["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> AT AN UPPER WINDOW\n\n\nIt was very early the next morning--a time of sun and dew. The\nconfused beginnings of many birds' songs spread into the healthy air,\nand the wan blue of the heaven was here and there coated with thin\nwebs of incorporeal cloud which were of no effect in obscuring day. All the lights in the scene were yellow as to colour, and all the\nshadows were attenuated as to form. The creeping plants about the\nold manor-house were bowed with rows of heavy water drops, which\nhad upon objects behind them the effect of minute lenses of high\nmagnifying power. Just before the clock struck five Gabriel Oak and Coggan passed the\nvillage cross, and went on together to the fields. They were yet\nbarely in view of their mistress's house, when Oak fancied he saw the\nopening of a casement in one of the upper windows. The two men were\nat this moment partially screened by an elder bush, now beginning\nto be enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused before\nemerging from its shade. A handsome man leaned idly from the lattice. He looked east and then\nwest, in the manner of one who makes a first morning survey. The\nman was Sergeant Troy. His red jacket was loosely thrown on, but\nnot buttoned, and he had altogether the relaxed bearing of a soldier\ntaking his ease. Coggan spoke first, looking quietly at the window. \"She has married him!\" he said. Gabriel had previously beheld the sight, and he now stood with his\nback turned, making no reply. \"I fancied we should know something to-day,\" continued Coggan. \"I\nheard wheels pass my door just after dark--you were out somewhere.\" He glanced round upon Gabriel. \"Good heavens above us, Oak, how\nwhite your face is; you look like a corpse!\" \"Do I?\" said Oak, with a faint smile. \"Lean on the gate: I'll wait a bit.\" \"All right, all right.\" They stood by the gate awhile, Gabriel listlessly staring at the\nground. His mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in\nyears of leisure the scenes of repentance that would ensue from this\nwork of haste. That they were married he had instantly decided. Why\nhad it been so mysteriously managed? It had become known that she\nhad had a fearful journey to Bath, owing to her miscalculating the\ndistance: that the horse had broken down, and that she had been more\nthan two days getting there. It was not Bathsheba's way to do things\nfurtively. With all her faults, she was candour itself. Could she\nhave been entrapped? The union was not only an unutterable grief to\nhim: it amazed him, notwithstanding that he had passed the preceding\nweek in a suspicion that such might be the issue of Troy's meeting\nher away from home. Her quiet return with Liddy had to some extent\ndispersed the dread. Just as that imperceptible motion which appears\nlike stillness is infinitely divided in its properties from stillness\nitself, so had his hope undistinguishable from despair differed from\ndespair indeed. In a few minutes they moved on again towards the house. The sergeant\nstill looked from the window. \"Morning, comrades!\" he shouted, in a cheery voice, when they came\nup. Coggan replied to the greeting. \"Bain't ye going to answer the man?\" he then said to Gabriel. \"I'd say good morning--you needn't spend a\nhapenny of meaning upon it, and yet keep the man civil.\" Gabriel soon decided too that, since the deed was done, to put the\nbest face upon the matter would be the greatest kindness to her he\nloved. \"Good morning, Sergeant Troy,\" he returned, in a ghastly voice. \"A rambling, gloomy house this,\" said Troy, smiling. \"Why--they MAY not be married!\" suggested Coggan. \"Perhaps she's not\nthere.\" Gabriel shook his head. The soldier turned a little towards the\neast, and the sun kindled his scarlet coat to an orange glow. \"But it is a nice old house,\" responded Gabriel. \"Yes--I suppose so; but I feel like new wine in an old bottle here. My notion is that sash-windows should be put throughout, and these\nold wainscoted walls brightened up a bit; or the oak cleared quite\naway, and the walls papered.\" \"It would be a pity, I think.\" \"Well, no. A philosopher once said in my hearing that the old\nbuilders, who worked when art was a living thing, had no respect\nfor the work of builders who went before them, but pulled down and\naltered as they thought fit; and why shouldn't we? 'Creation and\npreservation don't do well together,' says he, 'and a million of\nantiquarians can't invent a style.' My mind exactly. I am for making\nthis place more modern, that we may be cheerful whilst we can.\" The military man turned and surveyed the interior of the room, to\nassist his ideas of improvement in this direction. Gabriel and\nCoggan began to move on. \"Oh, Coggan,\" said Troy, as if inspired by a recollection \"do you\nknow if insanity has ever appeared in Mr. Boldwood's family?\" Jan reflected for a moment. \"I once heard that an uncle of his was queer in his head, but I don't\nknow the rights o't,\" he said. \"It is of no importance,\" said Troy, lightly. \"Well, I shall be down\nin the fields with you some time this week; but I have a few matters\nto attend to first. So good-day to you. We shall, of course, keep\non just as friendly terms as usual. I'm not a proud man: nobody is\never able to say that of Sergeant Troy. However, what is must be,\nand here's half-a-crown to drink my health, men.\" Troy threw the coin dexterously across the front plot and over the\nfence towards Gabriel, who shunned it in its fall, his face turning\nto an angry red. Coggan twirled his eye, edged forward, and caught\nthe money in its ricochet upon the road. \"Very well--you keep it, Coggan,\" said Gabriel with disdain and\nalmost fiercely. \"As for me, I'll do without gifts from him!\" \"Don't show it too much,\" said Coggan, musingly. \"For if he's\nmarried to her, mark my words, he'll buy his discharge and be our\nmaster here. Therefore 'tis well to say 'Friend' outwardly, though\nyou say 'Troublehouse' within.\" \"Well--perhaps it is best to be silent; but I can't go further than\nthat. I can't flatter, and if my place here is only to be kept by\nsmoothing him down, my place must be lost.\" A horseman, whom they had for some time seen in the distance, now\nappeared close beside them. \"There's Mr. Boldwood,\" said Oak. \"I wonder what Troy meant by his\nquestion.\" Coggan and Oak nodded respectfully to the farmer, just checked their\npaces to discover if they were wanted, and finding they were not\nstood back to let him pass on. The only signs of the terrible sorrow Boldwood had been combating\nthrough the night, and was combating now, were the want of colour\nin his well-defined face, the enlarged appearance of the veins in\nhis forehead and temples, and the sharper lines about his mouth. The horse bore him away, and the very step of the animal seemed\nsignificant of dogged despair. Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his\nown grief in noticing Boldwood's. He saw the square figure sitting\nerect upon the horse, the head turned to neither side, the elbows\nsteady by the hips, the brim of the hat level and undisturbed in\nits onward glide, until the keen edges of Boldwood's shape sank by\ndegrees over the hill. To one who knew the man and his story there\nwas something more striking in this immobility than in a collapse. The clash of discord between mood and matter here was forced\npainfully home to the heart; and, as in laughter there are more\ndreadful phases than in tears, so was there in the steadiness of\nthis agonized man an expression deeper than a cry. WEALTH IN JEOPARDY--THE REVEL\n\n\nOne night, at the end of August, when Bathsheba's experiences as a\nmarried woman were still new, and when the weather was yet dry and\nsultry, a man stood motionless in the stockyard of Weatherbury Upper\nFarm, looking at the moon and sky. The night had a sinister aspect. A heated breeze from the south\nslowly fanned the summits of lofty objects, and in the sky dashes\nof buoyant cloud were sailing in a course at right angles to that\nof another stratum, neither of them in the direction of the breeze\nbelow. The moon, as seen through these films, had a lurid metallic\nlook.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The fields were sallow with the impure light, and all were\ntinged in monochrome, as if beheld through stained glass. The same\nevening the sheep had trailed homeward head to tail, the behaviour of\nthe rooks had been confused, and the horses had moved with timidity\nand caution. Thunder was imminent, and, taking some secondary appearances into\nconsideration, it was likely to be followed by one of the lengthened\nrains which mark the close of dry weather for the season. Before\ntwelve hours had passed a harvest atmosphere would be a bygone thing. Oak gazed with misgiving at eight naked and unprotected ricks,\nmassive and heavy with the rich produce of one-half the farm for\nthat year. He went on to the barn. This was the night which had been selected by Sergeant Troy--ruling\nnow in the room of his wife--for giving the harvest supper and dance. As Oak approached the building the sound of violins and a tambourine,\nand the regular jigging of many feet, grew more distinct. He came\nclose to the large doors, one of which stood slightly ajar, and\nlooked in. The central space, together with the recess at one end, was emptied\nof all incumbrances, and this area, covering about two-thirds of\nthe whole, was appropriated for the gathering, the remaining end,\nwhich was piled to the ceiling with oats, being screened off with\nsail-cloth. Tufts and garlands of green foliage decorated the walls,\nbeams, and extemporized chandeliers, and immediately opposite to Oak\na rostrum had been erected, bearing a table and chairs. Here sat\nthree fiddlers, and beside them stood a frantic man with his hair\non end, perspiration streaming down his cheeks, and a tambourine\nquivering in his hand. The dance ended, and on the black oak floor in the midst a new row of\ncouples formed for another. \"Now, ma'am, and no offence I hope, I ask what dance you would like\nnext?\" said the first violin. \"Really, it makes no difference,\" said the clear voice of Bathsheba,\nwho stood at the inner end of the building, observing the scene from\nbehind a table covered with cups and viands. Troy was lolling beside\nher. \"Then,\" said the fiddler, \"I'll venture to name that the right and\nproper thing is 'The Soldier's Joy'--there being a gallant soldier\nmarried into the farm--hey, my sonnies, and gentlemen all?\" \"It shall be 'The Soldier's Joy,'\" exclaimed a chorus. \"Thanks for the compliment,\" said the sergeant gaily, taking\nBathsheba by the hand and leading her to the top of the dance. \"For\nthough I have purchased my discharge from Her Most Gracious Majesty's\nregiment of cavalry the 11th Dragoon Guards, to attend to the new\nduties awaiting me here, I shall continue a soldier in spirit and\nfeeling as long as I live.\" So the dance began. As to the merits of \"The Soldier's Joy,\" there\ncannot be, and never were, two opinions. It has been observed in the\nmusical circles of Weatherbury and its vicinity that this melody, at\nthe end of three-quarters of an hour of thunderous footing, still\npossesses more stimulative properties for the heel and toe than the\nmajority of other dances at their first opening. \"The Soldier's Joy\"\nhas, too, an additional charm, in being so admirably adapted to the\ntambourine aforesaid--no mean instrument in the hands of a performer\nwho understands the proper convulsions, spasms, St. Vitus's dances,\nand fearful frenzies necessary when exhibiting its tones in their\nhighest perfection. The immortal tune ended, a fine DD rolling forth from the bass-viol\nwith the sonorousness of a cannonade, and Gabriel delayed his entry\nno longer. He avoided Bathsheba, and got as near as possible\nto the platform, where Sergeant Troy was now seated, drinking\nbrandy-and-water, though the others drank without exception cider and\nale. Gabriel could not easily thrust himself within speaking distance\nof the sergeant, and he sent a message, asking him to come down for a\nmoment. The sergeant said he could not attend. \"Will you tell him, then,\" said Gabriel, \"that I only stepped ath'art\nto say that a heavy rain is sure to fall soon, and that something\nshould be done to protect the ricks?\" \"Mr. Troy says it will not rain,\" returned the messenger, \"and he\ncannot stop to talk to you about such fidgets.\" In juxtaposition with Troy, Oak had a melancholy tendency to look\nlike a candle beside gas, and ill at ease, he went out again,\nthinking he would go home; for, under the circumstances, he had no\nheart for the scene in the barn. At the door he paused for a moment:\nTroy was speaking. \"Friends, it is not only the harvest home that we are celebrating\nto-night; but this is also a Wedding Feast. A short time ago I had\nthe happiness to lead to the altar this lady, your mistress, and not\nuntil now have we been able to give any public flourish to the event\nin Weatherbury. That it may be thoroughly well done, and that every\nman may go happy to bed, I have ordered to be brought here some\nbottles of brandy and kettles of hot water. A treble-strong goblet\nwill be handed round to each guest.\" Bathsheba put her hand upon his arm, and, with upturned pale face,\nsaid imploringly, \"No--don't give it to them--pray don't, Frank! It\nwill only do them harm: they have had enough of everything.\" \"True--we don't wish for no more, thank ye,\" said one or two. \"Pooh!\" said the sergeant contemptuously, and raised his voice as\nif lighted up by a new idea. \"Friends,\" he said, \"we'll send the\nwomen-folk home! 'Tis time they were in bed. Then we cockbirds will\nhave a jolly carouse to ourselves! If any of the men show the white\nfeather, let them look elsewhere for a winter's work.\" Bathsheba indignantly left the barn, followed by all the women and\nchildren. The musicians, not looking upon themselves as \"company,\"\nslipped quietly away to their spring waggon and put in the horse. Thus Troy and the men on the farm were left sole occupants of the\nplace. Oak, not to appear unnecessarily disagreeable, stayed a\nlittle while; then he, too, arose and quietly took his departure,\nfollowed by a friendly oath from the sergeant for not staying to a\nsecond round of grog. Gabriel proceeded towards his home. In approaching the door, his\ntoe kicked something which felt and sounded soft, leathery, and\ndistended, like a boxing-glove. It was a large toad humbly\ntravelling across the path. Oak took it up, thinking it might be\nbetter to kill the creature to save it from pain; but finding it\nuninjured, he placed it again among the grass. He knew what this\ndirect message from the Great Mother meant. And soon came another. When he struck a light indoors there appeared upon the table a thin\nglistening streak, as if a brush of varnish had been lightly dragged\nacross it. Oak's eyes followed the serpentine sheen to the other\nside, where it led up to a huge brown garden-slug, which had come\nindoors to-night for reasons of its own. It was Nature's second way\nof hinting to him that he was to prepare for foul weather. Oak sat down meditating for nearly an hour. During this time two\nblack spiders, of the kind common in thatched houses, promenaded the\nceiling, ultimately dropping to the floor. This reminded him that\nif there was one class of manifestation on this matter that he\nthoroughly understood, it was the instincts of sheep. He left the\nroom, ran across two or three fields towards the flock, got upon a\nhedge, and looked over among them. They were crowded close together on the other side around some furze\nbushes, and the first peculiarity observable was that, on the sudden\nappearance of Oak's head over the fence, they did not stir or run\naway. They had now a terror of something greater than their terror\nof man. But this was not the most noteworthy feature: they were all\ngrouped in such a way that their tails, without a single exception,\nwere towards that half of the horizon from which the storm\nthreatened. There was an inner circle closely huddled, and outside\nthese they radiated wider apart, the pattern formed by the flock as a\nwhole not being unlike a vandyked lace collar, to which the clump of\nfurze-bushes stood in the position of a wearer's neck. This was enough to re-establish him in his original opinion. He knew\nnow that he was right, and that Troy was wrong.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Every voice in nature\nwas unanimous in bespeaking change. But two distinct translations\nattached to these dumb expressions. Apparently there was to be a\nthunder-storm, and afterwards a cold continuous rain. The creeping\nthings seemed to know all about the later rain, but little of the\ninterpolated thunder-storm; whilst the sheep knew all about the\nthunder-storm and nothing of the later rain. This complication of weathers being uncommon, was all the more to be\nfeared. Oak returned to the stack-yard. All was silent here, and\nthe conical tips of the ricks jutted darkly into the sky. There were\nfive wheat-ricks in this yard, and three stacks of barley. The wheat\nwhen threshed would average about thirty quarters to each stack; the\nbarley, at least forty. Their value to Bathsheba, and indeed to\nanybody, Oak mentally estimated by the following simple\ncalculation:--\n\n\n      5 x 30 = 150 quarters = 500 L.\n      3 x 40 = 120 quarters = 250 L.\n                            -------\n                    Total . . 750 L.\n\n\nSeven hundred and fifty pounds in the divinest form that money can\nwear--that of necessary food for man and beast: should the risk be\nrun of deteriorating this bulk of corn to less than half its value,\nbecause of the instability of a woman? \"Never, if I can prevent it!\" said Gabriel. Such was the argument that Oak set outwardly before him. But man,\neven to himself, is a palimpsest, having an ostensible writing, and\nanother beneath the lines. It is possible that there was this golden\nlegend under the utilitarian one: \"I will help to my last effort the\nwoman I have loved so dearly.\" He went back to the barn to endeavour to obtain assistance for\ncovering the ricks that very night. All was silent within, and he\nwould have passed on in the belief that the party had broken up, had\nnot a dim light, yellow as saffron by contrast with the greenish\nwhiteness outside, streamed through a knot-hole in the folding doors. Gabriel looked in. An unusual picture met his eye. The candles suspended among the evergreens had burnt down to their\nsockets, and in some cases the leaves tied about them were scorched. Many of the lights had quite gone out, others smoked and stank,\ngrease dropping from them upon the floor. Here, under the table, and\nleaning against forms and chairs in every conceivable attitude except\nthe perpendicular, were the wretched persons of all the work-folk,\nthe hair of their heads at such low levels being suggestive of mops\nand brooms. In the midst of these shone red and distinct the figure\nof Sergeant Troy, leaning back in a chair. Coggan was on his back,\nwith his mouth open, huzzing forth snores, as were several others;\nthe united breathings of the horizonal assemblage forming a subdued\nroar like London from a distance. Joseph Poorgrass was curled round\nin the fashion of a hedge-hog, apparently in attempts to present the\nleast possible portion of his surface to the air; and behind him\nwas dimly visible an unimportant remnant of William Smallbury. The glasses and cups still stood upon the table, a water-jug being\noverturned, from which a small rill, after tracing its course with\nmarvellous precision down the centre of the long table, fell into the\nneck of the unconscious Mark Clark, in a steady, monotonous drip,\nlike the dripping of a stalactite in a cave. Gabriel glanced hopelessly at the group, which, with one or two\nexceptions, composed all the able-bodied men upon the farm. He saw\nat once that if the ricks were to be saved that night, or even the\nnext morning, he must save them with his own hands. A faint \"ting-ting\" resounded from under Coggan's waistcoat. It was\nCoggan's watch striking the hour of two. Oak went to the recumbent form of Matthew Moon, who usually undertook\nthe rough thatching of the home-stead, and shook him. The shaking\nwas without effect. Gabriel shouted in his ear, \"where's your thatching-beetle and\nrick-stick and spars?\" \"Under the staddles,\" said Moon, mechanically, with the unconscious\npromptness of a medium. Gabriel let go his head, and it dropped upon the floor like a bowl. He then went to Susan Tall's husband. \"Where's the key of the granary?\" No answer. The question was repeated, with the same result. To be\nshouted to at night was evidently less of a novelty to Susan Tall's\nhusband than to Matthew Moon. Oak flung down Tall's head into the\ncorner again and turned away. To be just, the men were not greatly to blame for this painful and\ndemoralizing termination to the evening's entertainment. Sergeant\nTroy had so strenuously insisted, glass in hand, that drinking should\nbe the bond of their union, that those who wished to refuse hardly\nliked to be so unmannerly under the circumstances. Having from their\nyouth up been entirely unaccustomed to any liquor stronger than cider\nor mild ale, it was no wonder that they had succumbed, one and all,\nwith extraordinary uniformity, after the lapse of about an hour. Gabriel was greatly depressed. This debauch boded ill for that\nwilful and fascinating mistress whom the faithful man even now felt\nwithin him as the embodiment of all that was sweet and bright and\nhopeless. He put out the expiring lights, that the barn might not be\nendangered, closed the door upon the men in their deep and oblivious\nsleep, and went again into the lone night. A hot breeze, as if\nbreathed from the parted lips of some dragon about to swallow the\nglobe, fanned him from the south, while directly opposite in the\nnorth rose a grim misshapen body of cloud, in the very teeth of the\nwind. So unnaturally did it rise that one could fancy it to be\nlifted by machinery from below. Meanwhile the faint cloudlets had\nflown back into the south-east corner of the sky, as if in terror of\nthe large cloud, like a young brood gazed in upon by some monster. Going on to the village, Oak flung a small stone against the window\nof Laban Tall's bedroom, expecting Susan to open it; but nobody\nstirred. He went round to the back door, which had been left\nunfastened for Laban's entry, and passed in to the foot of the\nstaircase. \"Mrs. Tall, I've come for the key of the granary, to get at the\nrick-cloths,\" said Oak, in a stentorian voice. \"Is that you?\" said Mrs. Susan Tall, half awake. \"Yes,\" said Gabriel. \"Come along to bed, do, you drawlatching rogue--keeping a body awake\nlike this!\" \"It isn't Laban--'tis Gabriel Oak. I want the key of the granary.\" \"Gabriel! What in the name of fortune did you pretend to be Laban\nfor?\" \"I didn't. I thought you meant--\"\n\n\"Yes you did! What do you want here?\" \"The key of the granary.\" \"Take it then. 'Tis on the nail. People coming disturbing women at\nthis time of night ought--\"\n\nGabriel took the key, without waiting to hear the conclusion of the\ntirade. Ten minutes later his lonely figure might have been seen\ndragging four large water-proof coverings across the yard, and soon\ntwo of these heaps of treasure in grain were covered snug--two cloths\nto each. Two hundred pounds were secured. Three wheat-stacks\nremained open, and there were no more cloths. Oak looked under the\nstaddles and found a fork. He mounted the third pile of wealth and\nbegan operating, adopting the plan of sloping the upper sheaves one\nover the other; and, in addition, filling the interstices with the\nmaterial of some untied sheaves. So far all was well. By this hurried contrivance Bathsheba's\nproperty in wheat was safe for at any rate a week or two, provided\nalways that there was not much wind. Next came the barley. This it was only possible to protect by\nsystematic thatching. Time went on, and the moon vanished not to\nreappear. It was the farewell of the ambassador previous to war. The night had a haggard look, like a sick thing; and there came\nfinally an utter expiration of air from the whole heaven in the form\nof a slow breeze, which might have been likened to a death. And now\nnothing was heard in the yard but the dull thuds of the beetle which\ndrove in the spars, and the rustle of thatch in the intervals. THE STORM--THE TWO TOGETHER\n\n\nA light flapped over the scene, as if reflected from phosphorescent\nwings crossing the sky, and a rumble filled the air.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-10 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It was the\nfirst move of the approaching storm. The second peal was noisy, with comparatively little visible\nlightning. Gabriel saw a candle shining in Bathsheba's bedroom,\nand soon a shadow swept to and fro upon the blind. Then there came a third flash. Manoeuvres of a most extraordinary\nkind were going on in the vast firmamental hollows overhead. The\nlightning now was the colour of silver, and gleamed in the heavens\nlike a mailed army. Rumbles became rattles. Gabriel from his\nelevated position could see over the landscape at least half-a-dozen\nmiles in front. Every hedge, bush, and tree was distinct as in a\nline engraving. In a paddock in the same direction was a herd of\nheifers, and the forms of these were visible at this moment in the\nact of galloping about in the wildest and maddest confusion, flinging\ntheir heels and tails high into the air, their heads to earth. A poplar in the immediate foreground was like an ink stroke on\nburnished tin. Then the picture vanished, leaving the darkness so\nintense that Gabriel worked entirely by feeling with his hands. He had stuck his ricking-rod, or poniard, as it was indifferently\ncalled--a long iron lance, polished by handling--into the stack,\nused to support the sheaves instead of the support called a groom\nused on houses. A blue light appeared in the zenith, and in some\nindescribable manner flickered down near the top of the rod. It\nwas the fourth of the larger flashes. A moment later and there was\na smack--smart, clear, and short. Gabriel felt his position to be\nanything but a safe one, and he resolved to descend. Not a drop of rain had fallen as yet. He wiped his weary brow, and\nlooked again at the black forms of the unprotected stacks. Was his\nlife so valuable to him after all? What were his prospects that he\nshould be so chary of running risk, when important and urgent labour\ncould not be carried on without such risk? He resolved to stick to\nthe stack. However, he took a precaution. Under the staddles was a\nlong tethering chain, used to prevent the escape of errant horses. This he carried up the ladder, and sticking his rod through the clog\nat one end, allowed the other end of the chain to trail upon the\nground. The spike attached to it he drove in. Under the shadow of\nthis extemporized lightning-conductor he felt himself comparatively\nsafe. Before Oak had laid his hands upon his tools again out leapt the\nfifth flash, with the spring of a serpent and the shout of a fiend. It was green as an emerald, and the reverberation was stunning. What\nwas this the light revealed to him? In the open ground before him,\nas he looked over the ridge of the rick, was a dark and apparently\nfemale form. Could it be that of the only venturesome woman in the\nparish--Bathsheba? The form moved on a step: then he could see no\nmore. \"Is that you, ma'am?\" said Gabriel to the darkness. \"Who is there?\" said the voice of Bathsheba. \"Gabriel. I am on the rick, thatching.\" \"Oh, Gabriel!--and are you? I have come about them. The weather\nawoke me, and I thought of the corn. I am so distressed about\nit--can we save it anyhow? I cannot find my husband. Is he with\nyou?\" \"He is not here.\" \"Do you know where he is?\" \"Asleep in the barn.\" \"He promised that the stacks should be seen to, and now they are all\nneglected! Can I do anything to help? Liddy is afraid to come out. Fancy finding you here at such an hour! Surely I can do something?\" \"You can bring up some reed-sheaves to me, one by one, ma'am; if you\nare not afraid to come up the ladder in the dark,\" said Gabriel. \"Every moment is precious now, and that would save a good deal of\ntime. It is not very dark when the lightning has been gone a bit.\" \"I'll do anything!\" she said, resolutely. She instantly took a sheaf\nupon her shoulder, clambered up close to his heels, placed it behind\nthe rod, and descended for another. At her third ascent the rick\nsuddenly brightened with the brazen glare of shining majolica--every\nknot in every straw was visible. On the slope in front of him\nappeared two human shapes, black as jet. The rick lost its\nsheen--the shapes vanished. Gabriel turned his head. It had been\nthe sixth flash which had come from the east behind him, and the two\ndark forms on the slope had been the shadows of himself and\nBathsheba. Then came the peal. It hardly was credible that such a heavenly\nlight could be the parent of such a diabolical sound. \"How terrible!\" she exclaimed, and clutched him by the sleeve. Gabriel turned, and steadied her on her aerial perch by holding\nher arm. At the same moment, while he was still reversed in his\nattitude, there was more light, and he saw, as it were, a copy of the\ntall poplar tree on the hill drawn in black on the wall of the barn. It was the shadow of that tree, thrown across by a secondary flash\nin the west. The next flare came. Bathsheba was on the ground now, shouldering\nanother sheaf, and she bore its dazzle without flinching--thunder\nand all--and again ascended with the load. There was then a silence\neverywhere for four or five minutes, and the crunch of the spars, as\nGabriel hastily drove them in, could again be distinctly heard. He\nthought the crisis of the storm had passed. But there came a burst\nof light. \"Hold on!\" said Gabriel, taking the sheaf from her shoulder, and\ngrasping her arm again. Heaven opened then, indeed. The flash was almost too novel for its\ninexpressibly dangerous nature to be at once realized, and they could\nonly comprehend the magnificence of its beauty. It sprang from\neast, west, north, south, and was a perfect dance of death. The\nforms of skeletons appeared in the air, shaped with blue fire for\nbones--dancing, leaping, striding, racing around, and mingling\naltogether in unparalleled confusion. With these were intertwined\nundulating snakes of green, and behind these was a broad mass of\nlesser light. Simultaneously came from every part of the tumbling\nsky what may be called a shout; since, though no shout ever came\nnear it, it was more of the nature of a shout than of anything else\nearthly. In the meantime one of the grisly forms had alighted upon\nthe point of Gabriel's rod, to run invisibly down it, down the chain,\nand into the earth. Gabriel was almost blinded, and he could feel\nBathsheba's warm arm tremble in his hand--a sensation novel and\nthrilling enough; but love, life, everything human, seemed small and\ntrifling in such close juxtaposition with an infuriated universe. Oak had hardly time to gather up these impressions into a thought,\nand to see how strangely the red feather of her hat shone in this\nlight, when the tall tree on the hill before mentioned seemed on fire\nto a white heat, and a new one among these terrible voices mingled\nwith the last crash of those preceding. It was a stupefying blast,\nharsh and pitiless, and it fell upon their ears in a dead, flat blow,\nwithout that reverberation which lends the tones of a drum to more\ndistant thunder. By the lustre reflected from every part of the\nearth and from the wide domical scoop above it, he saw that the\ntree was sliced down the whole length of its tall, straight stem, a\nhuge riband of bark being apparently flung off. The other portion\nremained erect, and revealed the bared surface as a strip of white\ndown the front. The lightning had struck the tree. A sulphurous\nsmell filled the air; then all was silent, and black as a cave in\nHinnom. \"We had a narrow escape!\" said Gabriel, hurriedly. \"You had better\ngo down.\" Bathsheba said nothing; but he could distinctly hear her rhythmical\npants, and the recurrent rustle of the sheaf beside her in response\nto her frightened pulsations. She descended the ladder, and, on\nsecond thoughts, he followed her. The darkness was now impenetrable\nby the sharpest vision. They both stood still at the bottom, side by\nside. Bathsheba appeared to think only of the weather--Oak thought\nonly of her just then. At last he said--\n\n\"The storm seems to have passed now, at any rate.\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-10, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-12 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"I think so too,\" said Bathsheba. \"Though there are multitudes of\ngleams, look!\" The sky was now filled with an incessant light, frequent repetition\nmelting into complete continuity, as an unbroken sound results from\nthe successive strokes on a gong. \"Nothing serious,\" said he. \"I cannot understand no rain falling. But Heaven be praised, it is all the better for us. I am now going\nup again.\" \"Gabriel, you are kinder than I deserve! I will stay and help you\nyet. Oh, why are not some of the others here!\" \"They would have been here if they could,\" said Oak, in a hesitating\nway. \"O, I know it all--all,\" she said, adding slowly: \"They are all\nasleep in the barn, in a drunken sleep, and my husband among them. That's it, is it not? Don't think I am a timid woman and can't\nendure things.\" \"I am not certain,\" said Gabriel. \"I will go and see.\" He crossed to the barn, leaving her there alone. He looked through\nthe chinks of the door. All was in total darkness, as he had left\nit, and there still arose, as at the former time, the steady buzz of\nmany snores. He felt a zephyr curling about his cheek, and turned. It was\nBathsheba's breath--she had followed him, and was looking into the\nsame chink. He endeavoured to put off the immediate and painful subject of\ntheir thoughts by remarking gently, \"If you'll come back again,\nmiss--ma'am, and hand up a few more; it would save much time.\" Then Oak went back again, ascended to the top, stepped off the ladder\nfor greater expedition, and went on thatching. She followed, but\nwithout a sheaf. \"Gabriel,\" she said, in a strange and impressive voice. Oak looked up at her. She had not spoken since he left the barn. The soft and continual shimmer of the dying lightning showed a marble\nface high against the black sky of the opposite quarter. Bathsheba\nwas sitting almost on the apex of the stack, her feet gathered up\nbeneath her, and resting on the top round of the ladder. \"Yes, mistress,\" he said. \"I suppose you thought that when I galloped away to Bath that night\nit was on purpose to be married?\" \"I did at last--not at first,\" he answered, somewhat surprised at the\nabruptness with which this new subject was broached. \"And others thought so, too?\" \"Yes.\" \"And you blamed me for it?\" \"Well--a little.\" \"I thought so. Now, I care a little for your good opinion, and\nI want to explain something--I have longed to do it ever since I\nreturned, and you looked so gravely at me. For if I were to die--and\nI may die soon--it would be dreadful that you should always think\nmistakenly of me. Now, listen.\" Gabriel ceased his rustling. \"I went to Bath that night in the full intention of breaking off my\nengagement to Mr. Troy. It was owing to circumstances which occurred\nafter I got there that--that we were married. Now, do you see the\nmatter in a new light?\" \"I do--somewhat.\" \"I must, I suppose, say more, now that I have begun. And perhaps\nit's no harm, for you are certainly under no delusion that I ever\nloved you, or that I can have any object in speaking, more than that\nobject I have mentioned. Well, I was alone in a strange city, and\nthe horse was lame. And at last I didn't know what to do. I saw,\nwhen it was too late, that scandal might seize hold of me for meeting\nhim alone in that way. But I was coming away, when he suddenly said\nhe had that day seen a woman more beautiful than I, and that his\nconstancy could not be counted on unless I at once became his....\nAnd I was grieved and troubled--\"  She cleared her voice, and waited\na moment, as if to gather breath. \"And then, between jealousy\nand distraction, I married him!\" she whispered with desperate\nimpetuosity. Gabriel made no reply. \"He was not to blame, for it was perfectly true about--about his\nseeing somebody else,\" she quickly added. \"And now I don't wish for\na single remark from you upon the subject--indeed, I forbid it. I\nonly wanted you to know that misunderstood bit of my history before\na time comes when you could never know it.--You want some more\nsheaves?\" She went down the ladder, and the work proceeded. Gabriel soon\nperceived a languor in the movements of his mistress up and down, and\nhe said to her, gently as a mother--\n\n\"I think you had better go indoors now, you are tired. I can finish\nthe rest alone. If the wind does not change the rain is likely to\nkeep off.\" \"If I am useless I will go,\" said Bathsheba, in a flagging cadence. \"But O, if your life should be lost!\" \"You are not useless; but I would rather not tire you longer. You\nhave done well.\" \"And you better!\" she said, gratefully. \"Thank you for your\ndevotion, a thousand times, Gabriel! Goodnight--I know you are doing\nyour very best for me.\" She diminished in the gloom, and vanished, and he heard the latch\nof the gate fall as she passed through. He worked in a reverie\nnow, musing upon her story, and upon the contradictoriness of that\nfeminine heart which had caused her to speak more warmly to him\nto-night than she ever had done whilst unmarried and free to speak\nas warmly as she chose. He was disturbed in his meditation by a grating noise from the\ncoach-house. It was the vane on the roof turning round, and this\nchange in the wind was the signal for a disastrous rain. RAIN--ONE SOLITARY MEETS ANOTHER\n\n\nIt was now five o'clock, and the dawn was promising to break in hues\nof drab and ash. The air changed its temperature and stirred itself more vigorously. Cool breezes coursed in transparent eddies round Oak's face. The\nwind shifted yet a point or two and blew stronger. In ten minutes\nevery wind of heaven seemed to be roaming at large. Some of the\nthatching on the wheat-stacks was now whirled fantastically aloft,\nand had to be replaced and weighted with some rails that lay near at\nhand. This done, Oak slaved away again at the barley. A huge drop\nof rain smote his face, the wind snarled round every corner, the\ntrees rocked to the bases of their trunks, and the twigs clashed in\nstrife. Driving in spars at any point and on any system, inch by\ninch he covered more and more safely from ruin this distracting\nimpersonation of seven hundred pounds. The rain came on in earnest,\nand Oak soon felt the water to be tracking cold and clammy routes\ndown his back. Ultimately he was reduced well-nigh to a homogeneous\nsop, and the dyes of his clothes trickled down and stood in a pool\nat the foot of the ladder. The rain stretched obliquely through the\ndull atmosphere in liquid spines, unbroken in continuity between\ntheir beginnings in the clouds and their points in him. Oak suddenly remembered that eight months before this time he had\nbeen fighting against fire in the same spot as desperately as he\nwas fighting against water now--and for a futile love of the same\nwoman. As for her--But Oak was generous and true, and dismissed\nhis reflections. It was about seven o'clock in the dark leaden morning when Gabriel\ncame down from the last stack, and thankfully exclaimed, \"It is\ndone!\" He was drenched, weary, and sad, and yet not so sad as\ndrenched and weary, for he was cheered by a sense of success in a\ngood cause. Faint sounds came from the barn, and he looked that way. Figures\nstepped singly and in pairs through the doors--all walking awkwardly,\nand abashed, save the foremost, who wore a red jacket, and advanced\nwith his hands in his pockets, whistling. The others shambled after\nwith a conscience-stricken air: the whole procession was not unlike\nFlaxman's group of the suitors tottering on towards the infernal\nregions under the conduct of Mercury. The gnarled shapes passed\ninto the village, Troy, their leader, entering the farmhouse. Not a\nsingle one of them had turned his face to the ricks, or apparently\nbestowed one thought upon their condition. Soon Oak too went homeward, by a different route from theirs. In\nfront of him against the wet glazed surface of the lane he saw a\nperson walking yet more slowly than himself under an umbrella. The\nman turned and plainly started; he was Boldwood. \"How are you this morning, sir?\" said Oak.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-12, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-13 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"Yes, it is a wet day.--Oh, I am well, very well, I thank you; quite\nwell.\" \"I am glad to hear it, sir.\" Boldwood seemed to awake to the present by degrees. \"You look tired\nand ill, Oak,\" he said then, desultorily regarding his companion. \"I am tired. You look strangely altered, sir.\" \"I? Not a bit of it: I am well enough. What put that into your\nhead?\" \"I thought you didn't look quite so topping as you used to, that was\nall.\" \"Indeed, then you are mistaken,\" said Boldwood, shortly. \"Nothing\nhurts me. My constitution is an iron one.\" \"I've been working hard to get our ricks covered, and was barely in\ntime. Never had such a struggle in my life....  Yours of course are\nsafe, sir.\" \"Oh yes,\" Boldwood added, after an interval of silence: \"What did you\nask, Oak?\" \"Your ricks are all covered before this time?\" \"No.\" \"At any rate, the large ones upon the stone staddles?\" \"They are not.\" \"Them under the hedge?\" \"No. I forgot to tell the thatcher to set about it.\" \"Nor the little one by the stile?\" \"Nor the little one by the stile. I overlooked the ricks this year.\" \"Then not a tenth of your corn will come to measure, sir.\" \"Possibly not.\" \"Overlooked them,\" repeated Gabriel slowly to himself. It is\ndifficult to describe the intensely dramatic effect that announcement\nhad upon Oak at such a moment. All the night he had been feeling\nthat the neglect he was labouring to repair was abnormal and\nisolated--the only instance of the kind within the circuit of the\ncounty. Yet at this very time, within the same parish, a greater\nwaste had been going on, uncomplained of and disregarded. A few\nmonths earlier Boldwood's forgetting his husbandry would have been as\npreposterous an idea as a sailor forgetting he was in a ship. Oak\nwas just thinking that whatever he himself might have suffered from\nBathsheba's marriage, here was a man who had suffered more, when\nBoldwood spoke in a changed voice--that of one who yearned to make\na confidence and relieve his heart by an outpouring. \"Oak, you know as well as I that things have gone wrong with me\nlately. I may as well own it. I was going to get a little settled\nin life; but in some way my plan has come to nothing.\" \"I thought my mistress would have married you,\" said Gabriel, not\nknowing enough of the full depths of Boldwood's love to keep silence\non the farmer's account, and determined not to evade discipline by\ndoing so on his own. \"However, it is so sometimes, and nothing\nhappens that we expect,\" he added, with the repose of a man whom\nmisfortune had inured rather than subdued. \"I daresay I am a joke about the parish,\" said Boldwood, as if\nthe subject came irresistibly to his tongue, and with a miserable\nlightness meant to express his indifference. \"Oh no--I don't think that.\" \"--But the real truth of the matter is that there was not, as some\nfancy, any jilting on--her part. No engagement ever existed between\nme and Miss Everdene. People say so, but it is untrue: she never\npromised me!\" Boldwood stood still now and turned his wild face to\nOak. \"Oh, Gabriel,\" he continued, \"I am weak and foolish, and I\ndon't know what, and I can't fend off my miserable grief! ... I had\nsome faint belief in the mercy of God till I lost that woman. Yes,\nHe prepared a gourd to shade me, and like the prophet I thanked Him\nand was glad. But the next day He prepared a worm to smite the gourd\nand wither it; and I feel it is better to die than to live!\" A silence followed. Boldwood aroused himself from the momentary\nmood of confidence into which he had drifted, and walked on again,\nresuming his usual reserve. \"No, Gabriel,\" he resumed, with a carelessness which was like\nthe smile on the countenance of a skull: \"it was made more of by\nother people than ever it was by us. I do feel a little regret\noccasionally, but no woman ever had power over me for any length of\ntime. Well, good morning; I can trust you not to mention to others\nwhat has passed between us two here.\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-13, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-13", "answer": "Gabriel, Coggan, Sergeant Troy, Bathsheba, Boldwood, secret marriage, harvest supper, harvest dance, barn, wheat ricks, barley ricks, storm, lightning, Bath, brandy and water, laborers passed out, Gabriel's distress, Bathsheba's confession, intimate conversation, Gabriel saves ricks, Bathsheba aids Gabriel, Troy overrules Bathsheba, Bathsheba's motivation, jealousy and distraction, Boldwood's despair, Boldwood's negligence, farm workers, produce exposed to rain, Gabriel's heroism, Bathsheba's troubled state, Troy's compliments, Bathsheba's engagement, Gabriel and Bathsheba relationship, seven in the morning, husbandry forgotten"}]