XXXIX. Coming Home—A Cry

           

           Ontheturnpikeroad,betweenCasterbridgeandWeatherbury,andaboutthreemilesfromtheformerplace,isYalburyHill,oneofthosesteeplongascentswhichpervadethehighwaysofthisundulatingpartofSouthWessex.Inreturningfrommarketitisusualforthefarmersandothergig-gentrytoalightatthebottomandwalkup.

           OneSaturdayeveninginthemonthofOctoberBathsheba’svehiclewasdulycreepingupthisincline.Shewassittinglistlesslyinthesecondseatofthegig,whilstwalkingbesideherinafarmer’smarketingsuitofunusuallyfashionablecutwasanerect,well-madeyoungman.Thoughonfoot,heheldthereinsandwhip,andoccasionallyaimedlightcutsatthehorse’searwiththeendofthelash,asarecreation.Thismanwasherhusband,formerlySergeantTroy,who,havingboughthisdischargewithBathsheba’smoney,wasgraduallytransforminghimselfintoafarmerofaspiritedandverymodernschool.Peopleofunalterableideasstillinsisteduponcallinghim"Sergeant"whentheymethim,whichwasinsomedegreeowingtohishavingstillretainedthewell-shapedmoustacheofhismilitarydays,andthesoldierlybearinginseparablefromhisformandtraining.

           "Yes,ifithadn’tbeenforthatwretchedrainIshouldhaveclearedtwohundredaseasyaslooking,mylove,"hewassaying."Don’tyousee,italteredallthechances?TospeaklikeabookIonceread,wetweatheristhenarrative,andfinedaysaretheepisodes,ofourcountry’shistory;now,isn’tthattrue?"

           "Butthetimeofyeariscomeforchangeableweather."

           "Well,yes.

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