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 orchard 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 dress till it appeared preternatural.
When she reached the gate at the other end of the orchard, which opened nearly opposite to the churchyard, Bathsheba heard singing inside the church, and she knew that the singers were practising.
She opened the gate, crossed the road 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 MEMORY OF FANNY ROBIN, WHO DIED OCTOBER 9, 18—, AGED 20 YEARS. Underneath this was now inscribed in