FANNY'S REVENGE
DO you want me any longer ma'am? inquired Liddy,at a later hour the same evening, standing by the doorwith a chamber candlestick in her hand and addressingBathsheba, who sat cheerless and alone in the largeparlour beside the first fire of the season.No more to-night, Liddy.I'll sit up for master if you like, ma'am. I am notat all afraid of Fanny, if I may sit in my own room andhave a candle. She was such a childlike, nesh youngthing that her spirit couldn't appear to anybody if ittried, I'm quite sure.O no, no! You go to bed. I'll sit up for himmyself till twelve o'clock, and if he has not arrived bythat time, I shall give him up and go to bed too.It is half-past ten now.Oh! is it?Why don't you sit upstairs, ma'am?Why don't I? said Bathsheba, desultorily. Itisn't worth while -- there's a fire here, Liddy. Shesuddenly exclaimed in an impulsive and excited whisper,Have you heard anything strange said of Fanny?The words had no sooner escaped her than an expres-sion of unutterable regret crossed her face, and sheburst into tears.No -- not a word! said Liddy, looking at theweeping woman with astonishment. What is it makesyou cry so, ma'am; has anything hurt you? She cameto Bathsheba's side with a face full of sympathy.No, Liddy-i don't want you any more. I canhardly say why I have taken to crying lately: I neverused to cry. Good-night.Liddy then left the parlour and closed the door.Bathsheba was lonely and miserable now; not lone-lier actually than she had been before her marriage;but her loneliness then was to that of the present timeas the solitude of a mountain is to the solitude of acave. And within the last day or two had come thesedisquieting thoughts about her husband's past. Herwayward sentiment that evening concerning Fanny'stemporary resting-place had been the result of a strangecomplication of impulses in Bathsheba's bosom. Per-haps it would be more accurately described as adetermined rebellion against her prejudices, a revulsionfrom a lower instinct of uncharitableness, which wouldhave withheld all sympathy from the dead woman, be-cause in life she had preceded Bathsheba in the atten-tions of a man whom Bathsheba had by no meansceased from loving, though her love was sick to deathjust now with the gravity of a further misgiving.In five or ten minutes there was another tap at thedoor. Liddy reappeared, and coming in a little waystood hesitating, until at length she said,!Maryann hasjust heard something very strange, but I know it isn'ttrue. And we shall be sure to know the rights of it ina day or two.What is it?Oh, nothing connected with you or us, ma'am. Itis about Fanny. That same thing you have heard.I have heard nothing.I mean that a wicked story is got to Weatherburywithin this last hour -- that -- -- Liddy came close toher mistress and whispered the remainder of the sentenceslowly into her ear, inclining her head as she spoke inthe direction of the room where Fanny lay.Bathsheba trembled from head to foot.I don't believe it! she said, excitedly. Andthere's only one name written on the coffin-cover.Nor I, ma'am. And a good many others don't;for we should surely have been told more about it if ithad been true -- don't you think so, ma'am?We might or we might not.Bathsheba turned and looked into the fire, thatLiddy might not see her face. Finding that her mistresswas going to say no more, Liddy glided out, closed thedoor softly, and went to bed.Bathsheba's face, as she continued looking into thefire that evening, might have excited solicitousness onher account even among those who loved her least.The sadness of Fanny Robin's fate did not make Bath-sheba's glorious, although she was the Esther to thispoor Vashti, and their fates might be supposed to standin some respects as contrasts to each other. WhenLiddy came into the room a second time the beautifuleyes which met hers had worn a listless, weary look-When she went out after telling the story they had ex-pressed wretchedness in full activity. Her simplecountry nature, fed on old-fashioned principles, wastroubled by that which would have troubled a womanof the world very little, both Fanny and her child, if shehad one, being dead.Bathsheba had grounds for conjecturing a connectionbetween her own history and the dimly suspectedtragedy of Fanny's end which Oak and Boldwood neverfor a moment credited her with possessing. Themeeting with the lonely woman on the previous Saturdaynight had been unwitnessed and unspoken of. Oakmay have had the best of intentions in withholding foras many days as possible the details of what hadhappened to Fanny; but had he known that Bathsheba'sperceptions had already been exercised in the matter,he would have done nothing to lengthen the minutes ofsuspense she was now undergoing, when the certaintywhich must terminate it would be the worst fact suspectedafter all.She suddenly felt a longing desire to speak to someone stronger than herself, and so get strength to sustainher surmised position with dignity and her lurkingdoubts with stoicism. Where could she find such afriend? nowhere in the house. She was by far thecoolest of the women under her roof. Patience andsuspension of judgement for a few hours were what shewanted to learn, and there was nobody to teach her.Might she but go to Gabriel Oak! -- but that could notbe. What a way Oak had, she thought, of enduringthings. Boldwood, who seemed so much deeper andhigher and stronger in feeling than Gabriel, had notyet learnt, any more than she herself, the simplelesson which Oak showed a mastery of by every turnand look he gave -- that among the multitude of interestsby which he was surrounded, those which affected hispersonal wellbeing were not the most absorbing andimportant in his eyes. Oak meditatively looked uponthe horizon of circumstances without any special regardto his own standpoint in the midst. That was howshe would wish to be. But then Oak was not rackedby incertitude upon the inmost matter of his bosom, asshe was at this moment. Oak knew all about Fannythat he wished to know -- she felt convinced of that.If she were to go to him now at once and say no morethan these few words,!What is the truth of the story?he would feel bound in honour to tell her. It wouldbe an inexpressible relief. No further speech wouldneed to be uttered. He knew her so well that noeccentricity of behaviour in her would alarm him.She flung a cloak round her, went to the door andopened it. Every blade, every twig was still. The airwas yet thick with moisture, though somewhat less densethan during the afternoon, and a steady smack of dropsupon the fallen leaves under the boughs was almostmusical in its soothing regularity. lt seemed better tobe out of the house than within it, and Bathsheba closedthe door, and walked slowly down the lane till she cameopposite to Gabriel's cottage, where he now lived alone,having left Coggan's house through being pinched forroom. There was a light in one window only', and thatwas downstairs. The shutters were not closed, nor wasany blind or curtain drawn over the window, neitherrobbery nor observation being a contingency which coulddo much injury to the occupant of the domicile. Yes,it was Gabriel himself who was sitting up: he was reading,From her standing-place in the road she could see himplainly, sitting quite still, his light curly head upon hishand, and only occasionally looking up to snuff thecandle which stood beside him. At length he lookedat the clock, seemed surprised at the lateness of thehour, closed his book, and arose. He was going to bed,she knew, and if she tapped it must be done at once.Alas for her resolve! She felt she could not do it,Not for worlds now could she give a hint about hermisery to him, much less ask him plainly for informationon the cause of Fanny's death. She must suspect, andguess, and chafe, and bear it all alone.Like a homeless wanderer she lingered by the bank,as if lulled and fascinated by the atmosphere of contentwhich seemed to spread from that little dwelling, andwas so sadly lacking in her own. Gabriel appeared inan upper room, placed his light in the window-bench,and then -- knelt down to pray. The contrast of thepicture with her rebellious and agitated existence at thissame time was too much for her to bear to look uponlonger. It was not for her to make a truce withtrouble by any such means. She must tread her giddydistracting measure to its last note, as she had begun it.With a swollen heart she went again up the lane, andentered her own door.More fevered now by a reaction from the first feelingswhich Oak's example had raised in her, she paused inthe hall, looking at the door of the room wherein Fannylay. She locked her fingers, threw back her head, andstrained her hot hands rigidly across her forehead, saying,with a hysterical sob, Would to God you would speakand tell me your secret, Fanny! . , . O, I hope, hopeit is not true that there are two of you! ... If I couldonly look in upon you for one little minute, I shouldknow all!A few moments passed, and she added, slowly, AndI willBathsheba in after times could never gauge the moodwhich carried her through the actions following thismurmured resolution on this memorable evening of herlife. She went to the lumber-closet for a screw-driver.At the end of a short though undefined time she foundherself in the small room, quivering with emotion, a mistbefore her eyes, and an excruciating pulsation in herbrain, standing beside the uncovered coffin of the girlwhose conjectured end had so entirely engrossed her, andsaying to herself in a husky voice as she gazed within --It was best to know the worst, and I know it now!She was conscious of having brought about thissituation by a series of actions done as by one in anextravagant dream; of following that idea as to method,which had burst upon her in the hall with glaringobviousness, by gliding to the top of the stairs, assuringherself by listening to the heavy breathing of her maidsthat they were asleep, gliding down again, turning thehandle of the door within which the young girl lay, anddeliberately setting herself to do what, if she had antici-pated any such undertaking at night and alone, wouldhave horrified her, but which, when done, was not sodreadful as was the conclusive proof of her husband'sconduct which came with knowing beyond doubt thelast chapter of Fanny's story.Bathsheba's head sank upon her bosom, and thebreath which had been bated in suspense, curiosity, andinterest, was exhaled now in the form of a whisperedwail: Oh-h-h! she said, and the silent room addedlength to her moan.Her tears fell fast beside the unconscious pair in thecoffin: tears of a complicated origin, of a nature inde-scribable, almost indefinable except as other than thoseof simple sorrow. Assuredly their wonted fires musthave lived in Fanny's ashes when events were so shapedas to chariot her hither in this natural, unobtrusive, yeteffectual manner. The one feat alone -- that of dying --by which a mean condition could be resolved into agrand one, Fanny had achieved. And to that haddestiny subjoined this rencounter to-night, which had,in Bathsheba's wild imagining, turned her companion'sfailure to success, her humiliation to triumph, her luck-lessness to ascendency; et had thrown over herself agarish light of mockery, and set upon all things abouther an ironical smile.Fanny's face was framed in by that yellow hair ofhers; and there was no longer much room for doubt asto the origin of the curl owned by Troy. In Bath-sheba's heated fancy the innocent white countenanceexpressed a dim triumphant consciousness of the painshe was retaliating for her pain with all the mercilessrigour of the Mosaic law: Burning for burning; woundfor wound: strife for strife.Bathsheba indulged in contemplations of escape fromher position by immediate death, which thought she,though it was an inconvenient and awful way, had limitsto its inconvenience and awfulness that could not beoverpassed; whilst the shames of life were measureless.Yet even this scheme of extinction by death was outtamely copying her rival's method without the reasonswhich had glorified it in her rival's case. She glidedrapidly up and down the room, as was mostly her habithen excited, her hands hanging clasped in front of her,as she thought and in part expressed in broken words:O, I hate her, yet I don't mean that I hate her, forit is grievous and wicked; and yet I hate her a little!yes, my flesh insists upon hating her, whether my spiritis willing or no!... If she had only lived, I couldave been angry and cruel towards her with some justifi-cation but to be vindictive towards a poor dead womanrecoils upon myself. O God, have mercy,! I ammiserable at all this!Bathsheba became at this moment so terrified at herown state of mind that she looked around for some sortof refuge from herself. The vision of Oak kneelingdown that night recurred to her, and with the imitativeinstinct which animates women she seized upon the idea,resolved to kneel, and, if possible, pray. Gabriel hadprayed; so would she.She knelt beside the coffin, covered her face with herhands, and for a time the room was silent as a tomb.whether from a purely mechanical, or from any othercause, when Bathsheba arose it was with a quieted spirit,and a regret for the antagonistic instincts which hadseized upon her just before.In her desire to make atonement she took flowersfrom a vase by the window, and began laying themaround the dead girl's head. Bathsheba knew no otherway of showing kindness to persons departed than bygiving them flowers. She knew not how long sheremained engaged thus. She forgot time, life, whereshe was, what she was doing. A slamming together ofthe coach-house doors in the yard brought her to her-self again. An instant after, the front door opened andclosed, steps crossed the hall, and her husband appearedat the entrance to the room, looking in upon her.He beheld it all by degrees, stared in stupefaction atthe scene, as if he thought it an illusion raised by somefiendishincantation. Bathsheba, pallid as a corpse onend, gazed back at him in the same wild way.So little are instinctive guesses the fruit of a legitimateinduction, that at this moment, as he stood with thedoor in his hand, Troy never once thought of Fanny inconnection with what he saw. His first confused ideawas that somebody in the house had died.Well -- what? said Troy, blankly.I must go! I must go! said Bathsheba, to herselfmore than to him. She came with a dilated eye towardsthe door, to push past him.What's the matter, in God's name? who's dead?said Troy.I cannot say; let me go out. I want air! shecontinued.But no; stay, I insist! He seized her hand, andthen volition seemed to leave her, and she went off intoa state of passivity. He, still holding her, came up theroom, and thus, hand in hand, Troy and Bathshebaapproached the coffin's side.The candle was standing on a bureau close by them,and the light slanted down, distinctly enkindling thecold features of both mother and babe. Troy lookedin, dropped his wife's hand, knowledge of it all cameover him in a lurid sheen, and he stood still.So still he remained that he could be imagined tohave left in him no motive power whatever. Theclashes of feeling in all directions confounded oneanother, produced a neutrality, and there was motion innone.Do you know her? said Bathsheba, in a smallenclosed echo, as from the interior of a cell.I do. said Troy.Is it she?It is.He had originally stood perfectly erect. And now,in the wellnigh congealed immobility of his framecould be discerned an incipient movement, as in thedarkest night may be discerned light after a while.He was gradually sinking forwards. The lines of hisfeatures softened, and dismay modulated to illimitablesadness. Bathsheba was regarding him from the otherside, still with parted lips and distracted eyes. Capacityfor intense feeling is proportionate to the generalintensity of the nature ,and perhaps in all Fanny'ssufferings, much greater relatively to her strength, therenever was a time she suffered in an absolute sensewhat Bathsheba suffered now.What Troy did was to sink upon his knees withan indefinable union of remorse and reverence uponhis face, and, bending over Fanny Robin, gently kissedher, as one would kiss an infant asleep to avoidawakening it.At the sight and sound of that, to her, unendurableact, Bathsheba sprang towards him. All the strongfeelings which had been scattered over her existencesince she knew what feeling was, seemed gatheredtogether into one pulsation now. The revulsion fromher indignant mood a little earlier, when she hadmeditated upon compromised honour, forestalment,eclipse in maternity by another, was violent and entire.All that was forgotten in the simple and still strongattachment of wife to husband. She had sighed forher self-completeness then, and now she cried aloudagainst the severance of the union she had deplored.She flung her arms round Troy's neck, exclaiming wildlyfrom the deepest deep of her heart --Don't -- don't kiss them! O, Frank, I cant bearit-i can't! I love you better than she did: kiss metoo, Frank -- kiss me! You will, Frank, kiss me too!There was something so abnormal and startling inthe childlike pain and simplicity of this appeal from awoman of Bathsheba's calibre and independence, thatTroy, loosening her tightly clasped arms from his neck,looked at her in bewilderment. It was such and unex-pected revelation of all women being alike at heart, eventhose so different in their accessories as Fanny and thisone beside him, that Troy could hardly seem to believeher to be his proud wife Bathsheba. Fanny's ownspirit seemed to be animating her frame. But this wasthe mood of a few instants only. When the momentaryI will not kiss you! he said pushing her away.Had the wife now but gone no further. Yet,perhaps. under the harrowing circumstances, to speakout was the one wrong act which can be better under-stood, if not forgiven in her, than the right and politicone, her rival being now but a corpse. All the feelingshe had been betrayed into showing she drew back toherself again by a strenuous effort of self-command.What have you to say as your reason? she askedher bitter voice being strangely low -- quite that ofanother woman now.I have to say that I have been a bad, black-heartedman. he answered.less than she.Ah! don't taunt me, madam. This woman is moreto me, dead as she is, than ever you were, or are, or canbe. If Satan had not tempted me with that face ofyours, and those cursed coquetries, I should haveHe turned to Fanny then. But never mind, darling,wife!At these words there arose from Bathsheba's lips along, low cry of measureless despair and indignation,such a wail of anguish as had never before been heardwithin those old-inhabited walls. It was the product*of her union with Troy.If she's -- that, -- what -- am I? she added, as acontinuation of the same cry, and sobbing pitifully:and the rarity with her of such abandonment only madethe condition more dire.You are nothing to me -- nothing. said Troy,heartlessly. A ceremony before a priest doesn't makea marriage. I am not morally yours.A vehement impulse to flee from him, to run fromthis place, hide, and escape his words at any price, notstopping short of death itself, mastered Bathsheba now.She waited not an instant, but turned to the door andran out.
CHAPTER XLIV