Far from the Madding Crowd by Pan Zador

the bailiff,” said Bathsheba.
    All was practical again now. A summer eve and loneliness would have been necessary to give the meeting its proper fullness of romance.
    The bailiff was pointed out to Gabriel, who, checking the palpitation within his breast at discovering that this bounteous goddess of strange report was only a modification of his Venus, the well-known and admired, retired with him to talk over the necessary preliminaries of hiring.
    The fire before them wasted away. “Men,” said Bathsheba, “you shall take a little refreshment after this extra work. Will you come to the house?”
    â€œWe could knock in a bit and a drop a good deal freer, Miss, if so be ye’d send it to Warren’s Malthouse,” replied the spokesman.
    Bathsheba then rode off into the darkness, and the men straggled on to the village in twos and threes — Oak and the bailiff being left by the rick alone.
    â€œAnd now,” said the bailiff, finally, “all is settled, I think, about your coming, and I am going home-along. Good-night to ye, shepherd.”
    â€œCan you get me a lodging?” inquired Gabriel.
    â€œThat I can’t, indeed,” he said, moving past Oak as a Christian edges past an offertory-plate when he does not mean to contribute. “If you follow on the road till you come to Warren’s Malthouse, where they are all gone to have their snap of victuals, I daresay some of ‘em will tell you of a place. Good-night to ye, shepherd.”
    The bailiff who showed this nervous dread of loving his neighbour as himself, went up the hill, and Oak walked on to the village, still astonished at the re-encounter with Bathsheba, glad of his nearness to her, and perplexed at the rapidity with which the unpractised girl of Norcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here. But some women only require an emergency to make them fit for one.
    Obliged, to some extent, to forgo dreaming in order to find the way, he reached the churchyard, and passed round it under the wall where several ancient trees grew. There was a wide margin of grass along here, and Gabriel’s footsteps were deadened by its softness, even at this indurating period of the year. When abreast of a trunk which appeared to be the oldest of the old, he became aware that a figure was standing behind it. Gabriel did not pause in his walk, and in another moment he accidentally kicked a loose stone. The noise was enough to disturb the motionless stranger, who started and assumed a careless position.
    It was a slim girl, rather thinly clad.
    â€œGood-night to you,” said Gabriel, heartily.
    â€œGood-night,” said the girl to Gabriel.
    The voice was unexpectedly attractive; it was the low and dulcet note suggestive of romance; common in descriptions, rare in experience.
    â€œI’ll thank you to tell me if I’m in the way for Warren’s Malthouse?” Gabriel resumed, primarily to gain the information, indirectly to get more of the music.
    â€œQuite right. It’s at the bottom of the hill. And do you know — ” The girl hesitated and then went on again. “Do you know how late they keep open the Buck’s Head Inn?” She seemed to be won by Gabriel’s heartiness, as Gabriel had been won by her modulations.
    â€œI don’t know where the Buck’s Head is, or anything about it. Do you think of going there to-night?”
    â€œYes — ” The woman again paused. There was no necessity for any continuance of speech, and the fact that she did add more seemed to proceed from an unconscious desire to show unconcern by making a remark, which is noticeable in the ingenuous when they are acting by stealth. “You are not a Weatherbury man?” she said, timorously.
    â€œI am not. I am the new shepherd — just arrived.”
    â€œOnly a shepherd — and you seem almost a farmer by your ways.”
    â€œOnly a shepherd,” Gabriel repeated,