by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XXVI
SCENE ON THE VERGE OF THE HAY-MEAD
"Ah, Miss Everdene!" said the sergeant, touching his diminutive cap."Little did I think it was you I was speaking to the other night.And yet, if I had reflected, the 'Queen of the Corn-market' (truth istruth at any hour of the day or night, and I heard you so named inCasterbridge yesterday), the 'Queen of the Corn-market.' I say, couldbe no other woman. I step across now to beg your forgiveness athousand times for having been led by my feelings to express myselftoo strongly for a stranger. To be sure I am no stranger to theplace--I am Sergeant Troy, as I told you, and I have assisted youruncle in these fields no end of times when I was a lad. I have beendoing the same for you to-day."
"I suppose I must thank you for that, Sergeant Troy," said the Queenof the Corn-market, in an indifferently grateful tone.
The sergeant looked hurt and sad. "Indeed you must not, MissEverdene," he said. "Why could you think such a thing necessary?"
"I am glad it is not."
"Why? if I may ask without offence."
"Because I don't much want to thank you for anything."
"I am afraid I have made a hole with my tongue that my heart willnever mend. O these intolerable times: that ill-luck should followa man for honestly telling a woman she is beautiful! 'Twas the mostI said--you must own that; and the least I could say--that I ownmyself."
"There is some talk I could do without more easily than money."
"Indeed. That remark is a sort of digression."
"No. It means that I would rather have your room than your company."
"And I would rather have curses from you than kisses from any otherwoman; so I'll stay here."
Bathsheba was absolutely speechless. And yet she could not helpfeeling that the assistance he was rendering forbade a harsh repulse.
"Well," continued Troy, "I suppose there is a praise which isrudeness, and that may be mine. At the same time there is atreatment which is injustice, and that may be yours. Because a plainblunt man, who has never been taught concealment, speaks out his mindwithout exactly intending it, he's to be snapped off like the son ofa sinner."
"Indeed there's no such case between us," she said, turning away. "Idon't allow strangers to be bold and impudent--even in praise of me."
"Ah--it is not the fact but the method which offends you," he said,carelessly. "But I have the sad satisfaction of knowing that mywords, whether pleasing or offensive, are unmistakably true. Wouldyou have had me look at you, and tell my acquaintance that you arequite a common-place woman, to save you the embarrassment of beingstared at if they come near you? Not I. I couldn't tell any suchridiculous lie about a beauty to encourage a single woman in Englandin too excessive a modesty."
"It is all pretence--what you are saying!" exclaimed Bathsheba,laughing in spite of herself at the sly method. "You have a rareinvention, Sergeant Troy. Why couldn't you have passed by me thatnight, and said nothing?--that was all I meant to reproach you for."
"Because I wasn't going to. Half the pleasure of a feeling lies inbeing able to express it on the spur of the moment, and I let outmine. It would have been just the same if you had been the reverseperson--ugly and old--I should have exclaimed about it in the sameway."
"How long is it since you have been so afflicted with strong feeling,then?"
"Oh, ever since I was big enough to know loveliness from deformity."
"'Tis to be hoped your sense of the difference you speak of doesn'tstop at faces, but extends to morals as well."
"I won't speak of morals or religion--my own or anybody else's.Though perhaps I should have been a very good Christian if you prettywomen hadn't made me an idolater."
Bathsheba moved on to hide the irrepressible dimplings of merriment.Troy followed, whirling his crop.
"But--Miss Everdene--you do forgive me?"
"Hardly."
"Why?"
"You say such things."
"I said you were beautiful, and I'll say so still; for, by G---- so youare! The most beautiful ever I saw, or may I fall dead this instant!Why, upon my ----"
"Don't--don't! I won't listen to you--you are so profane!" she said,in a restless state between distress at hearing him and a _penchant_to hear more.
"I again say you are a most fascinating woman. There's nothingremarkable in my saying so, is there? I'm sure the fact is evidentenough. Miss Everdene, my opinion may be too forcibly let outto please you, and, for the matter of that, too insignificant toconvince you, but surely it is honest, and why can't it be excused?"
"Because it--it isn't a correct one," she femininely murmured.
"Oh, fie--fie! Am I any worse for breaking the third of thatTerrible Ten than you for breaking the ninth?"
"Well, it doesn't seem QUITE true to me that I am fascinating," shereplied evasively.
"Not so to you: then I say with all respect that, if so, it is owingto your modesty, Miss Everdene. But surely you must have been toldby everybody of what everybody notices? And you should take theirwords for it."
"They don't say so exactly."
"Oh yes, they must!"
"Well, I mean to my face, as you do," she went on, allowing herselfto be further lured into a conversation that intention had rigorouslyforbidden.
"But you know they think so?"
"No--that is--I certainly have heard Liddy say they do, but--" Shepaused.
Capitulation--that was the purport of the simple reply, guarded as itwas--capitulation, unknown to herself. Never did a fragile taillesssentence convey a more perfect meaning. The careless sergeant smiledwithin himself, and probably too the devil smiled from a loop-hole inTophet, for the moment was the turning-point of a career. Her toneand mien signified beyond mistake that the seed which was to lift thefoundation had taken root in the chink: the remainder was a merequestion of time and natural changes.
"There the truth comes out!" said the soldier, in reply. "Never tellme that a young lady can live in a buzz of admiration without knowingsomething about it. Ah, well, Miss Everdene, you are--pardon myblunt way--you are rather an injury to our race than otherwise."
"How--indeed?" she said, opening her eyes.
"Oh, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb(an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for arough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of yourpleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why,Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do moreharm than good in the world." The sergeant looked down the mead incritical abstraction. "Probably some one man on an average falls inlove with each ordinary woman. She can marry him: he is content,and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men alwayscovet--your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailingfancy for you--you can only marry one of that many. Out of thesesay twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised lovein drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish orattempt to make a mark in he world, because they have no ambitionapart from their attachment to you; twenty more--the susceptibleperson myself possibly among them--will be always draggling afteryou, getting where they may just see you, doing desperate things.Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over theirpassion with more or less success. But all these men will besaddened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-ninewomen they might have married are saddened with them. There's mytale. That's why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, MissEverdene, is hardly a blessing to her race."
The handsome sergeant's features were during this speech as rigid andstern as John Knox's in addressing his gay young queen.
Seeing she made no reply, he said, "Do you read French?"
"No; I began, but when I got to the verbs, father died," she saidsimply.
"I do--when I have an opportunity, which latterly has not been often(my mother was a Parisienne)--and there's a proverb they have,_Qui aime bien, chatie bien_--'He chastens who loves well.' Do youunderstand m
e?"
"Ah!" she replied, and there was even a little tremulousness in theusually cool girl's voice; "if you can only fight half as winninglyas you can talk, you are able to make a pleasure of a bayonet wound!"And then poor Bathsheba instantly perceived her slip in making thisadmission: in hastily trying to retrieve it, she went from bad toworse. "Don't, however, suppose that _I_ derive any pleasure fromwhat you tell me."
"I know you do not--I know it perfectly," said Troy, with much heartyconviction on the exterior of his face: and altering the expressionto moodiness; "when a dozen men are ready to speak tenderly to you,and give the admiration you deserve without adding the warning youneed, it stands to reason that my poor rough-and-ready mixture ofpraise and blame cannot convey much pleasure. Fool as I may be, Iam not so conceited as to suppose that!"
"I think you--are conceited, nevertheless," said Bathsheba, lookingaskance at a reed she was fitfully pulling with one hand, havinglately grown feverish under the soldier's system of procedure--notbecause the nature of his cajolery was entirely unperceived, butbecause its vigour was overwhelming.
"I would not own it to anybody else--nor do I exactly to you. Still,there might have been some self-conceit in my foolish suppositionthe other night. I knew that what I said in admiration might bean opinion too often forced upon you to give any pleasure, but Icertainly did think that the kindness of your nature might preventyou judging an uncontrolled tongue harshly--which you have done--andthinking badly of me and wounding me this morning, when I am workinghard to save your hay."
"Well, you need not think more of that: perhaps you did not mean tobe rude to me by speaking out your mind: indeed, I believe you didnot," said the shrewd woman, in painfully innocent earnest. "And Ithank you for giving help here. But--but mind you don't speak to meagain in that way, or in any other, unless I speak to you."
"Oh, Miss Bathsheba! That is too hard!"
"No, it isn't. Why is it?"
"You will never speak to me; for I shall not be here long. I am soongoing back again to the miserable monotony of drill--and perhapsour regiment will be ordered out soon. And yet you take away theone little ewe-lamb of pleasure that I have in this dull lifeof mine. Well, perhaps generosity is not a woman's most markedcharacteristic."
"When are you going from here?" she asked, with some interest.
"In a month."
"But how can it give you pleasure to speak to me?"
"Can you ask Miss Everdene--knowing as you do--what my offence isbased on?"
"If you do care so much for a silly trifle of that kind, then, Idon't mind doing it," she uncertainly and doubtingly answered. "Butyou can't really care for a word from me? you only say so--I thinkyou only say so."
"That's unjust--but I won't repeat the remark. I am too gratified toget such a mark of your friendship at any price to cavil at the tone.I DO, Miss Everdene, care for it. You may think a man foolish towant a mere word--just a good morning. Perhaps he is--I don't know.But you have never been a man looking upon a woman, and that womanyourself."
"Well."
"Then you know nothing of what such an experience is like--and Heavenforbid that you ever should!"
"Nonsense, flatterer! What is it like? I am interested in knowing."
"Put shortly, it is not being able to think, hear, or look inany direction except one without wretchedness, nor there withouttorture."
"Ah, sergeant, it won't do--you are pretending!" she said, shakingher head. "Your words are too dashing to be true."
"I am not, upon the honour of a soldier."
"But WHY is it so?--Of course I ask for mere pastime."
"Because you are so distracting--and I am so distracted."
"You look like it."
"I am indeed."
"Why, you only saw me the other night!"
"That makes no difference. The lightning works instantaneously. Iloved you then, at once--as I do now."
Bathsheba surveyed him curiously, from the feet upward, as high asshe liked to venture her glance, which was not quite so high as hiseyes.
"You cannot and you don't," she said demurely. "There is no suchsudden feeling in people. I won't listen to you any longer. Hearme, I wish I knew what o'clock it is--I am going--I have wasted toomuch time here already!"
The sergeant looked at his watch and told her. "What, haven't you awatch, miss?" he inquired.
"I have not just at present--I am about to get a new one."
"No. You shall be given one. Yes--you shall. A gift, MissEverdene--a gift."
And before she knew what the young man was intending, a heavy goldwatch was in her hand.
"It is an unusually good one for a man like me to possess," hequietly said. "That watch has a history. Press the spring and openthe back."
She did so.
"What do you see?"
"A crest and a motto."
"A coronet with five points, and beneath, _Cedit amor rebus_--'Loveyields to circumstance.' It's the motto of the Earls of Severn.That watch belonged to the last lord, and was given to my mother'shusband, a medical man, for his use till I came of age, when it wasto be given to me. It was all the fortune that ever I inherited.That watch has regulated imperial interests in its time--the statelyceremonial, the courtly assignation, pompous travels, and lordlysleeps. Now it is yours."
"But, Sergeant Troy, I cannot take this--I cannot!" she exclaimed,with round-eyed wonder. "A gold watch! What are you doing? Don'tbe such a dissembler!"
The sergeant retreated to avoid receiving back his gift, which sheheld out persistently towards him. Bathsheba followed as he retired.
"Keep it--do, Miss Everdene--keep it!" said the erratic child ofimpulse. "The fact of your possessing it makes it worth ten timesas much to me. A more plebeian one will answer my purpose justas well, and the pleasure of knowing whose heart my old one beatsagainst--well, I won't speak of that. It is in far worthier handsthan ever it has been in before."
"But indeed I can't have it!" she said, in a perfect simmer ofdistress. "Oh, how can you do such a thing; that is if you reallymean it! Give me your dead father's watch, and such a valuable one!You should not be so reckless, indeed, Sergeant Troy!"
"I loved my father: good; but better, I love you more. That's how Ican do it," said the sergeant, with an intonation of such exquisitefidelity to nature that it was evidently not all acted now. Herbeauty, which, whilst it had been quiescent, he had praised in jest,had in its animated phases moved him to earnest; and though hisseriousness was less than she imagined, it was probably more than heimagined himself.
Bathsheba was brimming with agitated bewilderment, and she said, inhalf-suspicious accents of feeling, "Can it be! Oh, how can it be,that you care for me, and so suddenly! You have seen so littleof me: I may not be really so--so nice-looking as I seem to you.Please, do take it; Oh, do! I cannot and will not have it. Believeme, your generosity is too great. I have never done you a singlekindness, and why should you be so kind to me?"
A factitious reply had been again upon his lips, but it was againsuspended, and he looked at her with an arrested eye. The truth was,that as she now stood--excited, wild, and honest as the day--heralluring beauty bore out so fully the epithets he had bestowed uponit that he was quite startled at his temerity in advancing them asfalse. He said mechanically, "Ah, why?" and continued to look ather.
"And my workfolk see me following you about the field, and arewondering. Oh, this is dreadful!" she went on, unconscious of thetransmutation she was effecting.
"I did not quite mean you to accept it at first, for it was my onepoor patent of nobility," he broke out, bluntly; "but, upon my soul,I wish you would now. Without any shamming, come! Don't deny me thehappiness of wearing it for my sake? But you are too lovely even tocare to be kind as others are."
"No, no; don't say so! I have reasons for reserve which I cannotexplain."
"Let it be, then, let it be," he said, receiving back the watch atlast; "I must be leaving you now. And
will you speak to me for thesefew weeks of my stay?"
"Indeed I will. Yet, I don't know if I will! Oh, why did you comeand disturb me so!"
"Perhaps in setting a gin, I have caught myself. Such things havehappened. Well, will you let me work in your fields?" he coaxed.
"Yes, I suppose so; if it is any pleasure to you."
"Miss Everdene, I thank you."
"No, no."
"Good-bye!"
The sergeant brought his hand to the cap on the slope of his head,saluted, and returned to the distant group of haymakers.
Bathsheba could not face the haymakers now. Her heart erraticallyflitting hither and thither from perplexed excitement, hot, andalmost tearful, she retreated homeward, murmuring, "Oh, what have Idone! What does it mean! I wish I knew how much of it was true!"