Gabriel Oak as he regarded the scene, generous though he fain would have been. There was no necessity whatever for her looking in the glass. She did not adjust her hat, or pat her hair, or press a dimple into shape, or do one thing to signify that any such intention had been her motive in taking up the glass. She simply observed herself as a fair product of Nature in the feminine kind, her thoughts seeming to glide into far-off though likely dramas in which men would play a part—vistas of probable triumphs—the smiles being of a phase suggesting that hearts were imagined as lost and won. Still, this was but conjecture, and the whole series of actions was so idly put forth as to make it rash to assert that intention had any part in them at all.
The waggoner’s steps were heard returning. She put the glass in the paper, and the whole again into its place.
When the waggon had passed on, Gabriel withdrew from his point of espial, and descending into the road, followed the vehicle to the turnpike-gate some way beyond the bottom of the hill, where the object of his contemplation now halted for the payment of toll. About twenty steps still remained between him and the gate, when he heard a dispute. It was a difference concerning twopence between the persons with the waggon and the man at the toll-bar.
“Mis’ess’s niece is upon the top of the things, and she says that’s enough that I’ve offered ye, you great miser, and she won’t pay any more.” These were the waggoner’s words.
“Very well; then mis’ess’s niece can’t pass,” said the turnpike-keeper, closing the gate.
Oak looked from one to the other of the disputants, and fell into a reverie. There was something in the tone of twopence remarkably insignificant. Threepence had a definite value as money—it was an appreciable infringement on a day’s wages, and, as such, a higgling matter; but twopence—“Here,” he said, stepping forward and handing twopence to the gatekeeper; “let the young woman pass.” He looked up at her then; she heard his words, and looked down.
Gabriel’s features adhered throughout their form so exactly to the middle line between the beauty of St. John and the ugliness of Judas Iscariot, as represented in a window of the church he attended, that not a single lineament could be selected and called worthy either of distinction or notoriety. The red-jacketed and dark-haired maiden seemed to think so too, for she carelessly glanced over him, and told her man to drive on. She might have looked her thanks to Gabriel on a minute scale, but she did not speak them; more probably she felt none, for in gaining her a passage he had lost her her point, and we know how women take a favour of that kind.
The gatekeeper surveyed the retreating vehicle. “That’s a handsome maid,” he said to Oak.
“But she has her faults,” said Gabriel.
“True, farmer.”
“And the greatest of them is—well, what it is always.”
“Beating people down? ay, ’tis so.”
“O no.”
“What, then?”
Gabriel, perhaps a little piqued by the comely traveller’s indifference, glanced back to where he had witnessed her performance over the hedge, and said, “Vanity.”
CHAPTER II
NIGHT—THE FLOCK—AN INTERIOR—ANOTHER INTERIOR
It was nearly midnight on the eve of St. Thomas’s, the shortest day in the year. A desolating wind wandered from the north over the hill whereon Oak had watched the yellow waggon and its occupant in the sunshine of a few days earlier.
Norcombe Hill—not far from lonely Toller-Down—was one of the spots which suggest to a passer-by that he is in the presence of a shape approaching the indestructible as nearly as any to be found on earth. It was a featureless convexity of chalk and soil—an ordinary specimen of those smoothly-outlined protuberances of the globe which may remain undisturbed on some great day of confusion, when far grander heights and dizzy granite precipices topple down.
The hill was covered on its northern side by an ancient and decaying plantation of beeches, whose upper verge formed a line over the crest, fringing its arched curve against the sky, like a mane. To-night these trees sheltered the southern slope from the keenest blasts, which smote the wood and floundered through it with a sound as of grumbling, or gushed over its crowning boughs in a weakened moan. The dry leaves in the ditch simmered and boiled in the same breezes, a tongue of air occasionally ferreting out a few, and sending them spinning across the grass. A group or two of the latest in date amongst the dead multitude had remained till this very mid-winter time on the twigs which bore them and in falling rattled against the trunks with smart taps.
Between this half-wooded half-naked hill, and the vague still horizon that its summit indistinctly commanded, was a mysterious sheet of fathomless shade—the sounds from which suggested that what it concealed bore some reduced resemblance to features here. The thin grasses, more or less coating the hill, were touched by the wind in breezes of differing powers, and almost of differing natures—one rubbing the blades heavily, another raking them piercingly, another brushing them like a soft broom. The instinctive act of humankind was to stand and listen, and learn how the trees on the right and the trees on the left wailed or chaunted to each other in the regular antiphonies of a cathedral choir; how hedges and other shapes to leeward then caught the note, lowering it to the tenderest sob; and how the hurrying gust then plunged into the south, to be heard no more.
The sky was clear—remarkably clear—and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse. The North Star was directly in the wind’s eye, and since evening the Bear had swung round it outwardly to the east, till he was now at a right angle with the meridian. A difference of colour in the stars—oftener read of than seen in England—was really perceptible here. The sovereign brilliancy of Sirius pierced the eye with a steely glitter, the star called Capella was yellow, Aldebaran and Betelgueux shone with a fiery red.
To persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight such as this, the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable movement. The sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the stars past earthly objects, which is perceptible in a few minutes of stillness, or by the better outlook upon space that a hill affords, or by the wind, or by the solitude; but whatever be its origin, the impression of riding along is vivid and abiding. The poetry of motion is a phrase much in use, and to enjoy the epic form of that gratification it is necessary to stand on a hill at a small hour of the night, and, having first expanded with a sense of difference from the mass of civilised mankind, who are dreamwrapt and disregardful of all such proceedings at this time, long and quietly watch your stately progress through the stars. After such a nocturnal reconnoitre it is hard to get back to earth, and to believe that the consciousness of such majestic speeding is derived from a tiny human frame.
Suddenly an unexpected series of sounds began to be heard in this place up against the sky. They had a clearness which was to be found nowhere in the wind, and a sequence which was to be found nowhere in nature. They were the notes of Farmer Oak’s flute.
The tune was not floating unhindered into the open air: it seemed muffled in some way, and was altogether too curtailed in power to spread high or wide. It came from the direction of a small dark object under the plantation hedge—a shepherd’s hut—now presenting an outline to which an uninitiated person might have been puzzled to attach either meaning or use.
The image as a whole was that of a small Noah’s Ark on a small Ararat, allowing the traditionary outlines and general form of the Ark which are followed by toy-makers—and by these means are established in men’s imaginations among their firmest, because earliest impressions—to pass as an approximate pattern. The hut stood on little wheels, which raised its floor about a foot from the ground. Such shepherds’ huts are dragged into the fields when the lambing season comes on, to shelter the shepherd in his enforced nightly attendance.
It was only latterly that people had begun to call Gabriel “Farmer” Oak. During the twelvemonth preceding this time he had been enabled by sustained efforts of industry and chronic good spirits to lease the small sheep-farm of which Norcombe Hill was a portion, and stock it with two hundred sheep. Previously he had been a bailiff for a short time, and earlier still a shepherd only, having from his childhood assisted his father in tending the flocks of large proprietors, till old Gabriel sank to rest.
This venture, unaided and alone, into the paths of farming as master and not as man, with an advance of sheep not yet paid for, was a critical juncture with Gabriel Oak, and he recognised his position clearly. The first movement in his new progress was the lambing of his ewes, and sheep having been his speciality from his youth, he wisely refrained from deputing the task of tending them at this season to a hireling or a novice.
The wind continued to beat about the corners of the hut, but the flute-playing ceased. A rectangular space of light appeared in the side of the hut, and in the opening the outline of Farmer Oak’s figure. He carried a lantern in his hand, and closing the door behind him, came forward and busied himself about this nook of the field for nearly twenty minutes, the lantern light appearing and disappearing here and there, and brightening him or darkening him as he stood before or behind it.
Oak’s motions, though they had a quiet energy, were slow, and their deliberateness accorded well with his occupation. Fitness being the basis of beauty, nobody could have denied that his steady swings and turns in and about the flock had elements of grace. Yet, although if occasion demanded he could do or think a thing with as mercurial a dash as can the men of towns who are more to the manner born, his special power, morally, physically, and mentally, was static, owing little or nothing to momentum as a rule.
A close examination of the ground hereabout, even by the wan starlight only, revealed how a portion of what would have been casually called a wild slope had been appropriated by Farmer Oak for his great purpose this winter. Detached hurdles thatched with straw were stuck into the ground at various scattered points, amid and under which the whitish forms of his meek ewes moved and rustled. The ring of the sheep-bell, which had been silent during his absence, recommenced, in tones that had more mellowness than clearness, owing to an increasing growth of surrounding wool. This continued till Oak withdrew again from the flock. He returned to the hut, bringing in his arms a new-born lamb, consisting of four legs large enough for a full-grown sheep, united by a seemingly inconsiderable membrane about half the substance of the legs collectively, which constituted the animal’s entire body just at present.
The little speck of life he placed on a wisp of hay before the small stove, where a can of milk was simmering. Oak extinguished the lantern by blowing into it and then pinching the snuff, the cot being lighted by a candle suspended by a twisted wire. A rather hard couch, formed of a few corn sacks thrown carelessly down, covered half the floor of this little habitation, and here the young man stretched himself along, loosened his woollen cravat, and closed his eyes. In about the time a person unaccustomed to bodily labour would have decided upon which side to lie, Farmer Oak was asleep.
The inside of the hut, as it now presented itself, was cosy and alluring, and the scarlet handful of fire in addition to the candle, reflecting its own genial colour upon whatever it could reach, flung associations of enjoyment even over utensils and tools. In the corner stood the sheep-crook, and along a shelf at one side were ranged bottles and canisters of the simple preparations pertaining to ovine surgery and physic; spirits of wine, turpentine, tar, magnesia, ginger, and castor-oil being the chief. On a triangular shelf across the corner stood bread, bacon, cheese, and a cup for ale or cider, which was supplied from a flagon beneath. Beside the provisions lay the flute, whose notes had lately been called forth by the lonely watcher to beguile a tedious hour. The house was ventilated by two round holes, like the lights of a ship’s cabin, with wood slides.
The lamb, revived by the warmth, began to bleat, and the sound entered Gabriel’s ears and brain with an instant meaning, as expected sounds will. Passing from the profoundest sleep to the most alert wakefulness with the same ease that had accompanied the reverse operation, he looked at his watch, found that the hour-hand had shifted again, put on his hat, took the lamb in his arms, and carried it into the darkness. After placing the little creature with its mother, he stood and carefully examined the sky, to ascertain the time of night from the altitudes of the stars.
The Dog-star and Aldebaran, pointing to the restless Pleiades, were half-way up the Southern sky, and between them hung Orion, which gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it soared forth above the rim of the landscape. Castor and Pollux with their quiet shine were almost on the meridian: the barren and gloomy Square of Pegasus was creeping round to the north-west; far away through the plantation Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid the leafless trees, and Cassiopeia’s chair stood daintily poised on the uppermost boughs.
“One o’clock,” said Gabriel.
Being a man not without a frequent consciousness that there was some charm in this life he led, he stood still after looking at the sky as a useful instrument, and regarded it in an appreciative spirit, as a work of art superlatively beautiful. For a moment he seemed impressed with the speaking loneliness of the scene, or rather with the complete abstraction from all its compass of the sights and sounds of man. Human shapes, interferences, troubles, and joys were all as if they were not, and there seemed to be on the shaded hemisphere of the globe no sentient being save himself; he could fancy them all gone round to the sunny side.
Occupied thus, with eyes stretched afar, Oak gradually perceived that what he had previously taken to be a star low down behind the outskirts of the plantation was in reality no such thing. It was an artificial light, almost close at hand.
To find themselves utterly alone at night where company is desirable and expected makes some people fearful; but a case more trying by far to the nerves is to discover some mysterious companionship when intuition, sensation, memory, analogy, testimony, probability, induction—every kind of evidence in the logician’s list—have united to persuade consciousness that it is quite in isolation.
Farmer Oak went towards the plantation and pushed through its lower boughs to the windy side. A dim mass under the slope reminded him that a shed occupied a place here, the site being a cutting into the slope of the hill, so that at its back part the roof was almost level with the ground. In front it was formed of board nailed to posts and covered with tar as a preservative. Through crevices in the roof and side spread streaks and dots of light, a combination of which made the radiance that had attracted him. Oak stepped up behind, where, leaning down upon the roof and putting his eye close to a hole, he could see into the interior clearly.
The place contained two women and two cows. By the side of the latter a steaming bran-mash stood in a bucket. One of the women was past middle age. Her companion was apparently young and graceful; he could form no decided opinion upon her looks, her position being almost beneath his eye, so that he saw her in a bird’s-eye view, as Milton’s Satan first saw Paradise. She wore no bonnet or hat, but had enveloped herself in a large cloak, which was carelessly flung over her head as a covering.
“There, now we’ll go home,” said the elder of the two, resting her knuckles upon her hips, and looking at their goings-on as a whole. “I do hope Daisy will fetch round again now. I have never been more frightened in my life, but I don’t mind breaking my rest if she recovers.”
The young woman, whose eyelids were apparently inclined to fall together on the smallest provocation of silence, yawned without parting her lips to any inconvenient extent, whereupon Gabriel caught the infection and slightly yawned in sympathy.
“I wish we were rich enough to pay a man to do these things,” she said.
“As we are not, we must do them ourselves,” said the other; “for you must help me if you stay.”
“Well, my hat is gone, however,” continued the younger. “It went over the hedge, I think. The idea of such a slight wind catching it.”
The cow standing erect was of the Devon breed, and was encased in a tight warm hide of rich Indian red, as absolutely uniform from eyes to tail as if the animal had been dipped in a dye of that colour, her long back being mathematically level. The other was spotted, grey and white. Beside her Oak now noticed a little calf about a day old, looking idiotically at the two women, which showed that it had not long been accustomed to the phenomenon of eyesight, and often turning to the lantern, which it apparently mistook for the moon, inherited instinct having as yet had little time for correction by experience. Between the sheep and the cows Lucina had been busy on Norcombe Hill lately.
“I think we had better send for some oatmeal,” said the elder woman; “there’s no more bran.”
“Yes, aunt; and I’ll ride over for it as soon as it is light.”
“But there’s no side-saddle.”
“I can ride on the other: trust me.”
Oak, upon hearing these remarks, became more curious to observe her features, but this prospect being denied him by the hooding effect of the cloak, and by his aërial position, he felt himself drawing upon his fancy for their details. In making even horizontal and clear inspections we colour and mould according to the wants within us whatever our eyes bring in. Had Gabriel been able from the first to get a distinct view of her countenance, his estimate of it as very handsome or slightly so would have been as his soul required a divinity at the moment or was ready supplied with one. Having for some time known the want of a satisfactory form to fill an increasing void within him, his position moreover affording the widest scope for his fancy, he painted her a beauty.
By one of those whimsical coincidences in which Nature, like a busy mother, seems to spare a moment from her unremitting labours to turn and make her children smile, the girl now dropped the cloak, and forth tumbled ropes of black hair over a red jacket. Oak knew her instantly as the heroine of the yellow waggon, myrtles, and looking-glass: prosily, as the woman who owed him twopence.
They placed the calf beside its mother again, took up the lantern, and went out, the light sinking down the hill till it was no more than a nebula. Gabriel Oak returned to his flock.
CHAPTER III
A GIRL ON HORSEBACK—CONVERSATION
The sluggish day began to break. Even its position terrestrially is one of the elements of a new interest, and for no particular reason save that the incident of the night had occurred there Oak went again into the plantation. Lingering and musing here, he heard the steps of a horse at the foot of the hill, and soon there appeared in view an auburn pony with a girl on its back, ascending by the path leading past the cattle-shed. She was the young woman of the night before. Gabriel instantly thought of the hat she had mentioned as having lost in the wind; possibly she had come to look for it. He hastily scanned the ditch and after walking about ten yards along it found the hat among the leaves. Gabriel took it in his hand and returned to his hut. Here he ensconced himself, and peeped through the loophole in the direction of the rider’s approach.
She came up and looked around—then on the other side of the hedge. Gabriel was about to advance and restore the missing article when an unexpected performance induced him to suspend the action for the present. The path, after passing the cowshed, bisected the plantation. It was not a bridle-path—merely a pedestrian’s track, and the boughs spread horizontally at a height not greater than seven feet above the ground, which made it impossible to ride erect beneath them. The girl, who wore no riding-habit, looked around for a moment, as if to assure herself that all humanity was out of view, then dexterously dropped backwards flat upon the pony’s back, her head over its tail, her feet against its shoulders, and her eyes to the sky. The rapidity of her glide into this position was that of a kingfisher—its noiselessness that of a hawk. Gabriel’s eyes had scarcely been able to follow her. The tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under the level boughs.
The performer seemed quite at home anywhere between a horse’s head and its tail, and the necessity for this abnormal attitude having ceased with the passage of the plantation, she began to adopt another, even more obviously convenient than the first. She had no side-saddle, and it was very apparent that a firm seat upon the smooth leather beneath her was unattainable sideways. Springing to her accustomed perpendicular like a bowed sapling, and satisfying herself that nobody was in sight, she seated herself in the manner demanded by the saddle, though hardly expected of the woman, and trotted off in the direction of Tewnell Mill.
Oak was amused, perhaps a little astonished, and hanging up the hat in his hut, went again among his ewes. An hour passed, the girl returned, properly seated now, with a bag of bran in front of her. On nearing the cattle-shed she was met by a boy bringing a milking-pail, who held the reins of the pony whilst she slid off. The boy led away the horse, leaving the pail with the young woman.
Soon soft spirts alternating with loud spirts came in regular succession from within the shed, the obvious sounds of a person milking a cow. Gabriel took the lost hat in his hand, and waited beside the path she would follow in leaving the hill.
She came, the pail in one hand, hanging against her knee. The left arm was extended as a balance, enough of it being shown bare to make Oak wish that the event had happened in the summer, when the whole would have been revealed. There was a bright air and manner about her now, by which she seemed to imply that the desirability of her existence could not be questioned; and this rather saucy assumption failed in being offensive because a beholder felt it to be, upon the whole, true. Like exceptional emphasis in the tone of a genius, that which would have made mediocrity ridiculous was an addition to recognised power. It was with some surprise that she saw Gabriel’s face rising like the moon behind the hedge.
The adjustment of the farmer’s hazy conceptions of her charms to the portrait of herself she now presented him with was less a diminution than a difference. The starting-point selected by the judgment was her height. She seemed tall, but the pail was a small one, and the hedge diminutive; hence, making allowance for error by comparison with these, she could have been not above the height to be chosen by women as best. All features of consequence were severe and regular. It may have been observed by persons who go about the shires with eyes for beauty, that in Englishwoman a classically-formed face is seldom found to be united with a figure of the same pattern, the highly-finished features being generally too large for the remainder of the frame; that a graceful and proportionate figure of eight heads usually goes off into random facial curves. Without throwing a Nymphean tissue over a milkmaid, let it be said that here criticism checked itself as out of place, and looked at her proportions with a long consciousness of pleasure. From the contours of her figure in its upper part, she must have had a beautiful neck and shoulders; but since her infancy nobody had ever seen them. Had she been put into a low dress she would have run and thrust her head into a bush. Yet she was not a shy girl by any means; it was merely her instinct to draw the line dividing the seen from the unseen higher than they do it in towns.
That the girl’s thoughts hovered about her face and form as soon as she caught Oak’s eyes conning the same page was natural, and almost certain. The self-consciousness shown would have been vanity if a little more pronounced, dignity if a little less. Rays of male vision seem to have a tickling effect upon virgin faces in rural districts; she brushed hers with her hand, as if Gabriel had been irritating its pink surface by actual touch, and the free air of her previous movements was reduced at the same time to a chastened phase of itself. Yet it was the man who blushed, the maid not at all.
“I found a hat,” said Oak.
“It is mine,” said she, and, from a sense of proportion, kept down to a small smile an inclination to laugh distinctly: “it flew away last night.”
“One o’clock this morning?”
“Well—it was.” She was surprised. “How did you know?” she said.
“I was here.”
“You are Farmer Oak, are you not?”
“That or thereabouts. I’m lately come to this place.”
“A large farm?” she inquired, casting her eyes round, and swinging back her hair, which was black in the shaded hollows of its mass; but it being now an hour past sunrise the rays touched its prominent curves with a colour of their own.
“No; not large. About a hundred.” (In speaking of farms the word “acres” is omitted by the natives, by analogy to such old expressions as “a stag of ten.”)
“I wanted my hat this morning,” she went on. “I had to ride to Tewnell Mill.”
“Yes you had.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw you.”
“Where?” she inquired, a misgiving bringing every muscle of her lineaments and frame to a standstill.
“Here—going through the plantation, and all down the hill,” said Farmer Oak, with an aspect excessively knowing with regard to some matter in his mind, as he gazed at a remote point in the direction named, and then turned back to meet his colloquist’s eyes.
A perception caused him to withdraw his own eyes from hers as suddenly as if he had been caught in a theft. Recollection of the strange antics she had indulged in when passing through the trees was succeeded in the girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face. It was a time to see a woman redden who was not given to reddening as a rule; not a point in the milkmaid but was of the deepest rose-colour. From the Maiden’s Blush, through all varieties of the Provence down to the Crimson Tuscany, the countenance of Oak’s acquaintance quickly graduated; whereupon he, in considerateness, turned away his head.
The sympathetic man still looked the other way, and wondered when she would recover coolness sufficient to justify him in facing her again. He heard what seemed to be the flitting of a dead leaf upon the breeze, and looked. She had gone away.
With an air between that of Tragedy and Comedy Gabriel returned to his work.
Five mornings and evenings passed. The young woman came regularly to milk the healthy cow or to attend to the sick one, but never allowed her vision to stray in the direction of Oak’s person. His want of tact had deeply offended her—not by seeing what he could not help, but by letting her know that he had seen it. For, as without law there is no sin, without eyes there is no indecorum; and she appeared to feel that Gabriel’s espial had made her an indecorous woman without her own connivance. It was food for great regret with him; it was also a contretemps which touched into life a latent heat he had experienced in that direction.
The acquaintanceship might, however, have ended in a slow forgetting, but for an incident which occurred at the end of the same week. One afternoon it began to freeze, and the frost increased with evening, which drew on like a stealthy tightening of bonds. It was a time when in cottages the breath of the sleepers freezes to the sheets; when round the drawing-room fire of a thick-walled mansion the sitters’ backs are cold, even whilst their faces are all aglow. Many a small bird went to bed supperless that night among the bare boughs.
As the milking-hour drew near, Oak kept his usual watch upon the cowshed. At last he felt cold, and shaking an extra quantity of bedding round the yearling ewes he entered the hut and heaped more fuel upon the stove. The wind came in at the bottom of the door, and to prevent it Oak laid a sack there and wheeled the cot round a little more to the south. Then the wind spouted in at a ventilating hole—of which there was one on each side of the hut.
Gabriel had always known that when the fire was lighted and the door closed one of these must be kept open—that chosen being always on the side away from the wind. Closing the slide to windward, he turned to open the other; on second thoughts the farmer considered that he would first sit down leaving both closed for a minute or two, till the temperature of the hut was a little raised. He sat down.
His head began to ache in an unwonted manner, and, fancying himself weary by reason of the broken rests of the preceding nights, Oak decided to get up, open the slide, and then allow himself to fall asleep. He fell asleep, however, without having performed the necessary preliminary.
How long he remained unconscious Gabriel never knew. During the first stages of his return to perception peculiar deeds seemed to be in course of enactment. His dog was howling, his head was aching fearfully—somebody was pulling him about, hands were loosening his neckerchief.
On opening his eyes he found that evening had sunk to dusk in a strange manner of unexpectedness. The young girl with the remarkably pleasant lips and white teeth was beside him. More than this—astonishingly more—his head was upon her lap, his face and neck were disagreeably wet, and her fingers were unbuttoning his collar.
“Whatever is the matter?” said Oak, vacantly.
She seemed to experience mirth, but of too insignificant a kind to start enjoyment.
“Nothing now,” she answered, “since you are not dead. It is a wonder you were not suffocated in this hut of yours.”
“Ah, the hut!” murmured Gabriel. “I gave ten pounds for that hut. But I’ll sell it, and sit under thatched hurdles as they did in old times, and curl up to sleep in a lock of straw! It played me nearly the same trick the other day!” Gabriel, by way of emphasis, brought down his fist upon the floor.
“It was not exactly the fault of the hut,” she observed in a tone which showed her to be that novelty among women—one who finished a thought before beginning the sentence which was to convey it. “You should, I think, have considered, and not have been so foolish as to leave the slides closed.”
“Yes I suppose I should,” said Oak, absently. He was endeavouring to catch and appreciate the sensation of being thus with her, his head upon her dress, before the event passed on into the heap of bygone things. He wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. So he remained silent.
She made him sit up, and then Oak began wiping his face and shaking himself like a Samson. “How can I thank ’ee?” he said at last, gratefully, some of the natural rusty red having returned to his face.
“Oh, never mind that,” said the girl, smiling, and allowing her smile to hold good for Gabriel’s next remark, whatever that might prove to be.
“How did you find me?”
“I heard your dog howling and scratching at the door of the hut when I came to the milking (it was so lucky, Daisy’s milking is almost over for the season, and I shall not come here after this week or the next). The dog saw me, and jumped over to me, and laid hold of my skirt. I came across and looked round the hut the very first thing to see if the slides were closed. My uncle has a hut like this one, and I have heard him tell his shepherd not to go to sleep without leaving a slide open. I opened the door, and there you were like dead. I threw the milk over you, as there was no water, forgetting it was warm, and no use.”
“I wonder if I should have died?” Gabriel said, in a low voice, which was rather meant to travel back to himself than to her.
“Oh no!” the girl replied. She seemed to prefer a less tragic probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should harmonise with the dignity of such a deed—and she shunned it.
“I believe you saved my life, Miss—I don’t know your name. I know your aunt’s, but not yours.”
“I would just as soon not tell it—rather not. There is no reason either why I should, as you probably will never have much to do with me.”
“Still, I should like to know.”
“You can inquire at my aunt’s—she will tell you.”
“My name is Gabriel Oak.”
“And mine isn’t. You seem fond of yours in speaking it so decisively, Gabriel Oak.”
“You see, it is the only one I shall ever have, and I must make the most of it.”
“I always think mine sounds odd and disagreeable.”
“I should think you might soon get a new one.”
“Mercy!—how many opinions you keep about you concerning other people, Gabriel Oak.”
“Well, Miss—excuse the words—I thought you would like them. But I can’t match you, I know, in mapping out my mind upon my tongue. I never was very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come, give me your hand.”
She hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at Oak’s old-fashioned earnest conclusion to a dialogue lightly carried on. “Very well,” she said, and gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure impassivity. He held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person.
“I am sorry,” he said the instant after.
“What for?”
“Letting your hand go so quick.”
“You may have it again if you like; there it is.” She gave him her hand again.
Oak held it longer this time—indeed, curiously long. “How soft it is—being winter time, too—not chapped or rough or anything!” he said.
“There—that’s long enough,” said she, though without pulling it away. “But I suppose you are thinking you would like to kiss it? You may if you want to.”
“I wasn’t thinking of any such thing,” said Gabriel, simply; “but I will—”
“That you won’t!” She snatched back her hand.
Gabriel felt himself guilty of another want of tact.
“Now find out my name,” she said, teasingly; and withdrew.
