SUCH WAS the state of things when the current affairs of Casterbridge were
interrupted by an event of such magnitude that its influence reached to the lowest
social stratum there, stirring the depths of its society simultaneously with the
preparations for the skimmington. It was one of those excitements which, when they
move a country town, leave a permanent mark upon its chronicles, as a warm summer
permanently marks the ring in the tree-trunk corresponding to its date.
A Royal Personage was about to pass through the borough, on his course further west,
to inaugurate an immense engineering work out that way. He had consented to halt
half-an-hour or so in the town, and to receive an address from the corporation of
Casterbridge, which, as a representative centre of husbandry, wished thus to express its
sense of the great services he had rendered to agricultural science and economics, by
his zealous promotion of designs for placing the art of farming on a more scientific
footing.
Royalty had not been seen in Casterbridge since the days of the third King George, and
then only by candle light for a few minutes, when that monarch, on a night-journey,
had stopped to change horses at the King's Arms. The inhabitants therefore decided to
make a thorough fete carillonnee of the unwonted occasion.
Half-an-hour's pause was not long, it is true, but much might be done in it by a
judicious grouping of incidents, above all, if the weather were fine.
The address was prepared on parchment, by an artist who was handy at ornamental
lettering, and was laid on with the best gold-leaf and colours that the signpainter had
in his shop. The Council met on the Tuesday before the appointed day, to arrange the
details of procedure. While they were sitting, the door of the Council Chamber
standing open, they heard a heavy footstep coming up the stairs. It advanced along the
passage, and Henchard entered the room, in clothes of frayed and threadbare
shabbiness, the very clothes which he had used to wear in the primal days when he had
sat among them.
"I have a feeling," he said, advancing to the table and laying his hand upon the green
cloth, "that I should like to join ye in this reception of our illustrious visitor. I suppose I
could walk with the rest?" Embarrassed glances were exchanged by the Council, and
Grower nearly ate the end of his quill-pen, so gnawed he it during the silence. Farfrae,
the young Mayor, who by virtue of his office sat in the large chair, intuitively caught
the sense of the meeting, and as spokesman was obliged to utter it, glad as he would
have been that the duty should have fallen to another tongue.
"I hardly see that it would be proper, Mr. Henchard," said he. "The Council are the
Council, and as ye are no longer one of the body, there would be an irregularity in the
proceeding. If ye were included, why not others?" "I have a particular reason for
wishing to assist at the ceremony."Farfrae looked round. "I think I have expressed the feeling of the Council," he said.
"Yes, yes," from Dr. Bath, Lawyer Long, Alderman Tubber, and several more.
"Then I am not to be allowed to have anything to do with it officially?" "I am afraid so;
it is out of the question, indeed. But of course you can see the doings full well, such as
they are to be, like the rest of the spectators." Henchard did not reply to that very
obvious suggestion, and, turning on his heel, went away.
It had been only a passing fancy of his, but opposition crystallized it into a
determination. "I'll welcome his Royal Highness, or nobody shall!" he went about
saying. "I am not going to be sat upon by Farfrae, or any of the rest of the paltry crew!
You shall see." The eventful morning was bright, a full-faced sun confronting early
windowgazers eastward, and all perceived (for they were practised in weather-lore)
that there was permanence in the glow. Visitors soon began to flock in from county
houses, villages, remote copses, and lonely uplands, the latter in oiled boots and tilt
bonnets, to see the reception, or if not to see it, at any rate to be near it. There was
hardly a workman in the town who did not put a clean shirt on. Solomon Longways,
Christopher Coney, Buzzford, and the rest of that fraternity, showed their sense of the
occasion by advancing their customary eleven o'clock pint to half-past ten; from which
they found a difficulty in getting back to the proper hour for several days.
Henchard had determined to do no work that day. He primed himself in the morning
with a glass of rum, and walking down the street met Elizabeth-Jane, whom he had not
seen for a week. "It was lucky," he said to her, "my twenty years had expired before
this came on, or I should never have had the nerve to carry it out." "Carry out what?"
said she, alarmed.
"This welcome I am going to give our Royal visitor." She was perplexed. "Shall we go
and see it together?" she said.
"See it! I have other fish to fry. You see it. It will be worth seeing!" She could do
nothing to elucidate this, and decked herself out with a heavy heart. As the appointed
time drew near she got sight again of her stepfather. She thought he was going to the
Three Mariners; but no, he elbowed his way through the gay throng to the shop of
Woolfrey, the draper. She waited in the crowd without.
In a few minutes he emerged, wearing, to her surprise, a brilliant rosette, while more
surprising still, in his hand he carried a flag, of somewhat homely construction, formed
by tacking one of the small Union Jacks, which abounded in the town today, to the end
of a deal wand- probably the roller from a piece of calico.
Henchard rolled up his flag on the doorstep, put it under his arm, and went down the
street.
Suddenly the taller members of the crowd turned their heads, and the shorter stood on
tiptoe. It was said that the Royal cortege approached. The railway had stretched out an
arm towards Casterbridge at this time, but had not reached it by several miles as yet; so
that the intervening distance, as well as the remainder of the journey, was to betraversed by road, in the old fashion. People thus waitedthe county families in their
carriages, the masses on foot- and watched the farstretching London highway to the
ringing of bells and chatter of tongues.
From the background Elizabeth-Jane watched the scene. Some seats had been arranged
from which ladies could witness the spectacle, and the front seat was occupied by
Lucetta, the Mayor's wife, just at present. In the road under her eyes stood Henchard.
She appeared so bright and pretty that, as it seemed, he was experiencing the
momentary weakness of wishing for her notice. But he was far from attractive to a
woman's eye, ruled as that is so largely by the superficies of things.
He was not only a journeyman, unable to appear as he formerly had appeared, but he
disdained to appear as well as he might. Everybody else, from the Mayor to the
washerwoman, shone in new vesture according to means; but Henchard had doggedly
retained the fretted and weather-beaten garments of bygone years.
Hence, alas, this occurred: Lucetta's eyes slid over him to this side and to that without
anchoring on a feature- as gaily dressed women's eyes will too often do on such
occasions. Her manner signified quite plainly that she meant to know him in public no
more.
But she was never tired of watching Donald, as he stood in animated converse with his
friends a few yards off, wearing round his young neck the official gold chain with great
square links, like that round the Royal unicorn. Every trifling emotion that her husband
showed as he talked had its reflex on her face and lips, which moved in little duplicates
to his. She was living his part rather than her own, and cared for no one's situation but
Farfrae's that day.
At length a man stationed at the farthest turn of the high road, namely, on the second
bridge of which mention has been made, gave a signal; and the Corporation in their
robes proceeded from the point of the Town Hall to the archway erected at the entrance
to the town. The carriages containing the Royal visitor and his suite arrived at the spot
in a cloud of dust, a procession was formed, and the whole came on to the Town Hall at
a walking pace.
This spot was the centre of interest. There were a few clear yards in front of the Royal
carriage; and into this space a man stepped before any one could prevent him. It was
Henchard. He had unrolled his private flag, and removing his hat he advanced to the
side of the slowing vehicle, waving the Union Jack to and fro with his left hand, while
he blandly held out his right to the illustrious Personage.
All the ladies said with bated breath, "Oh, look there!" and Lucetta was ready to faint.
Elizabeth-Jane peeped through the shoulders of those in front, saw what it was, and
was terrified; and then her interest in the spectacle as a strange phenomenon got the
better of her fear.
Farfrae, with Mayoral authority, immediately rose to the occasion. He seized Henchard
by the shoulder, dragged him back, and told him roughly to be off. Henchard's eyesmet his, and Farfrae observed the fierce light in them, despite his excitement and
irritation. For a moment Henchard stood his ground rigidly; then by an unaccountable
impulse gave way and retired. Farfrae glanced to the ladies' gallery, and saw that his
Calphurnia's cheek was pale.
"Why- it is your husband's old patron!" said Mrs. Blowbody, a lady of the
neighbourhood who sat beside Lucetta.
"Patron!" said Donald's wife with quick indignation.
"Do you say the man is an acquaintance of Mr. Farfrae's?" observed Mrs. Bath, the
physician's wife, a newcomer to the town, through her recent marriage with the doctor.
"He works for my husband," said Lucetta.
"Oh- is that all? They have been saying to me that it was through him your husband
first got a footing in Casterbridge. What stories people will tell!" "They will indeed. It
was not so at all. Donald's genius would have enabled him to get a footing anywhere,
without anybody's help! He would have been just the same if there had been no
Henchard in the world."
It was partly Lucetta's ignorance of the circumstances of Donald's arrival which led her
to speak thus; partly the sensation that everybody seemed bent on snubbing her at this
triumphant time. The incident had occupied but a few moments, but it was necessarily
witnessed by the Royal personage, who, however, with practised tact, affected not to
have noticed anything unusual. He alighted, the Mayor advanced, the address was
read; the visitor replied, then said a few words to Farfrae, and shook hands with
Lucetta as the Mayor's wife. The ceremony occupied but a few minutes, and the
carriages rattled heavily as Pharaoh's chariots down Corn Street and out upon the
Budmouth Road, in continuation of the journey coastward.
In the crowd stood Coney, Buzzford, and Longways. "Some difference between him
now and when he zung at the Dree Mariners," said the first. "'Tis wonderful how he
could get a lady of her quality to go snacks wi' en in such quick time." "True. Yet how
folk do worship fine clothes! Now there's a better-looking woman than she that nobody
notices at all, because she's akin to that hontish fellow Henchard." "I could worship ye,
Buzz, for saying that," remarked Nance Mockridge. "I do like to see the trimming
pulled off such Christmas candles. I am quite unequal to the part of villain myself, or
I'd gi'e all my small silver to see that lady toppered.... And perhaps I shall soon," she
added significantly.
"That's not a noble passiont for a 'oman to keep up," said Longways.
Nance did not reply, but everyone knew what she meant. The ideas diffused by the
reading of Lucetta's letters at Peter's Finger had condensed into a scandal, which was
spreading like a miasmatic fog through Mixen Lane, and thence up the back streets of
Casterbridge.
This mixed assemblage of idlers known to each other presently fell apart into two
bands, by a process of natural selection, the frequenters of Peter's Finger going offMixen Lane-wards, where most of them lived, while Coney, Buzzford, Longways, and
that connection remained in the street.
"You know what's brewing down there, I suppose?" said Buzzford mysteriously to the
others.
Coney looked at him. "Not the skimmity-ride?" Buzzford nodded.
"I have my doubts if it will be carried out," said Longways. "If they are getting it up
they are keeping it mighty close." "I heard they were thinking of it a fortnight ago, at
all events." "If I were sure o't I'd lay information," said Longways emphatically. "'Tis
too rough a joke, and apt to wake riots in towns. We know that the Scotchman is a right
enough man, and that his lady has been a right enough 'oman since she came here, and
if there was anything wrong about her afore, that's their business, not ours."
Coney reflected. Farfrae was still liked in the community; but it must be owned that, as
the Mayor and man of money, engrossed with affairs and ambitions, he had lost in the
eyes of the poorer inhabitants something of that wondrous charm which he had had for
them as a light-hearted, penniless young man, who sang ditties as readily as the birds
in the trees. Hence the anxiety to keep him from annoyance showed not quite the
ardour that would have animated it in former days.
"Suppose we make inquiration into it, Christopher," continued Longways; "and if we
find there's really anything in it, drop a letter to them most concerned, and advise 'em
to keep out of the way?" This course was decided on, and the group separated,
Buzzford saying to Coney, "Come, my ancient friend; let's move on. There's nothing
more to see here." These well-intentioned ones would have been surprised had they
known how ripe the great jocular plot really was. "Yes, tonight," Jopp had said to the
Peter's party at the corner of Mixen Lane. "As a wind-up to the Royal visit the hit will
be all the more pat by reason of their great elevation today." To him, at least, it was not
a joke, but a retaliation. THE PROCEEDINGS had been brief- too brief- to Lucetta, whom an intoxicating
Weltlust had fairly mastered; but they had brought her a great triumph nevertheless.
The shake of the Royal hand still lingered in her fingers; and the chit-chat she had
overheard, that her husband might possibly receive the honour of knighthood, though
idle to a degree, seemed not the wildest vision; stranger things had occurred to men so
good and captivating as her Scotchman was.
After the collision with the Mayor, Henchard had withdrawn behind the ladies' stand;
and there he stood, regarding with a stare of abstraction the spot on the lappel of his
coat where Farfrae's hand had seized it. He put his own hand there, as if he could
hardly realize such an outrage from one whom it had once been his wont to treat with
ardent generosity. While pausing in this half-stupefied state the conversation of Lucetta
with the other ladies reached his ears; and he distinctly heard her deny him- deny that
he had assisted Donald, that he was anything more than a common journeyman.
He moved on homeward, and met Jopp in the archway to the Bull Stake. "So you've
had a snub," said Jopp.
"And what if I have?" answered Henchard sternly.
"Why, I've had one too, so we are both under the same cold shade." He briefly related
his attempt to win Lucetta's intercession.
Henchard merely heard his story, without taking it deeply in. His own relation to
Farfrae and Lucetta overshadowed all kindred ones. He went on saying brokenly to
himself, "She has supplicated to me in her time; and now her tongue won't own me nor
her eyes see me!... And he- how angry he looked. He drove me back as if I were a bull
breaking fence.... I took it like a lamb, for I saw it could not be settled there. He can rub
brine on a green wound!... But he shall pay for it, and she shall be sorry. It must come
to a tussle- face to face; and then we'll see how a coxcomb can front a man!" Without
further reflection the fallen merchant, bent on some wild purpose, ate a hasty dinner,
and went forth to find Farfrae. After being injured by him as a rival, and snubbed by
him as a journeyman, the crowning degradation had been reserved for this day- that he
should be shaken at the collar by him as a vagabond in the face of the whole town.
The crowds had dispersed. But for the green arches which still stood as they were
erected Casterbridge life had resumed its ordinary shape. Henchard went down Corn
Street till he came to Farfrae's house, where he knocked, and left a message that he
would be glad to see his employer at the granaries as soon as he conveniently could
come there. Having done this he proceeded round to the back and entered the yard.
Nobody was present, for, as he had been aware, the labourers and carters were
enjoying a half-holiday on account of the events of the morning- though the carters
would have to return for a short time later on, to feed and litter down the horses. Hehad reached the granary steps and was about to ascend, when he said to himself aloud,
"I'm stronger than he." Henchard returned to a shed, where he selected a short piece of
rope from several pieces that were lying about; hitching one end of this to a nail, he
took the other in his right hand and turned himself bodily round, while keeping his
arm against his side; by this contrivance he pinioned the latter effectively. He now went
up the ladders to the top floor of the corn-stores.
It was empty, except of a few sacks, and at the further end was the door often
mentioned, opening under the cat-head and chain that hoisted the sacks. He fixed the
door open, and looked over the sill. There was a depth of thirty or forty feet to the
ground; here was the spot on which he had been standing with Farfrae when Elizabeth-
Jane had seen him lift his arm, with many misgivings as to what the movement
portended.
He retired a few steps into the loft and waited. From this elevated perch his eye could
sweep the roofs round about, the upper parts of the luxurious chestnut trees, now
delicate in leaves of a week's age, and the drooping boughs of the limes; Farfrae's
garden and the green door leading therefrom. In course of timehe could not say how
long- that green door opened and Farfrae came through. He was dressed as if for a
journey. The low light of the nearing evening caught his head and face when he
emerged from the shadow of the wall, warming them to a complexion of flame-colour.
Henchard watched him with his mouth firmly set, the squareness of his jaw and the
verticality of his profile being unduly marked.
Farfrae came on with one hand in his pocket, and humming a tune in a way which told
that the words were most in his mind. They were those of the song he had sung when
he arrived years before at the Three Mariners, a poor young man, adventuring for life
and fortune, and scarcely knowing whitherward:"'And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine.'"
Nothing moved Henchard like an old melody. He sank back. "No; I can't do it!" he
gasped. "Why does the infernal fool begin that now!" At length Farfrae was silent, and
Henchard looked out of the loft door. "Will ye come up here?" he said.
"Ay, man," said Farfrae. "I couldn't see ye. What's wrang?" A minute later Henchard
heard his feet on the lowest ladder. He heard him land on the first floor, ascend and
land on the second, begin the ascent to the third. And then his head rose through the
trap behind.
"What are you doing up here at this time?" he asked, coming forward. "Why didn't ye
take your holiday like the rest of the men?" He spoke in a tone which had just severity
enough in it to show that he remembered the untoward event of the forenoon.
Henchard said nothing; but, going back, he closed the stair hatchway, and stamped
upon it so that it went tight into its frame; he next turned to the wondering young man,
who by this time observed that one of Henchard's arms was bound to his side."Now," said Henchard quietly, "we stand face to face- man and man. Your money and
your fine wife no longer lift 'ee above me as they did but now, and my poverty does
not press me down." "What does it all mean?" asked Farfrae simply.
"Wait a bit, my lad. You should ha' thought twice before you affronted to extremes a
man who had nothing to lose. I've stood your rivalry, which ruined me, and your
snubbing, which humbled me; but your hustling, that disgraced me, I won't stand!"
Farfrae warmed a little at this. "Ye'd no business there," he said.
"As much as any one among ye! What, you forward stripling, tell a man of my age he'd
no business there!" The anger-vein swelled in his forehead as he spoke.
"You insulted Royalty, Henchard; and 'twas my duty, as the chief magistrate, to stop
you." "Royalty be damned," said Henchard. "I am as loyal as you, come to that!" "I am
not here to argue. Wait till you cool down, wait till you cool; and you will see things
the same way as I do."
"You may be the one to cool first," said Henchard grimly. "Now this is the case. Here
be we, in this foursquare loft, to finish out that little wrestle you began this morning.
There's the door, forty foot above ground. One of us two puts the other out by that
door- the master stays inside. If he likes he may go down afterwards and give the
alarm that the other has fallen out by accident- or he may tell the truth- that's his
business. As the strongest man I've tied one arm to take no advantage of 'ee. D'ye
understand? Then here's at 'ee!" There was no time for Farfrae to do aught but one
thing, to close with Henchard, for the latter had come on at once. It was a wrestling
match, the object of each being to give his antagonist a back fall; and on Henchard's
part, unquestionably, that it should be through the door.
At the outset Henchard's hold by his only hand, the right, was on the left side of
Farfrae's collar, which he firmly grappled, the latter holding Henchard by his collar
with the contrary hand. With his right he endeavoured to get hold of his antagonist's
left arm which, however, he could not do, so adroitly did Henchard keep it in the rear
as he gazed upon the lowered eyes of his fair and slim antagonist.
Henchard planted the first toe forward, Farfrae crossing him with his; and thus far the
struggle had very much the appearance of the ordinary wrestling of those parts. Several
minutes were passed by them in this attitude, the pair rocking and writhing like trees
in a gale, both preserving an absolute silence. By this time their breathing could be
heard. Then Farfrae tried to get hold of the other side of Henchard's collar, which was
resisted by the larger man exerting all his force in a wrenching movement, and this part
of the struggle ended by his forcing Farfrae down on his knees by sheer pressure of one
of his muscular arms. Hampered as he was, however, he could not keep him there, and
Farfrae finding his feet again the struggle proceeded as before.
By a whirl Henchard brought Donald dangerously near the precipice; seeing his
position the Scotchman for the first time locked himself to his adversary, and all the
efforts of that infuriated Prince of Darkness- as he might have been called from his
appearance just now- were inadequate to lift or loosen Farfrae for a time.By an extraordinary effort he succeeded at last, though not until they had got far back
again from the fatal door. In doing so Henchard contrived to turn Farfrae a complete
somersault. Had Henchard's other arm been free it would have been all over with
Farfrae then. But again he regained his feet, wrenching Henchard's arm considerably,
and causing him sharp pain, as could be seen from the twitching of his face. He
instantly delivered the younger man an annihilating turn by the left fore-hip, as it used
to be expressed, and following up his advantage thrust him towards the door, never
loosening his hold till Farfrae's fair head was hanging over the window-sill, and his
arm dangling down outside the wall.
"Now," said Henchard between his gasps, "this is the end of what you began this
morning. Your life is in my hands." "Then take it, take it!" said Farfrae. "Ye've wished
to long enough!"
Henchard looked down upon him in silence, and their eyes met. "O Farfrae!that's not
true!" he said bitterly. "God is my witness that no man ever loved another as I did thee
at one time.... And now- though I came here to kill 'ee, I cannot hurt thee! Go and give
me in charge- do what you will- I care nothing for what comes of me!" He withdrew to
the back part of the loft, and flung himself into a corner upon some sacks, in the
abandonment of remorse. Farfrae regarded him in silence; then went to the hatch and
descended through it. Henchard would fain have recalled him; but his tongue failed in
its task, and the young man's steps died on his ear.
Henchard took his full measure of shame and self-reproach. The scenes of his first
acquaintance with Farfrae rushed back upon him- that time when the curious mixture
of romance and thrift in the young man's composition so commanded his heart that
Farfrae could play upon him as on an instrument. So thoroughly subdued was he that
he remained on the sacks in a crouching attitude, unusual for a man, and for such a
man. Its womanliness sat tragically on the figure of so stern a piece of virility. He heard
a conversation below, the opening of the coach-house door, and the putting in of a
horse, but took no notice.
Here he stayed till the thin shades thickened to opaque obscurity, and the loftdoor
became an oblong of gray light- the only visible shape around. At length he arose,
shook the dust from his clothes wearily, felt his way to the hatch, and gropingly
descended the steps till he stood in the yard.
"He thought highly of me once," he murmured. "Now he'll hate me and despise me for
ever!" He became possessed by an overpowering wish to see Farfrae again that night,
and by some desperate pleading to attempt the well-nigh impossible task of winning
pardon for his late mad attack. But as he walked towards Farfrae's door, he recalled the
unheeded doings in the yard while he had lain above in a sort of stupor. Farfrae he
remembered had gone to the stable and put the horse into the gig; while doing so,
Whittle had brought him a letter; Farfrae had then said that he would not go towards
Budmouth as he had intended- that he was unexpectedly summoned to Weatherbury,
and meant to call at Mellstock on his way thither, that place lying but one or two miles
out of his course.He must have come prepared for a journey when he first arrived in the yard,
unsuspecting enmity; and he must have driven off (though in a changed direction)
without saying a word to any one on what had occurred between themselves.
It would therefore be useless to call at Farfrae's house till very late.
There was no help for it but to wait till his return, though waiting was almost torture to
his restless and self-accusing soul. He walked about the streets and outskirts of the
town, lingering here and there till he reached the stone bridge of which mention has
been made, an accustomed halting-place with him now. Here he spent a long time, the
purl of waters through the weirs meeting his ear, and the Casterbridge lights
glimmering at no great distance off.
While leaning thus upon the parapet, his listless attention was awakened by sounds of
an unaccustomed kind from the town quarter. They were a confusion of rhythmical
noises, to which the streets added yet more confusion by encumbering them with
echoes. His first incurious thought that the clangour arose from the town band,
engaged in an attempt to round off a memorable day by a burst of evening harmony,
was contradicted by certain peculiarities of reverberation. But inexplicability did not
rouse him to more than a cursory heed; his sense of degradation was too strong for the
admission of foreign ideas; and he leant against the parapet as before. WHEN FARFRAE descended out of the loft breathless from his encounter with
Henchard, he paused at the bottom to recover himself. He arrived at the yard with the
intention of putting the horse into the gig himself (all the men having a holiday), and
driving to a village on the Budmouth Road. Despite the fearful struggle he decided still
to persevere in his journey, so as to recover himself before going indoors and meeting
the eyes of Lucetta. He wished to consider his course in a case so serious.
When he was just on the point of driving off, Whittle arrived with a note badly
addressed, and bearing the word "immediate" upon the outside. On opening it he was
surprised to see that it was unsigned. It contained a brief request that he would go to
Weatherbury that evening about some business which he was conducting there. Farfrae
knew nothing that could make it pressing; but as he was bent upon going out he
yielded to the anonymous request, particularly as he had a call to make at Mellstock
which could be included in the same tour. Thereupon he told Whittle of his change of
direction, in words which Henchard had overheard; and set out on his way. Farfrae
had not directed his man to take the message indoors, and Whittle had not been
supposed to do so on his own responsibility.
Now the anonymous letter was the well-intentioned but clumsy contrivance of
Longways and other of Farfrae's men, to get him out of the way for the evening, in
order that the satirical mummery should fall flat, if it were attempted. By giving open
information they would have brought down upon their heads the vengeance of those
among their comrades who enjoyed these boisterous old games; and therefore the plan
of sending a letter recommended itself by its indirectness.
For poor Lucetta they took no protective measure, believing with the majority there
was some truth in the scandal, which she would have to bear as she best might. It was
about eight o'clock, and Lucetta was sitting in the drawing-room alone. Night had set
in for more than half-an-hour, but she had not had the candles lighted, for when
Farfrae was away she preferred waiting for him by the firelight, and, if it were not too
cold, keeping one of the window-sashes a little way open that the sound of his wheels
might reach her ears early. She was leaning back in her chair, in a more hopeful mood
than she had enjoyed since her marriage. The day had been such a success; and the
temporary uneasiness which Henchard's show of effrontery had wrought in her
disappeared with the quiet disappearance of Henchard himself under her husband's
reproof. The floating evidences of her absurd passion for him, and its consequences,
had been destroyed, and she really seemed to have no cause for fear.
The reverie in which these and other subjects mingled was disturbed by a hubbub in
the distance, that increased moment by moment. It did not greatly surprise her, the
afternoon having been given up to recreation by a majority of the populace since the
passage of the Royal equipages. But her attention was at once riveted to the matter bythe voice of a maid-servant next door, who spoke from an upper window across the
street to some other maid even more elevated than she.
"Which way be they going now?" inquired the first with interest.
"I can't be sure for a moment," said the second, "because of the malter's chimbley. Oh
yes- I can see 'em. Well, I declare, I declare!" "What, what?" from the first, more
enthusiastically.
"They are coming up Corn Street after all! They sit back to back!" "What- two of 'em-
are there two figures?" "Yes. Two images on a donkey, back to back, their elbows tied
to one another's! She's facing the head, and he's facing the tail." "Is it meant for
anybody particular?" "Well-it mid be. The man has got on a blue coat and kerseymere
leggings; he has black whiskers, and a reddish face. 'Tis a stuffed figure, with a mask."
The din was increasing now- then it lessened a little.
"There- I shan't see, after all!" cried the disappointed first maid.
"They have gone into a back street- that's all," said the one who occupied the enviable
position in the attic. "There- now I have got 'em all endways nicely!" "What's the
woman like? Just say, and I can tell in a moment if 'tis meant for one I've in mind."
"My- why- 'tis dressed just as she was dressed when she sat in the front seat at the time
the play-actors came to the Town Hall!"
Lucetta started to her feet; and almost at the instant the door of the room was quickly
and softly opened. Elizabeth-Jane advanced into the firelight.
"I have come to see you," she said breathlessly. "I did not stop to knock- forgive me! I
see you have not shut your shutters, and the window is open." Without waiting for
Lucetta's reply she crossed quickly to the window, and pulled out one of the shutters.
Lucetta glided to her side. "Let it be- hush!" she said peremptorily, in a dry voice,
while she seized Elizabeth-Jane by the hand, and held up her finger. Their intercourse
had seen so low and hurried that not a word had been lost of the conversation without;
which had thus proceeded: "Her neck is uncovered, and her hair in bands, and her
back-comb in place; she's got on a puce silk, and white stockings, and coloured shoes."
Again Elizabeth-Jane attempted to close the window, but Lucetta held her by main
force.
"'Tis me," she said, with a face pale as death. "A procession- a scandal- an effigy of me,
and him!" The look of Elizabeth betrayed that the latter knew it already.
"Let us shut it out," coaxed Elizabeth-Jane, noting that the rigid wildness of Lucetta's
features were growing yet more rigid and wild with the nearing of the noise and
laughter. "Let us shut it out!"
"It is no use!" she shrieked out. "He will see it, won't he? Donald will see it! He is just
coming home-and it will break his heart- he will never love any moreand oh, it will kill
me- kill me!" Elizabeth-Jane was frantic now. "Oh, can't something be done to stop it?"
she cried. "Is there nobody to do it- not one?" She relinquished Lucetta's hands, and
ran to the door. Lucetta herself, saying recklessly, "I will see it!" turned to the window,threw up the sash, and went out upon the balcony. Elizabeth immediately followed
her, and put her arm round her to pull her in. Lucetta's eyes were straight upon the
spectacle of the uncanny revel, now advancing rapidly. The numerous lights around
the two effigies threw them up into lurid distinctness; it was impossible to mistake the
pair for other than the intended victims.
"Come in, come in," implored Elizabeth; "and let me shut the window!" "She's me-
she's me- even to the parasol- my green parasol!" cried Lucetta, with a wild laugh as
she stepped in. She stood motionless for one second- then fell heavily to the floor.
Almost at the instant of her fall the rude music of the skimmington ceased.
The roars of sarcastic laughter went off in ripples, and the trampling died out like the
rustle of a spent wind. Elizabeth was only indirectly conscious of this; she had rung the
bell, and was bending over Lucetta, who remained convulsed on the carpet in the
paroxysms of an epileptic seizure. She rang again and again, in vain;
the probability being that the servants had all run out of the house to see more of the
Demoniac Sabbath than they could see within.
At last Farfrae's man, who had been agape on the doorstep, came up; then the cook.
The shutters, hastily pushed to by Elizabeth, were quite closed, a light was obtained,
Lucetta carried to her room, and the man sent off for a doctor. While Elizabeth was
undressing her she recovered consciousness; but as soon as she remembered what had
passed the fit returned.
The doctor arrived with unhoped-for promptitude; he had been standing at his door,
like others, wondering what the uproar meant. As soon as he saw the unhappy sufferer
he said, in answer to Elizabeth's mute appeal, "This is serious." "It is a fit," Elizabeth
said.
"Yes. But a fit in the present state of her health means mischief. You must send at once
for Mr. Farfrae. Where is he?" "He has driven into the country, sir," said the parlour-
maid; "to some place on the Budmouth Road. He's likely to be back soon." "Never
mind; he must be sent for, in case he should not hurry." The doctor returned to the
bedside again. The man was despatched, and they soon heard him clattering out of the
yard at the back.
Meanwhile Mr. Benjamin Grower, the prominent burgess of whom mention has been
already made, hearing the din of cleavers, tongs, tambourines, kits, crouds, humstrums,
serpents, rams'-horns, and other historical kinds of music as he sat indoors in the High
Street, had put on his hat and gone out to learn the cause. He came to the corner above
Farfrae's, and soon guessed the nature of the proceedings; for being a native of the
town he had witnessed such rough jests before. His first move was to search hither and
thither for the constables; there were two in the town, shrivelled men whom he
ultimately found in hiding up an alley, yet more shrivelled than usual, having some not
ungrounded fears that they might be roughly handled if seen."What can we two poor lammigers do against such a multitude!" expostulated
Stubberd, in answer to Mr. Grower's chiding. "'Tis tempting 'em to commit felo de se
upon us, and that would be the death of the perpetrator; and we wouldn't be the cause
of a fellow-creature's death of no account, not we!" "Get some help, then! Here, I'll
come with you. We'll see what a few words of authority can do. Quick now; have you
got your staves?" "We didn't want the folk to notice us as law officers, being so short-
handed, sir; so we pushed our Gover'ment staves up this water-pipe." "Out with 'em,
and come along, for Heaven's sake! Ah, here's Mr. Blowbody; that's lucky." (Blowbody
was the third of the three borough magistrates.) "Well, what's the row?" said
Blowbody. "Got their names- hey?" "No. Now," said Grower to one of the constables,
"you go with Mr. Blowbody round by the Old Walk and come up the street; and I'll go
with Stubberd straight forward. By this plan we shall have 'em between us. Get their
names only: no attack or interruption." Thus they started. But as Stubberd with Mr.
Grower advanced into Corn Street, whence the sounds had proceeded, they were
surprised that no procession could be seen. They passed Farfrae's, and looked to the
end of the street. The lamp flames waved, the Walk trees soughed, a few loungers
stood about with their hands in their pockets. Everything was as usual.
"Have you seen a motley crowd, making a disturbance?" Grower said magisterially to
one of these in a fustian jacket, who smoked a short pipe and wore straps round his
knees.
"Beg yer pardon, sir?" blandly said the person addressed, who was no other than
Charl, of Peter's Finger. Mr. Grower repeated the words.
Charl shook his head to the zero of childlike ignorance. "No; we haven't seen anything;
have we, Joe? And you was here afore I." Joseph was quite as blank as the other in his
reply.
"H'm- that's odd," said Mr. Grower. "Ah- here's a respectable man coming that I know
by sight. Have you," he inquired, addressing the nearing shape of Jopp, "have you seen
any gang of fellows making a devil of a noise- skimmington riding, or something of the
sort?" "Oh no- nothing, sir," Jopp replied, as if receiving the most singular news.
"But I've not been far tonight, so perhaps-"
"Oh, 'twas here- just here," said the magistrate.
"Now, I've noticed, come to think o't, that the wind in the Walk trees makes a peculiar
poetical-like murmur tonight, sir; more than common; so perhaps 'twas that?" Jopp
suggested, as he rearranged his hand in his greatcoat pocket (where it ingeniously
supported a pair of kitchen tongs and a cow's horn, thrust up under his waistcoat).
"No, no, no,- d'ye think I'm a fool? Constable, come this way. They must have gone
into the back street." Neither in back street nor in front street, however, could the
disturbers be perceived; and Blowbody and the second constable, who came up at this
time, brought similar intelligence. Effigies, donkey, lanterns, band, all had disappeared
like the crew of Comus."Now," said Mr. Grower, "there's only one thing more we can do. Get ye halfa-dozen
helpers, and go in a body to Mixen Lane, and into Peter's Finger. I'm much mistaken if
you don't find a clue to the perpetrators there." The rusty jointed executors of the law
mustered assistance as soon as they could, and the whole party marched off to the lane
of notoriety. It was no rapid matter to get there at night, not a lamp or glimmer of any
sort offering itself to light the way, except an occasional pale radiance through some
window-curtain, or through the chink of some door which could not be closed because
of the smoky chimney within. At last they entered the inn boldly, by the till then bolted
front-door, after a prolonged knocking, of loudness commensurate with the importance
of their standing.
In the settles of the large room, guyed to the ceiling by cords as usual for stability, an
ordinary group sat drinking and smoking with statuesque quiet and demeanour. The
landlady looked mildly at the invaders, saying in honest accents, "Good evening,
gentlemen; there's plenty of room. I hope there's nothing amiss?" They looked round
the room. "Surely," said Stubberd to one of the men, "I saw you by now in Corn Street-
Mr. Grower spoke to 'ee?" The man, who was Charl, shook his head absently. "I've
been here this last hour, hain't I, Nance?" he said to the woman who meditatively
sipped her ale near him.
"Faith, that you have. I came in for my quiet suppertime half-pint, and you was here
then, as was all the rest." The other constable was facing the clock-case, where he saw
reflected in the glass a quick motion by the landlady. Turning sharply, he caught her
closing the oven-door.
"Something curious about that oven, ma'am!" he observed advancing, opening it, and
drawing out a tambourine.
"Oh," she said, apologetically, "that's what we keep here to use when there's a little
quiet dancing. You see damp weather spoils it, so I put it there to keep it dry."
The constable nodded knowingly; but what he knew was nothing. Nohow could
anything be elicited from this mute and inoffensive assembly. In a few minutes the
investigators went out, and joining those of their auxiliaries who had been left at the
door, they pursued their way elsewhither. LONG BEFORE this time Henchard, weary of his ruminations on the bridge, had
repaired toward the town. When he stood at the bottom of the street a procession burst
upon his view, in the act of turning out of an alley just above him. The lanterns, horns,
and multitude startled him; he saw the mounted images, and knew what it all meant.
They crossed the way, entered another street, and disappeared. He turned back a few
steps and was lost in grave reflection, finally wending his way homeward by the
obscure river-side path. Unable to rest there, he went to his stepdaughter's lodging,
and was told that Elizabeth-Jane had gone to Mrs. Farfrae's. Like one acting in
obedience to a charm, and with a nameless apprehension, he followed in the same
direction, in the hope of meeting her, the roysterers having vanished.
Disappointed in this, he gave the gentlest of pulls to the door-bell, and then learnt
particulars of what had occurred, together with the doctor's imperative orders that
Farfrae should be brought home, and how they had set out to meet him on the
Budmouth Road.
"But he has gone to Mellstock and Weatherbury!" exclaimed Henchard, now
unspeakably grieved. "Not Budmouth way at all." But, alas! for Henchard; he had lost
his good name. They would not believe him, taking his words but as the frothy
utterances of recklessness. Though Lucetta's life seemed at that moment to depend
upon her husband's return (she being in great mental agony lest he should never know
the unexaggerated truth of her past relations with Henchard), no messenger was
despatched towards Weatherbury. Henchard, in a state of bitter anxiety and contrition,
determined to seek Farfrae himself.
To this end he hastened down the town, ran along the eastern road over Durnover
moor, up the hill beyond, and thus onward in the moderate darkness of this spring
night till he had reached a second and almost a third hill about three miles distant. In
Yalbury Bottom, the plain at the foot of the hill, he listened. At first nothing, beyond his
own heart-throbs, was to be heard but the slow wind making its moan among the
masses of spruce and larch of Yalbury Wood which clothed the heights on either hand;
but presently there came the sound of light wheels whetting their felloes against the
newly stoned patches of road, accompanied by the distant glimmer of lights.
He knew it was Farfrae's gig descending the hill from an indescribable personality in
its noise, the vehicle having been his own till bought by the Scotchman at the sale of his
effects. Henchard thereupon retraced his steps, the gig coming up with him as its driver
slackened speed at the foot of the decline.
It was a point in the highway near which the road to Mellstock branched off from the
homeward direction. By diverging to that village, as he had intended to do, Farfrae
might probably delay his return by a couple of hours. It soon appeared that his
intention was to do so still, the light swerving towards Cuckoo Lane, the by-roadaforesaid. Farfrae's off gig-lamp flashed in Henchard's face. At the same time, Farfrae
discerned his late antagonist.
"Farfrae- Mr. Farfrae!" cried the breathless Henchard, holding up his hand.
Farfrae allowed the horse to turn several steps into the branch lane before he pulled up.
He then drew rein, and said "Yes?" over his shoulder, as one would towards a
pronounced enemy.
"Come back to Casterbridge at once!" Henchard said. "There's something wrong at
your house- requiring your return. I've run all the way here on purpose to tell ye."
Farfrae was silent, and at his silence Henchard's soul sank within him. Why had he not,
before this, thought of what was only too obvious? He who, four hours earlier, had
enticed Farfrae into a deadly wrestle, stood now in the darkness of late night-time on a
lonely road, inviting him to come a particular way, where he might have confederates,
instead of his purposed way, where there might be a better opportunity of guarding
himself from attack. Henchard could almost feel this view of things in course of
passage through Farfrae's mind.
"I have to go to Mellstock," said Farfrae coldly, as he loosened his rein to move on.
"But," implored Henchard, "the matter is more serious than your business at Mellstock.
It is- your wife! She is ill. I can tell you particulars as we go along."
The very agitation and abruptness of Henchard increased Farfrae's suspicion that this
was a ruse to decoy him on to the next wood, where might be effectually compassed
what, from policy or want of nerve, Henchard had failed to do earlier in the day. He
started the horse.
"I know what you think," deprecated Henchard, running after, almost bowed down
with despair as he perceived the image of unscrupulous villainy that he assumed in his
former friend's eyes. "But I am not what you think!" he cried hoarsely. "Believe me,
Farfrae; I have come entirely on your own and your wife's account. She is in danger. I
know no more; and they want you to come. Your man has gone the other way in a
mistake. O Farfrae! don't mistrust me- I am a wretched man; but my heart is true to you
still!" Farfrae, however, did distrust him utterly. He knew his wife was with child, but
he had left her not long ago in perfect health; and Henchard's treachery was more
credible than his story. He had in his time heard bitter ironies from Henchard's lips,
and there might be ironies now. He quickened the horse's pace, and had soon risen into
the high country lying between there and Mellstock, Henchard's. spasmodic run after
him lending yet more substance to his thought of evil purposes.
The gig and its driver lessened against the sky in Henchard's eyes; his exertions for
Farfrae's good had been in vain. Over this repentant sinner, at least, there was to be no
joy in heaven. He cursed himself like a less scrupulous Job, as a vehement man will do
when he loses self-respect, the last mental prop under poverty. To this he had come
after a time of emotional darkness of which the adjoining woodland shade afforded
inadequate illustration. Presently he began to walk back again along the way by whichhe had arrived. Farfrae should at all events have no reason for delay upon the road by
seeing him there when he took his journey homeward later on.
Arriving at Casterbridge, Henchard went again to Farfrae's house to make inquiries. As
soon as the door opened anxious faces confronted his from the staircase, hall, and
landing; and they all said in grievous disappointment, "Oh- it is not he!" The man,
finding his mistake, had long since returned, and all hopes had been centred upon
Henchard.
"But haven't you found him?" said the doctor.
"Yes.... I cannot tell ye!" Henchard replied as he sank down on a chair within the
entrance. "He can't be home for two hours." "H'm," said the physician returning
upstairs.
"How is she?" asked Henchard of Elizabeth, who formed one of the group.
"In great danger, father. Her anxiety to see her husband makes her fearfully restless.
Poor woman- I fear they have killed her!" Henchard regarded the sympathetic speaker
for a few instances as if she struck him in a new light; then, without further remark,
went out of the door and onward to his lonely cottage. So much for man's rivalry, he
thought. Death was to have the oyster, and Farfrae and himself the shells. But about
Elizabeth-Jane; in the midst of his gloom she seemed to him as a pin-point of light. He
had liked the look of her face as she answered him from the stairs. There had been
affection in it, and above all things what he desired now was affection from anything
that was good and pure. She was not his own; yet, for the first time, he had a faint
dream that he might get to like her as his own,- if she would only continue to love him.
Jopp was just going to bed when Henchard got home. As the latter entered the door
Jopp said, "This is rather bad about Mrs. Farfrae's illness." "Yes," said Henchard
shortly, though little dreaming of Jopp's complicity in the night's harlequinade, and
raising his eyes just sufficiently to observe that Jopp's face was lined with anxiety.
"Somebody has called for you," continued Jopp, when Henchard was shutting himself
into his own apartment. "A kind of traveller, or sea-captain of some sort." "Oh- who
could he be?" "He seemed a well-be-doing man- had grey hair and a broadish face; but
he gave no name, and no message." "Nor do I gi'e him any attention." And, saying this,
Henchard closed his door.
The divergence to Mellstock delayed Farfrae's return very nearly the two hours of
Henchard's estimate. Among the other urgent reasons for his presence had been the
need of his authority to send to Budmouth for a second physician; and when at length
Farfrae did come back he was in a state bordering on distraction at his misconception of
Henchard's motives.
A messenger was despatched to Budmouth, late as it had grown; the night wore on,
and the other doctor came in the small hours. Lucetta had been much soothed by
Donald's arrival; he seldom or never left her side; and when, immediately after his
entry, she had tried to lisp out to him the secret which so oppressed her, he checked herfeeble words, lest talking should be dangerous, assuring her there was plenty of time to
tell him everything.
Up to this time he knew nothing of the skimmington-ride. The dangerous illness and
miscarriage of Mrs. Farfrae was soon rumoured through the town, and an apprehensive
guess having been given as to its cause by the leaders in the exploit, compunction and
fear threw a dead silence over all particulars of their orgie; while those immediately
around Lucetta would not venture to add to her husband's distress by alluding to the
subject.
What, and how much, Farfrae's wife ultimately explained to him of her past
entanglement with Henchard, when they were alone in the solitude of that sad night,
cannot be told. That she informed him of the bare facts of her peculiar intimacy with
the corn-merchant became plain from Farfrae's own statements. But in respect of her
subsequent conduct- her motive in coming to Casterbridge to unite herself with
Henchard- her assumed justification in abandoning him when she discovered reasons
for fearing him (though in truth her inconsequent passion for another man at first sight
had most to do with that abandonment)- her method of reconciling to her conscience a
marriage with the second when she was in a measure committed to the first; to what
extent she spoke of these things remained Farfrae's secret alone.
Besides the watchman who called the hours and weather in Casterbridge that night
there walked a figure up and down Corn Street, hardly less frequently. It was
Henchard's, whose retiring to rest had proved itself a futility as soon as attempted; and
he gave it up to go hither and thither, and make inquiries about the patient every now
and then. He called as much on Farfrae's account as on Lucetta's, and on Elizabeth-
Jane's even more than on either's. Shorn one by one of all other interests, his life
seemed centering on the personality of the stepdaughter whose presence but recently
he could not endure. To see her on each occasion of his inquiry at Lucetta's was a
comfort to him.
The last of his calls was made about four o'clock in the morning, in the steely light of
dawn. Lucifer was fading into day across Durnover Moor, the sparrows were just
alighting into the street, and the hens had begun to cackle from the outhouses. When
within a few yards of Farfrae's he saw the door gently opened, and a servant raise her
hand to the knocker, to untie the piece of cloth which had muffled it. He went across,
the sparrows in his way scarcely flying up from the roadlitter, so little did they believe
in human aggression at so early a time.
"Why do you take off that?" said Henchard.
She turned in some surprise at his presence, and did not answer for an instant or two.
Recognizing him, she said, "Because they may knock as loud as they will; she will
never hear it any more." HENCHARD WENT home. The morning having now fully broke he lit his fire, and sat
abstractedly beside it. He had not sat there long when a gentle footstep approached the
house and entered the passage, a finger tapping lightly at the door. Henchard's face
brightened, for he knew the motions to be Elizabeth's. She came into his room, looking
wan and sad.
"Have you heard?" she asked. "Mrs. Farfrae. She is- dead! Yes, indeed- about an hour
ago!" "I know it," said Henchard. "I have but lately come in from there. It is so very
good of 'ee, Elizabeth, to come and tell me. You must be so tired out, too, with sitting
up. Now do you bide here with me this morning. You can go and rest in the other
room; and I will call 'ee when breakfast is ready." To please him, and herself- for his
recent kindliness was winning a surprised gratitude from the lonely girl- she did as he
bade her, and lay down on a sort of couch which Henchard had rigged up out of a
settle in the adjoining room. She could hear him moving about in his preparations; but
her mind ran most strongly on Lucetta, whose death, in such fulness of life, and amid
such cheerful hopes of maternity, was appallingly unexpected. Presently she fell asleep.
Meanwhile her stepfather in the outer room had set the breakfast in readiness; but
finding that she dozed he would not call her; he waited on, looking into the fire and
keeping the kettle boiling with housewifely care, as if it were an honour to have her in
his house. In truth, a great change had come over him with regard to her, and he was
developing the dream of a future fit by her filial presence, as though that way alone
could happiness lie.
He was disturbed by another knock at the door, and rose to open it, rather deprecating
a call from anybody just then. A stoutly built man stood on the doorstep, with an alien,
unfamiliar air about his figure and bearing- an air which might have been called
colonial by people of cosmopolitan experience. It was the man who had asked the way
at Peter's Finger. Henchard nodded, and looked inquiry.
"Good morning, good morning," said the stranger with profuse heartiness. "Is it Mr.
Henchard I am talking to?" "My name is Henchard." "Then I caught 'ee at home- that's
right. Morning's the time for business, says I. Can I have a few words with you?" "By
all means," Henchard answered, showing the way in.
"You may remember me?" said his visitor, seating himself.
Henchard observed him indifferently, and shook his head.
"Well- perhaps you may not. My name is Newson." Henchard's face and eyes seemed
to die. The other did not notice it. "I know the name well," Henchard said at last,
looking on the floor.
"I make no doubt of that. Well, the fact is, I've been looking for 'ee this fortnight past. I
landed at Havenpool and went through Casterbridge on my way to Falmouth, and
when I got there, they told me you had some years before been living at Casterbridge.Back came I again, and by long and by late I got here by coach, ten minutes ago. 'He
lives down by the mill,' says they. So here I am.
Now- that transaction between us some twenty years agone- 'tis that I've called about.
'Twas a curious business. I was younger then than I am now, and perhaps the less said
about it, in one sense, the better." "Curious business! 'Twas worse than curious. I
cannot even allow that I'm the man you met then. I was not in my senses, and a man's
senses are himself." "We were young and thoughtless," said Newson. "However, I've
come to mend matters rather than open arguments. Poor Susan- hers was a strange
experience." "It was." "She was a warm-hearted, home-spun woman. She was not what
they call shrewd or sharp at all- better she had been." "She was not." "As you in all
likelihood know, she was simple-minded enough to think that the sale was in a way
binding. She was as guiltless o' wrong-doing in that particular as a saint in the clouds."
"I know it, I know it. I found it out directly," said Henchard, still with averted eyes.
"There lay the sting o't to me. If she had seen it as what it was, she would never have
left me. Never! But how should she be expected to know? What advantages had she?
None. She could write her own name, and no more." "Well, it was not in my heart to
undeceive her when the deed was done," said the sailor of former days. "I thought, and
there was not much vanity in thinking it, that she would be happier with me. She was
fairly happy, and I never would have undeceived her till the day of her death. Your
child died; she had another, and all went well. But a time came- mind me, a time
always does come. A time came- it was some while after she and I and the child
returned from America- when somebody she had confided her history to, told her my
claim to her was a mockery, and made a jest of her belief in my right. After that she
was never happy with me.
She pined and pined, and socked and sighed. She said she must leave me, and then
came the question of our child. Then a man advised me how to act, and I did it, for I
thought it was best. I left her in Falmouth, and went off to sea. When I got to the other
side of the Atlantic there was a storm, and it was supposed that a lot of us, including
myself, had been washed overboard. I got ashore at Newfoundland, and then I asked
myself what I should do. 'Since I'm here, here I'll bide,' I thought to myself; ' 'twill be
most kindness to her, now she's taken against me, to let her believe me lost; for' I
thought, 'while she supposes us both alive she'll be miserable; but if she thinks me
dead she'll go back to him, and the child will have a home.' I've never returned to this
country till a month ago, and I found that, as I had supposed, she went to you, and my
daughter with her. They told me in Falmouth that Susan was dead. But my Elizabeth-
Jane where is she?" "Dead likewise," said Henchard doggedly. "Surely you learnt that
too?" The sailor started up, and took an enervated pace or two down the room.
"Dead!" he said, in a low voice. "Then what's the use of my money to me?" Henchard,
without answering, shook his head, as if that were rather a question for Newson
himself than for him.
"Where is she buried?" the traveller inquired.
"Beside her mother," said Henchard, in the same stolid tones."When did she die?" "A year ago and more," replied the other without hesitation.
The sailor continued standing. Henchard never looked up from the floor. At last
Newson said: "My journey hither has been for nothing! I may as well go as I came! It
has served me right. I'll trouble you no longer!" Henchard heard the retreating
footsteps of Newson upon the sanded floor, the mechanical lifting of the latch, the slow
opening and closing of the door that was natural to a baulked or dejected man; but he
did not turn his head. Newson's shadow passed the window. He was gone.
Then Henchard, scarcely believing the evidence of his senses, rose from his seat,
amazed at what he had done. It had been the impulse of a moment. The regard he had
lately acquired for Elizabeth, the new-sprung hope of his loneliness that she would be
to him a daughter of whom he could feel as proud as of the actual daughter she still
believed herself to be, had been stimulated by the unexpected coming of Newson to a
greedy exclusiveness in relation to her; so that the sudden prospect of her loss had
caused him to speak mad lies like a child, in pure mockery of consequences. He had
expected questions to close in round him, and unmask his fabrication in five minutes;
yet such questioning had not come. But surely they would come; Newson's departure
could be but momentary; he would learn all by inquiries in the town; and return to
curse him, and carry his last treasure away!
He hastily put on his hat, and went out in the direction that Newson had taken.
Newson's back was soon visible up the road. Henchard followed; and saw his visitor
stop at the King's Arms, where the morning coach which had brought him waited half-
an-hour for another coach which crossed there. The coach Newson had come by was
now about to move again. Newson mounted; his luggage was put in, and in a few
minutes the vehicle disappeared with him.
He had not so much as turned his head. It was an act of simple faith in Henchard's
words- faith so simple as to be almost sublime. The young sailor who had taken Susan
Henchard on the spur of the moment, and on the faith of a glance at her face, more than
twenty years before, was still living and acting under the form of the grizzled traveller
who had taken Henchard's words on trust so absolute as to shame him as he stood.
Was Elizabeth-Jane to remain his by virtue of this hardy invention of a moment?
"Perhaps not for long," said he. Newson might converse with his fellowtravellers, some
of whom might be Casterbridge people; and the trick would be discovered.
This probability threw Henchard into a defensive attitude, and instead of considering
how best to right the wrong, and acquaint Elizabeth's father with the truth at once, he
bethought himself of ways to keep the position he had accidentally won. Towards the
young woman herself his affection grew more jealously strong with each new hazard to
which his claim to her was exposed.
He watched the distant highway, expecting to see Newson return on foot, enlightened
and indignant, to claim his child. But no figure appeared. Possibly he had spoken to
nobody on the coach, but buried his grief in his own heart.His grief!- what was it, after all, to that which he, Henchard, would feel at the loss of
her? Newson's affection, cooled by years, could not equal his who had been constantly
in her presence. And thus his jealous soul speciously argued to excuse the separation of
father and child.
He returned to the house half expecting that she would have vanished. No; there she
was- just coming out from the inner room, the marks of sleep upon her eyelids, and
exhibiting a generally refreshed air.
"O father!" she said, smiling. "I had no sooner lain down than I napped, though I did
not mean to? I wonder I did not dream about poor Mrs. Farfrae, after thinking of her
so, but I did not. How strange it is that we do not often dream of latest events,
absorbing as they may be." "I am glad you have been able to sleep," he said, taking her
hand with anxious proprietorship- an act which gave her a pleasant surprise.
They sat down to breakfast, and Elizabeth-Jane's thoughts reverted to Lucetta.
Their sadness added charm to a countenance whose beauty had ever lain in its
meditative soberness.
"Father," she said, as soon as she recalled herself to the outspread meal, "it is so kind of
you to get this nice breakfast with your own hands, and I idly asleep the while." "I do
it every day," he replied. "You have left me; everybody has left me; how should I live
but by my own hands." "You are very lonely, are you not?" "Ay, child- to a degree that
you know nothing of! It is my own fault. You are the only one who has been near me
for weeks. And you will come no more." "Why do you say that? Indeed I will, if you
would like to see me." Henchard signified dubiousness. Though he had so lately hoped
that Elizabeth-Jane might again live in his house as daughter, he would not ask her to
do so now. Newson might return at any moment, and what Elizabeth would think of
him for his deception it were best to bear apart from her.
When they had breakfasted his stepdaughter still lingered, till the moment arrived at
which Henchard was accustomed to go to his daily work. Then she arose, and with
assurances of coming again, soon went up the hill in the morning sunlight.
"At this moment her heart is as warm towards me as mine is towards her; she would
live with me here in this humble cottage for the asking! Yet before the evening probably
he will have come; and then she will scorn me!" This reflection, constantly repeated by
Henchard to himself, accompanied him everywhere through the day. His mood was no
longer that of the rebellious, ironical, reckless misadventurer; but the leaden gloom of
one who has lost all that can make life interesting, or even tolerable. There would
remain nobody for him to be proud of, nobody to fortify him; for Elizabeth-Jane would
soon be but as a stranger, and worse. Susan, Farfrae, Lucetta, Elizabeth- all had gone
from him, one after one, either by his fault or by his misfortune.
In place of them he had no interest, hobby, or desire. If he could have summoned music
to his aid, his existence might even now have been borne; for with Henchard music was
of regal power. The merest trumpet or organ tone was enough to move him, and highharmonies transubstantiated him. But fate had ordained that he should be unable to
call up this Divine spirit in his need.
The whole land ahead of him was as darkness itself; there was nothing to come,
nothing to wait for. Yet in the natural course of life he might possibly have to linger on
earth another thirty or forty years- scoffed at; at best pitied.
The thought of it was unendurable.
To the east of Casterbridge lay moors and meadows, through which much water
flowed. The wanderer in this direction, who should stand still for a few moments on a
quiet night, might hear singular symphonies from these waters, as from a lampless
orchestra, all playing in their sundry tones, from near and far parts of the moor. At a
hole in a rotten weir they executed a recitative; where a tributary brook fell over a stone
breastwork they trilled cheerily; under an arch they performed a metallic cymballing;
and at Durnover Hole they hissed. The spot at which their instrumentation rose loudest
was a place called Ten Hatches, whence during high springs there proceeded a very
fugue of sounds.
The river here was deep and strong at all times, and the hatches on this account were
raised and lowered by cogs and a winch. A path led from the second bridge over the
highway (so often mentioned) to these Hatches, crossing the stream at their head by a
narrow plank-bridge. But after night-fall human beings were seldom found going that
way, the path leading to no place in particular, and the passage being dangerous.
Henchard, however, leaving the town by the east road, proceeded to the second, or
stone bridge, and thence struck into this path of solitude, following its course beside
the stream till the dark shapes of the Ten Hatches cut the sheen thrown upon the river
by the weak lustre that still lingered in the west. In a second or two he stood beside the
weir-hole where the water was at its deepest. He looked backwards and forwards, and
no creature appeared in view. He then took off his coat and hat, and stood on the brink
of the stream with his hands clasped in front of him.
While his eyes were bent on the water beneath, there slowly became visible a
something floating in the circular pool formed by the wash of centuries; the pool he
was intending to make his death-bed. At first it was indistinct, by reason of the shadow
from the bank; but it emerged thence, and took shape, which was that of a human
body, lying stiff and stark upon the surface of the stream.
In the circular current imparted by the central flow the form was brought forward, till
it passed under his eyes; and then he perceived with a sense of horror that it was
himself. Not a man somewhat resembling him, but one in all respects his counterpart,
his actual double, was floating as if dead in Ten Hatches Hole.
The sense of the supernatural was strong in this unhappy man, and he turned away as
one might have done in the actual presence of an appalling miracle. He covered his
eyes and bowed his head. Without looking again into the stream he took his coat and
hat, and went slowly away.Presently he found himself by the door of his own dwelling. To his surprise Elizabeth-
Jane was standing there. She came forward, spoke, called him "father" just as before.
Newson, then, had not even yet returned.
"I thought you seemed very sad this morning," she said, "so I have come again to see
you. Not that I am anything but sad myself. But everybody and everything seem
against you so; and I know you must be suffering."
How this woman divined things! Yet she had not divined their whole extremity.
He said to her, "Are miracles still worked, do ye think, Elizabeth? I am not a read man.
I don't know so much as I could wish. I have tried to peruse and learn all my life; but
the more I try to know the more ignorant I seem." "I don't quite think there are any
miracles now-a-days," she said.
"No interference in the case of desperate intentions, for instance? Well, perhaps not, in
a direct way. Perhaps not. But will you come and walk with me, and I will show 'ee
what I mean." She agreed willingly, and he took her over the highway, and by the
lonely path to Ten Hatches. He walked restlessly, as if some haunting shade, unseen of
her, hovered round him and troubled his glance. She would gladly have talked of
Lucetta, but feared to disturb him. When they got near the weir he stood still, and
asked her to go forward and look into the pool, and tell him what she saw.
She went, and soon returned to him. "Nothing," she said.
"Go again," said Henchard, "and look narrowly." She proceeded to the river brink a
second time. On her return, after some delay, she told him that she saw something
floating there; but what it was she could not discern. It seemed to be a bundle of old
clothes.
"Are they like mine?" asked Henchard.
"Well- they are. Dear me- I wonder if- Father, let us go away!" "Go and look once
more; and then we will get home." She went back, and he could see her stoop till her
head was close to the margin of the pool. She started up, and hastened back to his side.
"Well," said Henchard; "what do you say now?" "Let us go home." "But tell me- do-
what is it floating there?" "The effigy," she answered hastily. "They must have thrown
it into the river, higher up amongst the willows, to get rid of it in their alarm at
discovery; and it must have floated down here." "Ah- to be sure- the image o' me! But
where is the other? Why that one only?... That performance of theirs killed her, but kept
me alive!" Elizabeth-Jane thought and thought of these words "kept me alive," as they
slowly retraced their way to the town, and at length guessed their meaning. "Father!- I
will not leave you alone like this!" she cried. "May I live with you, and tend upon you,
as I used to do? I do not mind your being poor. I would have agreed to come this
morning, but you did not ask me." "May you come to me?" he cried bitterly.
"Elizabeth, don't mock me! If you only would come!" "I will," said she.
"How will you forgive all my roughness in former days? You cannot!" "I have
forgotten it. Talk of that no more." Thus she assured him, and arranged their plans forreunion; and at length each went home. Then Henchard shaved for the first time
during many days, and put on clean linen, and combed his hair: and was as a man
resuscitated thenceforward.
The next morning the fact turned out to be as Elizabeth-Jane had stated; the effigy was
discovered by a cowherd, and that of Lucetta a little higher up in the same stream. But
as little as possible was said of the matter, and the figures were privately destroyed.
Despite this natural solution of the mystery, Henchard no less regarded it as an
intervention that the figure should have been floating there. Elizabeth-Jane heard him
say, "Who is such a reprobate as I! And yet it seems that even I be in Somebody's
hand.....!!!!!!