CHAPTER XXVI.

SCENE ON THE VERGE OF THE HAY-MEAD.

"AH, Miss Everdene!" said the Sergeant, lifting 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 is truth at any hour of the day or night, and I heard you so named in Casterbridge yesterday), the Queen of the Corn-market,' I say, could be no other woman. I step across now to beg your forgiveness a thousand times for having been led by my feelings to express myself too strongly for a stranger. To be sure I am no stranger to the place-I am Sergeant Troy, as I told you, and I have assisted your uncle in these fields no end of times when I was a lad. I have been doing the same for you to-day."

"I suppose I must thank you for that, Sergeant Troy," said the "Queen of the Corn-market," in an indifferently grateful tone.

The Sergeant looked hurt and sad. "Indeed you must not, Miss Everdene," 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 will never mend. Oh these intolerable times that ill-luck should follow a man for honestly telling a woman she is beautiful! 'Twas the most I said-you must own that; and the least I could say that I own myself."

"There is some talk I could do without more easily than money." "Indeed. That remark seems somewhat digressive."

"It means that I would rather have your room than your company." "And I would rather have curses from you than kisses from any other woman; so I'll stay here."

Bathsheba was absolutely speechless. And yet she could not help giving an interested side-thought to the Sergeant's ingenuity.

"Well," continued Troy, "I suppose there is a praise which is rudeness, and that may be mine. At the same time there is a treatment which is injustice, and that may be yours. Because a plain blunt man, who has never been taught concealment, speaks out his mind without exactly intending it, he's to be snapped off like a son of a sinner."

"Indeed there's no such case between us," she said, turning away. "I don'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, sorrowfully. "But I have the sad satisfaction of knowing that my words, whether pleasing or offensive, are unmistakably true. Would you have had me look at you, and tell my acquaintance that you are quite a commonplace woman, to save you the embarrassment of being stared at if they come near you? Not I. I couldn't tell any such ridiculous lie

about a beauty to encourage a single woman in England in too excessive a modesty."

"It is all pretence-what you are saying!" exclaimed Bathsheba, laughing in spite of herself at the Sergeant's palpable method. "You have a rare invention, Sergeant Troy. Why couldn't you have passed by me that night, and said nothing?—that was all I meant to reproach you for."

"Because I wasn't going to," he said, smiling. "Half the pleasure of a feeling lies in being able to express it on the spur of the moment, and I let out mine. It would have been just the same if you had been the reverse person-ugly and old-I should have exclaimed about it in the same way."

"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't stop 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 pretty women hadn't made me an idolater."

Bathsheba moved on to hide the irrepressible dimplings of merriment. Troy followed entreatingly.

"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 —, so you are! 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 nothing remarkable in my saying so, is there? I'm sure the fact is evident enough. Miss Everdene, my opinion may be too forcibly let out to please you, and, for the matter of that, too insignificant to convince 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 that Terrible Ten than you for breaking the ninth ? "

"Well, it doesn't seem quite true to me that I am fascinating," she replied evasively.

"Not so to you: then I say with all respect that, if so, it is owing to your modesty, Miss Everdene. But surely you must have been told by everybody of what everybody notices ? and you should take their words 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 herself to be further lured into a conversation that intention had rigorously forbidden.

"But you know they think so?"

"No-that is-I certainly have heard Liddy say they do, but . . ." She paused.

Capitulation that was the purport of the simple reply, guarded as it was capitulation, unknown to herself. Never did a fragile tailless sentence convey a more perfect meaning. The careless Sergeant smiled within himself, and probably the devil smiled too from a loop-hole in Tophet, for the moment was the turning-point of a career. Her tone and mien signified beyond mistake that the seed which was to lift the foundation had taken root in the chink: the remainder was a mere question of time and natural seriate changes.

"There the truth comes out!" said the soldier, in reply. "Never tell me that a young lady can live in a buzz of admiration without knowing something about it. Ah, well, Miss Everdene, you are-pardon my blunt 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 a rough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of your pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why, Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do more harm than good in the world." [The Sergeant looked down the mead in pained abstraction.] "Probably some one man on an average falls in love with each ordinary woman. She can marry him he is content, and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men always covet-your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailing fancy for you-you can only marry one of that many. Out of these say twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised love in drink: twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in the world, because they have no ambition apart from their attachment to you: twenty more the susceptible person myself possibly among them-will be always draggling after you, getting where they may just see you, doing desperate things. Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over their passion with more or less success. But all these men will be sad dened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women they might have married are saddened with them. There's my tale. That's why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss Everdene, is hardly a blessing to her race."

The handsome Sergeant's features were during this speech as rigid and stern 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 said, simply.

"I do when I have an opportunity, which latterly has not been. often (my mother was a Parisian)-and there's a proverb they have, Qui aime bien, châtie bien-he chastens who loves well. Do you understand me?"

"Ah!" she replied, and there was even a little tremulousness in the usually cool girl's voice; "if you can only fight half as winningly as you can talk, you are able to make a pleasure of a bayonet wound!" And then poor Bathsheba instantly perceived her slip in making this admission in hastily trying to retrieve it, she went from bad to worse. "Don't, however, suppose that I derive any pleasure from what you tell me."

"I know you do not-I know it perfectly," said Troy, with much hearty conviction on the exterior of his face and altering the expression to moodiness; "when a dozen men are ready to speak tenderly to you, and give the admiration you deserve without adding the warning you need, it stands to reason that my poor rough-and-ready mixture of praise and blame cannot convey much pleasure. Fool as I may be, I am not so conceited as to suppose that."

"I think you are conceited, nevertheless," said Bathsheba, hesitatingly, and looking askance at a reed she was fitfully pulling with one hand, having lately grown feverish under the soldier's system of procedure -not because the nature of his cajolery was entirely unperceived, but because 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 supposition the other night. I knew that what I said in admiration might be an opinion too often forced upon you to give any pleasure, but I certainly did think that the kindness of your nature might prevent you judging an uncontrolled tongue harshly-which you have done-and thinking badly of me, and wounding me this morning, when I am working hard to save your hay.”

"Well, you need not think more of that perhaps you did not mean to be rude to me by speaking out your mind: indeed, I believe you did not," said the shrewd woman, in painfully innocent earnest. "And I thank you for giving help here. But-but mind you don't speak to me again in that way, or in any other, unless I speak to you."

66 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 soon going back again to the miserable monotony of drill-and perhaps our regiment will be ordered out soon. And yet you take away the one little ewe-lamb of pleasure that I have in this dull life of mine. Well, perhaps generosity is not a woman's most marked characteristic."

"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 is based on?”

"If you do care so much for a silly trifle of that kind, then, I don't mind doing it," she uncertainly and doubtingly answered. "But you can't really care for a word from me? you only say so-I think you only say so."

"That's unjust-but I won't repeat the remark. I am too gratified to get 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 to want 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 woman yourself."

"Well."

"Then you know nothing of what such an experience is like—and Heaven forbid 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 in any direction except one without wretchedness, nor there without torture."

"Ah, Sergeant, it won't do-you are pretending," she said, shaking her head dubiously. "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, you stupid man."

"That makes no difference. The lightning works instantaneously. I loved you then, at once-as I do now."

Bathsheba surveyed him curiously, from the feet upward, as high as she liked to venture her glance, which was not quite so high as

his eyes.

"There is no

"You cannot and you don't," she said, demurely. such sudden feeling in people. I won't listen to you any longer. Dear me, I wish I knew what o'clock it is-I am going-I have wasted too much time here already."

The Sergeant looked at his watch and told her.

a watch, Miss?" he enquired.

"What, haven't you

"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, Miss Everdene a gift."

And before she knew what the young man was intending, a heavy gold watch was in her hand.

"It is an unusually good one for a man like me to possess," he