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Her
tears
fell
fast
beside
the
unconscious
pair
in
the
coffin
:
tears
of
a
complicated
origin
,
of
a
nature
indescribable
,
almost
indefinable
except
as
other
than
those
of
simple
sorrow
.
Assuredly
their
wonted
fires
must
have
lived
in
Fanny
’
s
ashes
when
events
were
so
shaped
as
to
chariot
her
hither
in
this
natural
,
unobtrusive
,
yet
effectual
manner
.
The
one
feat
alone
—
that
of
dying
—
by
which
a
mean
condition
could
be
resolved
into
a
grand
one
,
Fanny
had
achieved
.
And
to
that
had
destiny
subjoined
this
reencounter
to
-
night
,
which
had
,
in
Bathsheba
’
s
wild
imagining
,
turned
her
companion
’
s
failure
to
success
,
her
humiliation
to
triumph
,
her
lucklessness
to
ascendency
;
it
had
thrown
over
herself
a
garish
light
of
mockery
,
and
set
upon
all
things
about
her
an
ironical
smile
.
Fanny
’
s
face
was
framed
in
by
that
yellow
hair
of
hers
;
and
there
was
no
longer
much
room
for
doubt
as
to
the
origin
of
the
curl
owned
by
Troy
.
In
Bathsheba
’
s
heated
fancy
the
innocent
white
countenance
expressed
a
dim
triumphant
consciousness
of
the
pain
she
was
retaliating
for
her
pain
with
all
the
merciless
rigour
of
the
Mosaic
law
:
"
Burning
for
burning
;
wound
for
wound
:
strife
for
strife
.
"
Bathsheba
indulged
in
contemplations
of
escape
from
her
position
by
immediate
death
,
which
,
thought
she
,
though
it
was
an
inconvenient
and
awful
way
,
had
limits
to
its
inconvenience
and
awfulness
that
could
not
be
overpassed
;
whilst
the
shames
of
life
were
measureless
.
Yet
even
this
scheme
of
extinction
by
death
was
but
tamely
copying
her
rival
’
s
method
without
the
reasons
which
had
glorified
it
in
her
rival
’
s
case
.
She
glided
rapidly
up
and
down
the
room
,
as
was
mostly
her
habit
when
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
,
for
it
is
grievous
and
wicked
;
and
yet
I
hate
her
a
little
!
Yes
,
my
flesh
insists
upon
hating
her
,
whether
my
spirit
is
willing
or
no
!
…
If
she
had
only
lived
,
I
could
have
been
angry
and
cruel
towards
her
with
some
justification
;
but
to
be
vindictive
towards
a
poor
dead
woman
recoils
upon
myself
.
O
God
,
have
mercy
!
I
am
miserable
at
all
this
!
"
Bathsheba
became
at
this
moment
so
terrified
at
her
own
state
of
mind
that
she
looked
around
for
some
sort
of
refuge
from
herself
.
The
vision
of
Oak
kneeling
down
that
night
recurred
to
her
,
and
with
the
imitative
instinct
which
animates
women
she
seized
upon
the
idea
,
resolved
to
kneel
,
and
,
if
possible
,
pray
.
Gabriel
had
prayed
;
so
would
she
.
She
knelt
beside
the
coffin
,
covered
her
face
with
her
hands
,
and
for
a
time
the
room
was
silent
as
a
tomb
.
Whether
from
a
purely
mechanical
,
or
from
any
other
cause
,
when
Bathsheba
arose
it
was
with
a
quieted
spirit
,
and
a
regret
for
the
antagonistic
instincts
which
had
seized
upon
her
just
before
.
In
her
desire
to
make
atonement
she
took
flowers
from
a
vase
by
the
window
,
and
began
laying
them
around
the
dead
girl
’
s
head
.
Bathsheba
knew
no
other
way
of
showing
kindness
to
persons
departed
than
by
giving
them
flowers
.
She
knew
not
how
long
she
remained
engaged
thus
.
She
forgot
time
,
life
,
where
she
was
,
what
she
was
doing
.
A
slamming
together
of
the
coach
-
house
doors
in
the
yard
brought
her
to
herself
again
.
An
instant
after
,
the
front
door
opened
and
closed
,
steps
crossed
the
hall
,
and
her
husband
appeared
at
the
entrance
to
the
room
,
looking
in
upon
her
.
He
beheld
it
all
by
degrees
,
stared
in
stupefaction
at
the
scene
,
as
if
he
thought
it
an
illusion
raised
by
some
fiendish
incantation
.
Bathsheba
,
pallid
as
a
corpse
on
end
,
gazed
back
at
him
in
the
same
wild
way
.
