Fifty Six: Far From The Madding Crowd: Thomas Hardy - Beauty in Loneliness

Bathsheba had revived by the spring. She remained alone for the greater part of her time, in the house with occasional presence in the garden.  She shunned everyone including Liddy. 

As summer drew on she passed more of her time in the open air, and began to look into farm matters out of sheer necessity. One Friday evening in August she walked a little way along the road and entered the orchard for the first time after the dreadful Christmas.  None of the old colour has yet come back to her cheek and its absolute paleness was heightened by the jet black of her dress. When she reached at the other end of the orchard which opened nearly opposite to the church, Bathsheba paused.  Nobody was in the high road and the congregation was in church.  She opened the gate, crossed the road, and entered the church yard, the high sills of the church windows screening her from the eyes of those gathered within.  She went stealthly to the nook wherein Troy had worked at planting flowers upon Fanny Robin's grave, and then her tombstone.  She read the inscriptions.  First came the words of Troy himself:-

Erected by Francis Troy in memory 

of Fanny Robin who died October 9th, 18---, aged 20 years. 

Underneath this was inscribed in new letters. 

In the same grave lie the remains of the aforesaid Francis Troy, who died December 24th, 18--- aged 26 years.

While she read and meditated, the tones of organ were audible from the church, and she went silently to the porch and listened.  The door were closed and they were singing a new hymn.  Bathsheba was stirred by emotions.  Attenuated voices of children were heard above all other voices.

"Lead, kindly light, among the encircling,  Lead thou me on."

Bathsheba's feeling was always dependent on her whim; there came something into her throat, and an uprising to her eyes, and she took pleasure in tears that followed.  And they did flow in volumes, and fell upon the stone bench beside her.  Grief came to her as a luxurious sensation.

Bathsheba's face being buried in her hands she did not notice Gabriel Oak who came to the porch.

"Mr Oak!" she exclaimed, "How long have you been here?" 

"A few minutes ma'am," he said respectfully.

"Are you going in?" said Bathsheba, and there came from within as from a promptor:-

"I loved the garish day; and the spike 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 will leave you then." 

"Don't let me drive you away, mistress." 

"Oh no; you don't do that."  And the singing again was distinct:-

"Which I have longed since, and lost a while."

They stood in a state of embarassment, Bathsheba trying to wipe her drenched and inflamed cheeks without his noticing her.  At length Oak said, "I have not seen you --- 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 too?"

"No," she said, " I came to see the tombstone.  They had cut it as I wished.  Mr Oak, don't mind speaking to me on the matter which is in both our minds."

"Now, have you done it as you wished?" said Oak.

"Yes.  Come round and see, if you have not done so already."

Together they went and read the tomb.  "Eight months ago!" Gabriel murmured and he read the date.  "It seems like yesterday to me!" 

"And to me," she said, "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, merely about business; but I think I may just mention it now, if you will 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; and 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 have thought it best," Oak stammered out.  California is the spot I have had in my mind."

"But it is understood everywhere that you are going to take on the Lower Farm."

"I have the refusal of it, it's true; but nothing is settled yet, and I have reasons for giving it 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 have been with me so long -- through bright times and dark times.  Such old friends as we are --- that it seems unkind, almost.  I have fancied that if you leased the other farm in your own person, 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 of it," said Gabriel in a distressed tone.  "And it is because of that very helplessness that I feel obliged to go.  Good afternoon ma'am," he concluded in evident anxiety to get away, and at once went out of the church yard.

Bathsheba went home, her mind occupied with a new trouble.  She was set thinking a great deal upon Oak, and of his wish to shun her.  It broke upon her at length as a great pain.

The weeks went on. 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 account was kept, and waiting for her as he had hitherto done during her seclusion, leaving a memorandum if she did not choose to appear, Oak never came at all when she was likely to be there, only entering at unreasonable hours, when her presence in that part of the house was least to be expected.  Whenever he wanted directions he sent a note or 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.

Autumn bore away gloomily, and Christmas day came, completing her year of legal widowhood, and two years and and a quarter of her life alone.  Coming out of church that day, she looked around in the 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 out 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 a formal notice by a letter from Oak that he should not renew his engagement with her the following Lady Day.

Bathsheba sat and cried over this letter most bitterly.  She was aggrieved and wounded that the possession of hopeless love from Oak, which she regarded as her inalienable right for life should have been withdrawn just at his own pleasure.  She was bewildered of having to rely on her own resources; it seemed to herself that she could never acquire energy sufficient to market, barter and sell.  Since Troy's death Oak had attended all sales and fairs for her.  What should she do now.  Her life was becoming a desolation.

That evening, Bathsheba put on her bonnet and cloak and went down to Oak's house, guided 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 up a man who lived alone, although he was his manager, and she might call on business.  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 --- Oh, how stupid of me not to know you, mistress!" 

"I shall not be your mistress much longer, shall I, Gabriel?" she said in pathetic tone.

"Well, no --- I suppose ---- but come in, ma'am.  Oh --- and I will get a light." 

"No, not on my account." 

"It is so seldom that I get a lady visitor that I am afraid I haven't proper accommodation.  Will you sit down, please? Here's a chair ---- and there's another; I am sorry that my chairs all have wooden seats and rather hard, but I --- was thinking to get some new ones soon."   Oak hastened to place two or three for her.

"They are quite easy enough for me."

So down she sat, and down sat he, the firelight dancing in their faces and upon the 

" Few worn-out traps, all a-sheenen

Wi' long years of handlen."

That formed Oak's array of household possessions, which send a dancing reflection in reply.

"You will 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 else?" 

"I am not going to emigrate, you know.  I wasn't aware that you would wish me not to, when I told you, or I shouldn't have thought of doing it," he said simply.  "I have arranged for the Lower Farm, and shall have it in my own hands at Lady Day.  You know I have had a share in it for sometime.

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 is not wiser if you were to, I think.

You have played the part of mentor to me several 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 of it is this --- that I am sniffing about here, and getting into poor Boldwood's farm, with the thought of getting you some day."

"Getting me? What does that mean?"

"Marrying you, 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. "It is too absurd.  Too soon to think of such a thing, by far."

"Yes, of course it is too absurd.  I don't desire any such thing; I should think that was visible enough by this time.  You, ma'am, are surely the last person in the world I think of marrying.  It's too absurd, as you say." 

"Too --- 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.  "I said too soon --- not that it matters --- but I only meant too soon.  Indeed I did, Mr Oak, and you must believe me!" 

Oak 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, and win you, and marry you after all --- if I only know that!" 

" You never will know," she murmured.

"Why?"

"Because you never ask!"

"Oh, oh!" said Gabriel, with low laugh of joyousness.  "My own dear"---

"You ought not have sent me that harsh letter this morning!" she interrupted.  "It shows you didn't care a bit about me, and were ready to leave me like all of them.  It was very cruel of you, considering I was the first sweetheart that you ever had, and I shall not forget it!" 

"Bathsheba!  Was ever anybody so provoking" he said laughing.  It was purely that I as an unmarried man carrying on a business for you as taking young woman had a very hard to play --- more particularly that people knew I had a sort of feeling for you; and I fancied from the way we were mentioned together that it might injure your good name.  Nobody knows that fret and fume I have been caused by it."

"And was that all?" 

"All." 

"Oh, I am glad that I am 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 ever to see me again.  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 have 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 her the details of  forthcoming tenure of the Lower Farm.  They spoke very little of their mutual feelings, pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably unnecessary between such tried friends.  Their good fellowship camaraderie usually occuring through similarity of pursuits, and love between men and women.

END OF THE CHAPTER