________________________________________________
_
CHAPTER LVI - BEAUTY IN LONELINESS -- AFTER ALL
BATHSHEBA revived with the spring. The utter prostration
that had followed the low fever from which she had suffered
diminished perceptibly when all uncertainty upon every
subject had come to an end.
But she remained alone now for the greater part of her time,
and stayed in the house, or at furthest went into the
garden. She shunned every one, even Liddy, and could be
brought to make no confidences, and to ask for no sympathy.
As the summer drew on she passed more of her time in the
open air, and began to examine into farming matters from
sheer necessity, though she never rode out or personally
superintended as at former times. One Friday evening in
August she walked a little way along the road and entered
the village for the first time since 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 black of her gown, till it appeared preternatural.
When she reached a little shop at the other end of the
place, which stood nearly opposite to the churchyard,
Bathsheba heard singing inside the church, and she knew that
the singers were practising. She crossed the road, opened
the gate, and entered the graveyard, the high sills of the
church windows effectually screening her from the eyes of
those gathered within. Her stealthy walk was to the nook
wherein Troy had worked at planting flowers upon Fanny
Robin's grave, and she came to the marble tombstone.
A motion of satisfaction enlivened her face as she read the
complete inscription. First came the words of Troy himself:
--
ERECTED BY FRANCIS TROY
IN BELOVED MEMORY OF
FANNY ROBIN,
WHO DIED OCTOBER 9, 18 --,
AGED 20 YEARS.
Underneath this was now inscribed in new letters: --
IN THE SAME GRAVE LIE
THE REMAINS OF THE AFORESAID
FRANCIS TROY,
WHO DIED DECEMBER 24TH, 18 --,
AGED 26 YEARS.
Whilst she stood and read and meditated the tones of the
organ began again in the church, and she went with the same
light step round to the porch and listened. The door was
closed, and the choir was learning a new hymn. Bathsheba
was stirred by emotions which latterly she had assumed to be
altogether dead within her. The little attenuated voices of
the children brought to her ear in destinct utterance the
words they sang without thought or comprehension --
Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on.
Bathsheba's feeling was always to some extent dependent upon
her whim, as is the case with many other women. Something
big came into her throat and an uprising to her eyes -- and
she thought that she would allow the imminent tears to flow
if they wished. They did flow and plenteously, and one fell
upon the stone bench beside her. Once that she had begun to
cry for she hardly knew what, she could not leave off for
crowding thoughts she knew too well. She would have given
anything in the world to be, as those children were,
unconcerned at the meaning of their words, because too
innocent to feel the necessity for any such expression. All
the impassioned scenes of her brief experience seemed to
revive with added emotion at that moment, and those scenes
which had been without emotion during enactment had emotion
then. Yet grief came to her rather as a luxury than as the
scourge of former times.
Owing to Bathsheba's face being buried in her hands she did
not notice a form which came quietly into the porch, and on
seeing her, first moved as if to retreat, then paused and
regarded her. Bathsheba did not raise her head for some
time, and when she looked round her face was wet, and her
eyes drowned and dim. "Mr. Oak," exclaimed she,
disconcerted, "how long have you been here?"
"A few minutes, ma'am," said Oak, respectfully.
"Are you going in?" said Bathsheba; and there came from
within the church as from a prompter --
I 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 I won't go
in to-night."
"Oh no -- you don't drive me away."
Then they stood in a state of some embarrassment, Bathsheba
trying to wipe her dreadfully drenched and inflamed face
without his noticing her. At length Oak said, "I've not seen
you -- I mean spoken to you -- since ever so long, have I?"
But he feared to bring distressing memories back, and
interrupted himself with: "Were you going into church?"
"No," she said. "I came to see the tombstone privately -- to
see if they had cut the inscription as I wished. Mr. Oak,
you needn't mind speaking to me, if you wish to, on the
matter which is in both our minds at 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. "Eight months
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, and I had
been dead between. And now I am going home, Mr. Oak."
Oak walked after her. "I wanted to name a small matter to
you as soon as I could," he said, with hesitation. "Merrily
about business, and I think I may just mention it now, if
you'll allow me."
"Oh yes, certainly."
It is that I may soon have to give up the management of your
farm, Mrs. Troy. The fact is, I am thinking of leaving
England -- not yet, you know -- next spring."
"Leaving England!" she said, in surprise and genuine
disappointment. "Why, Gabriel, what are you going 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 going to take
poor Mr. Boldwood's farm on your own account."
"I've had the refusal o' it 'tis true; but nothing is
settled yet, and I have reasons for giving up. I shall
finish out my year there as manager for the trustees, but no
more."
"And what shall I do without you? Oh, Gabriel, I don't
think you ought to go away. You've been with me so long --
through bright times and dark times -- such old friends that
as we are -- that it seems unkind almost. I had fancied
that if you leased the other farm as master, you might still
give a helping look across at mine. And now going away!"
"I would have willingly."
"Yet now that I am more helpless than ever you go away!"
"Yes, that's the ill fortune o' it," said Gabriel, in a
distressed tone. "And it is because of that very
helplessness that I feel bound to go. Good afternoon,
ma'am" he concluded, in evident anxiety to get away, and at
once went out of the churchyard by a path she could follow
on no pretence whatever.
Bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with a new trouble,
which being rather harassing than deadly was calculated to
do good by diverting her from the chronic gloom of her life.
She was set thinking a great deal about Oak and of his wish
to shun her; and there occurred to Bathsheba several
incidents of her latter intercourse with him, which, trivial
when singly viewed amounted together to a perceptible
disinclination for her society. It broke upon her at length
as a great pain that her last old disciple was about to
forsake her and flee. He who had believed in her and argued
on her side when all the rest of the world was against her,
had at last like the others become weary and neglectful of
the old cause, and was leaving her to fight her battles
alone.
Three weeks went on, and more evidence of his want of
interest in her was forthcoming. She noticed that instead
of entering the small parlour or office where the farm
accounts were kept, and waiting, or leaving a memorandum as
he had hitherto done during her seclusion, Oak never came at
all when she was likely to be there, only entering at
unseasonable hours when her presence in that part of the
house was least to be expected. Whenever he wanted
directions he sent a message, or note with neither heading
nor signature, to which she was obliged to reply in the same
offhand style. Poor Bathsheba began to suffer now from the
most torturing sting of all -- a sensation that she was
despised.
The autumn wore away gloomily enough amid these melancholy
conjectures, and Christmas-day came, completing a year of
her legal widowhood, and two years and a quarter of her life
alone. On examining her heart it appeared beyond measure
strange that the subject of which the season might have been
supposed suggestive -- the event in the hall at Boldwood's --
was not agitating her at all; but instead, an agonizing
conviction that everybody abjured her -- for what she could
not tell -- and that Oak was the ringleader of the
recusants. Coming out of church that day she looked round
in hope that Oak, whose bass voice she had heard rolling out
from the gallery overhead in a most unconcerned manner,
might chance to linger in her path in the old way. There he
was, as usual, coming down the path behind her. But on
seeing Bathsheba turn, he looked aside, and as soon as he
got beyond the gate, and there was the barest excuse for a
divergence, he made one, and vanished.
The next morning brought the culminating stroke; she had
been expecting it long. It was a formal notice by letter
from him that he should not renew his engagement with her
for the following Lady-day.
Bathsheba actually sat and cried over this letter most
bitterly. She was aggrieved and wounded that the possession
of hopeless love from Gabriel, which she had grown to regard
as her inalienable right for life, should have been
withdrawn just at his own pleasure in this way. She was
bewildered too by the prospect of having to rely on her own
resources again: it seemed to herself that she never could
again acquire energy sufficient to go to market, barter, and
sell. Since Troy's death Oak had attended all sales and
fairs for her, transacting her business at the same time
with his own. What should she do now? Her life was
becoming a desolation.
So desolate was Bathsheba this evening, that in an absolute
hunger for pity and sympathy, and miserable in that she
appeared to have outlived the only true friendship she had
ever owned, she put on her bonnet and cloak and went down to
Oak's house just after sunset, guided on her way by the pale
primrose rays of a crescent moon a few days old.
A lively firelight shone from the window, but nobody was
visible in the room. She tapped nervously, and then thought
it doubtful if it were right for a single woman to call upon
a bachelor who lived alone, although he was her manager, and
she might be supposed to call on business without any real
impropriety. Gabriel opened the door, and the moon shone
upon his forehead.
"Mr. Oak," said Bathsheba, faintly.
"Yes; I am Mr. Oak," said Gabriel. "Who have I the honour --
O how stupid of me, not to know you, mistress!"
"I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall I Gabriel?"
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'm afraid I
haven't proper accommodation. Will you sit down, please?
Here's a chair, and there's one, too. I am sorry that my
chairs all have wood seats, and are rather hard, but I was
thinking of getting some new ones." Oak placed two or three
for her.
"They are quite easy enough for me."
So down she sat, and down sat he, the fire dancing in their
faces, and upon the old furniture,
all a-sheenen
Wi' long years o' handlen, [1]
[1] W. Barnes.
that formed Oak's array of household possessions, which sent
back a dancing reflection in reply. It was very odd to
these two persons, who knew each other passing well, that
the mere circumstance of their meeting in a new place and in
a new way should make them so awkward and constrained. In
the fields, or at her house, there had never been any
embarrassment; but now that Oak had become the entertainer
their lives seemed to be moved back again to the days when
they were strangers.
"You'll think it strange that I have come, but ----"
"Oh no; not at all."
"But I thought -- Gabriel, I have been uneasy in the belief
that I have offended you, and that you are going away on
that account. It grieved me very much and I couldn't help
coming."
"Offended me! As if you could do that, Bathsheba!"
"Haven't I?" she asked, gladly. "But, what are you going
away for else?"
"I am not going to emigrate, you know; I wasn't aware that
you would wish me not to when I told 'ee or I shouldn't ha'
thought of doing it," he said, simply. "I have arranged for
Little Weatherbury Farm and shall have it in my own hands at
Lady-day. You know I've had a share in it for some time.
Still, that wouldn't prevent my attending to your business
as before, hadn't it been that things have been said about
us."
"What?" said Bathsheba, in surprise. "Things said about you
and me! What are they?"
"I cannot tell you."
"It would be wiser if you were to, I think. You have played
the part of mentor to me many times, and I don't see why you
should fear to do it now."
"It is nothing that you have done, this time. The top and
tail o't is this -- that I am sniffing about here, and
waiting for poor Boldwood's farm, with a thought of getting
you some day."
"Getting me! What does that mean?"
"Marrying of 'ee, in plain British. You asked me to tell,
so you mustn't blame me."
Bathsheba did not look quite so alarmed as if a cannon had
been discharged by her ear, which was what Oak had expected.
"Marrying me! I didn't know it was that you meant," she
said, quietly. "Such a thing as that is too absurd -- too
soon -- to think of, by far!"
"Yes; of course, it is too absurd. I don't desire any such
thing; I should think that was plain enough by this time.
Surely, surely you be the last person in the world I think
of marrying. It is too absurd, as you say."
"'Too -- s-s-soon' were the words I used."
"I must beg your pardon for correcting you, but you said,
'too absurd,' and so do I."
"I beg your pardon too!" she returned, with tears in her
eyes. "'Too soon' was what I said. But it doesn't matter a
bit -- not at all -- but I only meant, 'too soon.' Indeed,
I didn't, Mr. Oak, and you must believe me!"
Gabriel looked her long in the face, but the firelight being
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 me to love you and win
you, and marry you after all -- if I only knew that!"
"But you never will know," she murmured.
"Why?"
"Because you never ask."
"Oh -- Oh!" said Gabriel, with a low laugh of joyousness.
"My own dear ----"
"You ought not to have sent me that harsh letter this
morning," she interrupted. "It shows you didn't care a bit
about me, and were ready to desert me like all the rest of
them! It was very cruel of you, considering I was the first
sweetheart that you ever had, and you were the first I ever
had; and I shall not forget it!"
"Now, Bathsheba, was ever anybody so provoking," he said,
laughing." You know it was purely that I, as an unmarried
man, carrying on a business for you as a very taking young
woman, had a proper hard part to play -- more particular
that people knew I had a sort of feeling for 'ee; and I
fancied, from the way we were mentioned together, that it
might injure your good name. Nobody knows the heat and fret
I have been caused by it."
"And was that all?"
"All."
"Oh, how glad I am I came!" she exclaimed, thankfully, as
she rose from her seat. "I have thought so much more of you
since I fancied you did not want even to see me again. But
I must be going now, or I shall be missed. Why Gabriel,"
she said, with a slight laugh, as they went to the door, "it
seems exactly as if I had come courting you -- how
dreadful!"
"And quite right too," said Oak. "I've danced at your
skittish heels, my beautiful Bathsheba, for many a long
mile, and many a long day; and it is hard to begrudge me
this one visit."
He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the
details of his forthcoming tenure of the other farm. They
spoke very little of their mutual feeling; pretty phrases
and warm expressions being probably unnecessary between such
tried friends. Theirs was that substantial affection which
arises (if any arises at all) when the two who are thrown
together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each
other's character, and not the best till further on, the
romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard
prosaic reality. This good-fellowship -- CAMARADERIE --
usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is
unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes,
because men and women associate, not in their labours, but
in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy
circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling
proves itself to be the only love which is strong as death --
that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods
drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name
is evanescent as steam.
Content of CHAPTER LVI - BEAUTY IN LONELINESS -- AFTER ALL [Thomas Hardy's novel: Far From The Madding Crowd]
_
Read next: CHAPTER LVII - A FOGGY NIGHT AND MORNING -- CONCLUSION
Read previous: CHAPTER LV - THE MARCH FOLLOWING -- "BATHSHEBA BOLDWOOD"
Table of content of Far From The Madding Crowd
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
