Far From the Madding Crowd

‘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 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 yeaning 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 wind-ward 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.

‘O no!’ the girl replied. She seemed to prefer a less tragic probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should harmonize 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.