BEAUTY IN LONELINESS -- AFTER ALL
BATHSHEBA revived with the spring. The utterprostration that had followed the low fever from whichshe had suffered diminished perceptibly when all un-certainty upon every subject had come to an end.But she remained alone now for the greater part ofher time, and stayed in the house, or at furthest wentinto the garden. She shunned every one, even Liddy,and could be brought to make no confidences, and toask for no sympathy.As the summer drew on she passed more of her timein the open air, and began to examine into farmingmatters from sheer necessity, though she never rodeout or personally superintended as at former times.One Friday evening in August she walked a little wayalong the road and entered the village for the first timesince the sombre event of the preceding Christmas.None of the old colour had as yet come to her cheek,and its absolute paleness was heightened by the jet blackof her gown, till it appeared preternatural. When shereached a little shop at the other end of the place,which stood nearly opposite to the churchyard, Bath-sheba heard singing inside the church, and she knewthat the singers were practising. She crossed the road,opened the gate, and entered the graveyard, the highsills of the church windows effectually screening herfrom the eyes of those gathered within. Her stealthywalk was to the nook wherein Troy had worked atplanting flowers upon Fanny Robin's grave, and shecame to the marble tombstone.A motion of satisfaction enlivened her face as sheread the complete inscription. First came the words ofTroy himself: --ERECTED BY FRANCIS TROYIN BELOVED MEMORY OFFANNY ROBIN,WHO DIED OCTOBER 9, 18 -- ,AGED 20 YEARS.Underneath this was now inscribed in new letters: --IN THE SAME GRAVE LIETHE REMAINS OF THE AFORESAIDFRANCIS TROY,WHO DIED DECEMBER 24TH, 18 -- ,Whilst she stood and read and meditated the tones ofthe organ began again in the church, and she wentwith the same light step round to the porch and listened.The door was closed, and the choir was learning a newhymn. Bathsheba was stirred by emotions whichlatterly she had assumed to be altogether dead withinher. The little attenuated voices of the childrenbrought to her ear in destinct utterance the words theysang without thought or comprehension --Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,Lead Thou me on.Bathsheba's feeling was always to some extent de-pendent upon her whim, as is the case with many otherwomen. Something big came into her throat and anuprising to her eyes -- and she thought that she wouldallow the imminent tears to flow if they wished. Theydid flow and plenteously, and one fell upon the stonebench beside her. Once that she had begun to cry forshe hardly knew what, she could not leave off for crowd-ing thoughts she knew too well. She would have givenanything in the world to be, as those children were, un-concerned at the meaning of their words, because tooinnocent to feel the necessity for any such expression.All the impassioned scenes of her brief expenenceseemed to revive with added emotion at that moment,and those scenes which had been without emotionduring enactment had emotion then. Yet grief cameto her rather as a luxury than as the scourge of formertimes.Owing to Bathsheba's face being buried in her handsshe did not notice a form which came quietly into theporch, and on seeing her, first moved as if to retreat,then paused and regarded her. Bathsheba did not raiseher head for some time, and when she looked roundher face was wet, and her eyes drowned and dim. Mr.Oak. exclaimed she, disconcerted, how long have youbeen here?A few minutes, ma'am. said Oak, respectfully.Are you going in? said Bathsheba; and there camefrom within the church as from a prompter --l loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,pride ruled my will: remember not past years.I was. said Gabriel. I am one of the bass singers,you know. I have sung bass for several months.Indeed: I wasn't aware of that. I'll leave you, then.which I have loved long since, and lost awhile,sang the children.Don't let me drive you away, mistress. I think Iwon't go in to-night.O no -- you don't drive me away.Then they stood in a state of some embarrassmentBathsheba trying to wipe her dreadfully drenched andinflamed face without his noticing her. At length Oaksaid, I've not seen you-i mean spoken to you -- sinceever so long, have I? But he feared to bring distress-ing memories back, and interrupted himself with: Wereyou going into church?No. she said. I came to see the tombstoneprivately -- to see if they had cut the inscription as Iwished Mr. Oak, you needn't mind speaking to me, ifyou wish to, on the matter which is in both our mindsat this moment.And have they done it as you wished? said Oak.Yes. Come and see it, if you have not already.So together they went and read the tomb. Eightmonths ago! Gabriel murmured when he saw the date.It seems like yesterday to me.And to me as if it were years ago-long years, andI had been dead between. And now I am going home,Mr. Oak.Oak walked after her. I wanted to name a smallmatter to you as soon as I could. he said, with hesitation.Merrily about business, and I think I may just mention itnow, if you'll allow me.O yes, certainly.It is that I may soon have to give up the manage-ment of your farm, Mrs. Troy. The fact is, I am think-ing of leaving England -- not yet, you know -- nextspring. Leaving England! she said, in surprise andgenuine disappointment. Why, Gabriel, what are yougoing to do that for?Well, I've thought it best. Oak stammered out.California is the spot I've had in my mind to try.But it is understood everywhere that you are goingto take poor Mr. Boldwood's farm on your own account.I've had the refusal o' it 'tis true; but nothing issettled yet, and I have reasons for giving up. I shallfinish out my year there as manager for the trustees,but no more.And what shall I do without you? Oh, Gabriel, Idon't think you ought to go away. You've been withme so long -- through bright times and dark times -- suchold friends that as we are -- that it seems unkind almost. Ihad fancied that if you leased the other farm as master,you might still give a helping look across at mine. Andnow going away!I would have willingly.Yet now that I am more helpless than ever you goaway!Yes, that's the ill fortune o' it. said Gabriel, in adistressed tone. And it is because of that very help-lessness that I feel bound to go. Good afternoon,ma'am he concluded, in evident anxiety to getaway, and at once went out of the churchyard by apath she could follow on no pretence whatever.Bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with anew trouble, which being rather harassing than deadlywas calculated to do good by diverting her from thechronic gloom of her life. She was set thinking a greatdeal about Oak and of his which to shun her; and thereoccurred to Bathsheba several incidents of latter in-tercourse with him, which, trivial when singly viewedamounted together to a perceptible disinclination forher society. It broke upon her at length as a greatpain that her last old disciple was about to forsake herand flee. He who had believed in her and argued onher side when all the rest of the world was against her,had at last like the others become weary and neglectfulof the old cause, and was leaving her to fight her battlesalone.Three weeks went on, and more evidence of hiswant of interest in her was forthcoming. She noticedthat instead of entering the small parlour or officewhere the farm accounts were kept, and waiting, orleaving a memorandum as he had hitherto done duringher seclusion, Oak never came at all when she was likelyto be there, only entering at unseasonable hours whenher presence in that part of the house was least to beexpected. Whenever he wanted directions he sent amessage, or note with neither heading nor signature, towhich she was obliged to reply in the same off-handstyle. Poor Bathsheba began to suffer now from themost torturing sting of ali-a sensation that she wasdespised.The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid thesemelancholy conjectures, and Christmas-day came, com-pleting a year of her legal widowhood, and two yearsand a quarter of her life alone. On examining herheart it appeared beyond measure strange that the sub-ject of which the season might have been supposedsuggestive -- the event in the hall at Boldwood's -- wasnot agitating her at all; but instead, an agonizing con-viction that everybody abjured her -- for what she couldnot tell -- and that Oak was the ringleader of therecusants. Coming out of church that day she lookedround in hope that Oak, whose bass voice she hadheard rolling out from the gallery overhead in a mostunconcerned manner, might chance to linger in her pathin the old way. There he was, as usual, coming downthe path behind her. But on seeing Bathsheba turn, helooked aside, and as soon as he got beyond the gate,and there was the barest excuse for a divergence, hemade one, and vanished.The next morning brought the culminating stroke;she had been expecting it long. It was a formal noticeby letter from him that he should not renew his engage-ment with her for the following Lady-day.Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter mostbitterly. She was aggrieved and wounded that thepossession of hopeless love from Gabriel, which she hadAFTER ALLgrown to regard as her inalienable right for life, shouldhave been withdrawn just at his own pleasure in thisway. She was bewildered too by the prospect of havingto rely on her own resources again: it seemed to herselfthat she never could again acquire energy sufficient togo to market, barter, and sell. Since Troy's death Oakhad attended all sales and fairs for her, transacting herbusiness at the same time with his own. What shouldshe do now? Her life was becoming a desolation.So desolate was Bathsheba this evening, that in anabsolute hunger for pity and sympathy, and miserable inthat she appeared to have outlived the only true friend-ship she had ever owned, she put on her bonnet andcloak and went down to Oak's house just after sunset,guided on her way by the pale primrose rays of acrescent moon a few days old.A lively firelight shone from the window, but nobodywas visible in the room. She tapped nervously, andthen thought it doubtful if it were right for a singlewoman to call upon a bachelor who lived alone, althoughhe was her manager, and she might be supposed to callon business without any real impropriety. Gabrielopened the door, and the moon shone upon his fore-haad.Mr. Oak. said Bathsheba, faintly.Yes; I am Mr. Oak. said Gabriel. Who have Ithe honour -- O how stupid of me, not to know you,mistress!I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall IGabriel? she said, in pathetic tones.Well, no. I suppose -- But come in, ma'am. Oh --and I'll get a light. Oak replied, with some awkwardness.No; not on my account.It is so seldom that I get a lady visitor that I'mafraid I haven't proper accommodation. Will you sitdown, please? Here's a chair, and there's one, too.I am sorry that my chairs all have wood seats, and arerather hard, but I was thinking of getting some newones. Oak placed two or three for her.They are quite easy enough for me.So down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dancingin their faces, and upon the old furnitureall a-sheenenWi' long years o' handlen,that formed Oak's array of household possessions, whichsent back a dancing reflection in reply. It was veryodd to these two persons, who knew each other passingwell, that the mere circumstance of their meeting in anew place and in a new way should make them soawkward and constrained. In the fields, or at her house,there had never been any embarrassment; but now thatOak had become the entertainer their lives seemed to bemoved back again to the days when they were strangers.You'll think it strange that I have come, but -- O no; not at all.But I thought -- Gabriel, I have been uneasy in thebelief that I have offended you, and that you are goingaway on that account. It grieved me very much andI couldn't help coming.Offended me! As if you could do that, Bathsheba!Haven't I? she asked, gladly. But, what are yougoing away for else?I am not going to emigrate, you know; I wasn'taware that you would wish me not to when I told 'ee or Ishouldn't ha' thought of doing it. he said, simply. Ihave arranged for Little Weatherbury Farm and shallhave it in my own hands at Lady-day. You know I'vehad a share in it for some time. Still, that wouldn'tprevent my attending to your business as before, hadn'tit been that things have been said about us.What? said Bathsheba, in surprise. Things saidabout you and me! What are they?I cannot tell you.It would be wiser if you were to, I think. You haveplayed the part of mentor to me many times, and I don'tsee why you should fear to do it now.It is nothing that you have done, this time. Thetop and tail o't is this -- that I am sniffing about here,and waiting for poor Boldwood's farm, with a thoughtof getting you some day.Getting me! What does that mean?Marrying o' 'ee, in plain British. You asked me totell, so you mustn't blame me.Bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if acannon had been discharged by her ear, which was whatOak had expected. Marrying me! I didn't know itwas that you meant. she said, quietly. Such a thingas that is too absurd -- too soon -- to think of, by far!Yes; of course, it is too absurd. I don't desire anysuch thing; I should think that was plain enough bythis time. Surely, surely you be the last person in theworld I think of marrying. It is too absurd, as you sayToo -- s-s-soon were the words I used.I must beg your pardon for correcting you, but yousaid, too absurd, and so do I.I beg your pardon too! she returned, with tearsin her eyes. Too soon was what I said. But itdoesn't matter a bit -- not at ali-but I only meant,too soon Indeed, I didn't, Mr. Oak, and you mustbelieve me!Gabriel looked her long in the face, but the firelightbeing faint there was not much to be seen. Bathsheba,he said, tenderly and in surprise, and coming closer:if I only knew one thing -- whether you would allow meto love you and win you, and marry you after ali-if Ionly knew that!But you never will know. she murmured.Why?Because you never ask.Oh -- Oh! said Gabriel, with a low laugh of joyous-ness. My own dear -- You ought not to have sent me that harsh letterthis morning. she interrupted. It shows you didn'tcare a bit about me, and were ready to desert me likeall the rest of them! It was very cruel of you, consider-ing I was the first sweetheart that you ever had, andyou were the first I ever had; and I shall not forget it!Now, Bathsheba, was ever anybody so provokinghe said, laughing. You know it was purely that I, asan unmarried man, carrying on a business for you as avery taking young woman, had a proper hard part toplay -- more particular that people knew I had a sortof feeling for'ee; and I fancied, from the way we werementioned together, that it might injure your good name.Nobody knows the heat and fret I have been causedby it.And was that all?All.Oh, how glad I am I came! she exclaimed, thank-fully, as she rose from her seat. I have thought somuch more of you since I fancied you did not wanteven to see me again. But I must be going now, or Ishall be missed. Why Gabriel. she said, with a slightlaugh, as they went to the door, it seems exactly as ifI had come courting you -- how dreadful!And quite right too. said Oak. I've danced atyour skittish heels, my beautiful Bathsheba, for many along mile, and many a long day; and it is hard to be-grudge me this one visit.He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to herthe details of his forthcoming tenure of the other farm.They spoke very little of their mutual feeling; prettyphrases and warm expressions being probably un-necessary between such tried friends. Theirs was thatsubstantial affection which arises (if any arises at all)when the two who are thrown together begin first byknowing the rougher sides of each other's character,and not the best till further on, the romance growingup in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality.This good-fellowship -- CAMARADERIE -- usually occurringthrough similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldomsuperadded to love between the sexes, because men andwomen associate, not in their labours, but in theirpleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstancepermits its development, the compounded feeling provesitself to be the only love which is strong as death -- thatlove which many waters cannot quench, nor the floodsdrown, beside which the passion usually called by thename is evanescent as steam.
CHAPTER LVII