CHAPTER XXVIII

THE HOLLOW AMID THE FERNS

The hill opposite Bathsheba’s dwelling extended, a mile off, into an

uncultivated tract of land, dotted at this season with tall thickets of

brake fern, plump and diaphanous from recent rapid growth, and radiant

in hues of clear and untainted green.

At eight o’clock this midsummer evening, whilst the bristling ball of

gold in the west still swept the tips of the ferns with its long,

luxuriant rays, a soft brushing-by of garments might have been heard

among them, and Bathsheba appeared in their midst, their soft, feathery

arms caressing her up to her shoulders. She paused, turned, went back

over the hill and half-way to her own door, whence she cast a farewell

glance upon the spot she had just left, having resolved not to remain

near the place after all.

She saw a dim spot of artificial red moving round the shoulder of the

rise. It disappeared on the other side.

She waited one minute—two minutes—thought of Troy’s disappointment at

her non-fulfilment of a promised engagement, till she again ran along

the field, clambered over the bank, and followed the original

direction. She was now literally trembling and panting at this her

temerity in such an errant undertaking; her breath came and went

quickly, and her eyes shone with an infrequent light. Yet go she must.

She reached the verge of a pit in the middle of the ferns. Troy stood

in the bottom, looking up towards her.

“I heard you rustling through the fern before I saw you,” he said,

coming up and giving her his hand to help her down the slope.

The pit was a saucer-shaped concave, naturally formed, with a top

diameter of about thirty feet, and shallow enough to allow the sunshine

to reach their heads. Standing in the centre, the sky overhead was met

by a circular horizon of fern: this grew nearly to the bottom of the

slope and then abruptly ceased. The middle within the belt of verdure

was floored with a thick flossy carpet of moss and grass intermingled,

so yielding that the foot was half-buried within it.

“Now,” said Troy, producing the sword, which, as he raised it into the

sunlight, gleamed a sort of greeting, like a living thing, “first, we

have four right and four left cuts; four right and four left thrusts.

Infantry cuts and guards are more interesting than ours, to my mind;

but they are not so swashing. They have seven cuts and three thrusts.

So much as a preliminary. Well, next, our cut one is as if you were

sowing your corn—so.” Bathsheba saw a sort of rainbow, upside down in

the air, and Troy’s arm was still again. “Cut two, as if you were

hedging—so. Three, as if you were reaping—so. Four, as if you were

threshing—in that way. Then the same on the left. The thrusts are

these: one, two, three, four, right; one, two, three, four, left.” He

repeated them. “Have ’em again?” he said. “One, two—”

She hurriedly interrupted: “I’d rather not; though I don’t mind your

twos and fours; but your ones and threes are terrible!”

“Very well. I’ll let you off the ones and threes. Next, cuts, points

and guards altogether.” Troy duly exhibited them. “Then there’s

pursuing practice, in this way.” He gave the movements as before.

“There, those are the stereotyped forms. The infantry have two most

diabolical upward cuts, which we are too humane to use. Like

this—three, four.”

“How murderous and bloodthirsty!”

“They are rather deathly. Now I’ll be more interesting, and let you see

some loose play—giving all the cuts and points, infantry and cavalry,

quicker than lightning, and as promiscuously—with just enough rule to

regulate instinct and yet not to fetter it. You are my antagonist, with

this difference from real warfare, that I shall miss you every time by

one hair’s breadth, or perhaps two. Mind you don’t flinch, whatever you

do.”

“I’ll be sure not to!” she said invincibly.

He pointed to about a yard in front of him.

Bathsheba’s adventurous spirit was beginning to find some grains of

relish in these highly novel proceedings. She took up her position as

directed, facing Troy.

“Now just to learn whether you have pluck enough to let me do what I

wish, I’ll give you a preliminary test.”

He flourished the sword by way of introduction number two, and the next

thing of which she was conscious was that the point and blade of the

sword were darting with a gleam towards her left side, just above her

hip; then of their reappearance on her right side, emerging as it were

from between her ribs, having apparently passed through her body. The

third item of consciousness was that of seeing the same sword,

perfectly clean and free from blood held vertically in Troy’s hand (in

the position technically called “recover swords”). All was as quick as

electricity.

“Oh!” she cried out in affright, pressing her hand to her side. “Have

you run me through?—no, you have not! Whatever have you done!”

“I have not touched you,” said Troy, quietly. “It was mere sleight of

hand. The sword passed behind you. Now you are not afraid, are you?

Because if you are I can’t perform. I give my word that I will not only

not hurt you, but not once touch you.”

“I don’t think I am afraid. You are quite sure you will not hurt me?”

“Quite sure.”

“Is the sword very sharp?”

“O no—only stand as still as a statue. Now!”

In an instant the atmosphere was transformed to Bathsheba’s eyes. Beams

of light caught from the low sun’s rays, above, around, in front of

her, well-nigh shut out earth and heaven—all emitted in the marvellous

evolutions of Troy’s reflecting blade, which seemed everywhere at once,

and yet nowhere specially. These circling gleams were accompanied by a

keen rush that was almost a whistling—also springing from all sides of

her at once. In short, she was enclosed in a firmament of light, and of

sharp hisses, resembling a sky-full of meteors close at hand.

Never since the broadsword became the national weapon had there been

more dexterity shown in its management than by the hands of Sergeant

Troy, and never had he been in such splendid temper for the performance

as now in the evening sunshine among the ferns with Bathsheba. It may

safely be asserted with respect to the closeness of his cuts, that had

it been possible for the edge of the sword to leave in the air a

permanent substance wherever it flew past, the space left untouched

would have been almost a mould of Bathsheba’s figure.

Behind the luminous streams of this _aurora militaris_, she could see

the hue of Troy’s sword arm, spread in a scarlet haze over the space

covered by its motions, like a twanged harpstring, and behind all Troy

himself, mostly facing her; sometimes, to show the rear cuts, half

turned away, his eye nevertheless always keenly measuring her breadth

and outline, and his lips tightly closed in sustained effort. Next, his

movements lapsed slower, and she could see them individually. The

hissing of the sword had ceased, and he stopped entirely.

“That outer loose lock of hair wants tidying,” he said, before she had

moved or spoken. “Wait: I’ll do it for you.”

An arc of silver shone on her right side: the sword had descended. The

lock dropped to the ground.

“Bravely borne!” said Troy. “You didn’t flinch a shade’s thickness.

Wonderful in a woman!”

“It was because I didn’t expect it. Oh, you have spoilt my hair!”

“Only once more.”

“No—no! I am afraid of you—indeed I am!” she cried.

“I won’t touch you at all—not even your hair. I am only going to kill

that caterpillar settling on you. Now: still!”

It appeared that a caterpillar had come from the fern and chosen the

front of her bodice as his resting place. She saw the point glisten

towards her bosom, and seemingly enter it. Bathsheba closed her eyes in

the full persuasion that she was killed at last. However, feeling just

as usual, she opened them again.

“There it is, look,” said the sergeant, holding his sword before her

eyes.

The caterpillar was spitted upon its point.

“Why, it is magic!” said Bathsheba, amazed.

“Oh no—dexterity. I merely gave point to your bosom where the

caterpillar was, and instead of running you through checked the

extension a thousandth of an inch short of your surface.”

“But how could you chop off a curl of my hair with a sword that has no

edge?”

“No edge! This sword will shave like a razor. Look here.”

He touched the palm of his hand with the blade, and then, lifting it,

showed her a thin shaving of scarf-skin dangling therefrom.

“But you said before beginning that it was blunt and couldn’t cut me!”

“That was to get you to stand still, and so make sure of your safety.

The risk of injuring you through your moving was too great not to force

me to tell you a fib to escape it.”

She shuddered. “I have been within an inch of my life, and didn’t know

it!”

“More precisely speaking, you have been within half an inch of being

pared alive two hundred and ninety-five times.”

“Cruel, cruel, ’tis of you!”

“You have been perfectly safe, nevertheless. My sword never errs.” And

Troy returned the weapon to the scabbard.

Bathsheba, overcome by a hundred tumultuous feelings resulting from the

scene, abstractedly sat down on a tuft of heather.

“I must leave you now,” said Troy, softly. “And I’ll venture to take

and keep this in remembrance of you.”

She saw him stoop to the grass, pick up the winding lock which he had

severed from her manifold tresses, twist it round his fingers, unfasten

a button in the breast of his coat, and carefully put it inside. She

felt powerless to withstand or deny him. He was altogether too much for

her, and Bathsheba seemed as one who, facing a reviving wind, finds it

blow so strongly that it stops the breath. He drew near and said, “I

must be leaving you.”

He drew nearer still. A minute later and she saw his scarlet form

disappear amid the ferny thicket, almost in a flash, like a brand

swiftly waved.

That minute’s interval had brought the blood beating into her face, set

her stinging as if aflame to the very hollows of her feet, and enlarged

emotion to a compass which quite swamped thought. It had brought upon

her a stroke resulting, as did that of Moses in Horeb, in a liquid

stream—here a stream of tears. She felt like one who has sinned a great

sin.

The circumstance had been the gentle dip of Troy’s mouth downwards upon

her own. He had kissed her.