Chapter 18 - EPISODE:12 THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE.

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After the collision with the Mayor, Henchard had withdrawn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 lapel 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. He had 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 arm

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 cathead 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 eyes 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 lines; Farfrae's garden and the green door leading

therefrom. In course of time--he 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

witherward:--

"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, and his conviction that Henchard had been

drinking.

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 doon, 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 four-square

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 free 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, loosened his arm,

and flung himself in 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 loft-door 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 in 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.

39.

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 a 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 the

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 by the 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. O 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 in 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 falseface."

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 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

perempority, in a dry voice, while she seized Elizabeth-Jane

by the hand, and held up her finger. Their intercourse had

been 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 was growing yet more

rigid and wild with the meaning of the noise and laughter.

"Let us shut it out!"

"It is of no use!" she shrieked. "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 me any more--and O, it

will kill me--kill me!"

Elizabeth-Jane was frantic now. "O, 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, and put her arm

round her to pull her in. Lucetta's eyes were straight upon

the spectacle of the uncanny revel, now dancing rapidly.

The numerous lights round 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 Daemonic Sabbath than they could

see within.

At last Farfrae's man, who had been agape on the door-

step, 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, that 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 on 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?"

"O 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 to-night,

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 half-a-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 of 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 supper-

time half-pint, and you were here then, as well as 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.

"Ah," 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.

40.

Long before this time Henchard, weary of his ruminations on

the bridge, had repaired towards 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 step-daughter's lodging, and was told that Elizabeth-

Jane had gone to Mr. 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, or 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 along

Yalbury Plain, the gig coming up with him as its driver

slackened speed between two plantations.

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-road aforesaid.

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 an assailant might have

confederates, instead of going 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 reins 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 which

he 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, "O--it is not

he!" The manservant, finding his mistake, had long since

returned, and all hopes had centred upon Henchard.

"But haven't you found him?" said the doctor.

"Yes....I cannot tell 'ee!" Henchard replied as he sank down

on a chair within the entrance. "He can't be home for two

hours."

"H'm," said the surgeon, 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 instants

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-lane; in the midst of his gloom she

seemed to him as a pin-point of light. He had liked

the look on 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 her feeble

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 centring 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 road-litter, 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."

41.

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 house-wifely 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 lit 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've 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."

"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 at 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 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, crossing Bull-stake. 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 fellow-travellers, 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 assurance 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 high harmonies transubstantiated him. But

hard 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 patch 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 only to a deep reach of the stream

called Blackwater, 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 nowadays," 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 round and round 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 at

Blackwater, to get rid of it in their alarm at discovery by

the magistrates, 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 for reunion;

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 thence-

forward.

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!"

42.

But the emotional conviction that he was in Somebody's hand

began to die out of Henchard's breast as time slowly removed

into distance the event which had given that feeling birth.

The apparition of Newson haunted him. He would surely

return.

Yet Newson did not arrive. Lucetta had been borne along

the churchyard path; Casterbridge had for the last time

turned its regard upon her, before proceeding to its work as

if she had never lived. But Elizabeth remained undisturbed

in the belief of her relationship to Henchard, and now

shared his home. Perhaps, after all, Newson was gone for

ever.

In due time the bereaved Farfrae had learnt the, at least,

proximate cause of Lucetta's illness and death, and his

first impulse was naturally enough to wreak vengeance in the

name of the law upon the perpetrators of the mischief. He

resolved to wait till the funeral was over ere he moved in

the matter. The time having come he reflected. Disastrous

as the result had been, it was obviously in no way foreseen

or intended by the thoughtless crew who arranged the motley

procession. The tempting prospect of putting to the blush

people who stand at the head of affairs--that supreme and

piquant enjoyment of those who writhe under the heel of the

same--had alone animated them, so far as he could see; for

he knew nothing of Jopp's incitements. Other considerations

were also involved. Lucetta had confessed everything to him

before her death, and it was not altogether desirable to

make much ado about her history, alike for her sake, for

Henchard's, and for his own. To regard the event as an

untoward accident seemed, to Farfrae, truest consideration

for the dead one's memory, as well as best philosophy.

Henchard and himself mutually forbore to meet. For

Elizabeth's sake the former had fettered his pride

sufficiently to accept the small seed and root business

which some of the Town Council, headed by Farfrae, had

purchased to afford him a new opening. Had he been only

personally concerned Henchard, without doubt, would have

declined assistance even remotely brought about by the man

whom he had so fiercely assailed. But the sympathy of the

girl seemed necessary to his very existence; and on her

account pride itself wore the garments of humility.

Here they settled themselves; and on each day of their lives

Henchard anticipated her every wish with a watchfulness in

which paternal regard was heightened by a burning jealous

dread of rivalry. Yet that Newson would ever now return to

Casterbridge to claim her as a daughter there was

little reason to suppose. He was a wanderer and a

stranger, almost an alien; he had not seen his daughter for

several years; his affection for her could not in the nature

of things be keen; other interests would probably soon

obscure his recollections of her, and prevent any such

renewal of inquiry into the past as would lead to a

discovery that she was still a creature of the present. To

satisfy his conscience somewhat Henchard repeated to himself

that the lie which had retained for him the coveted treasure

had not been deliberately told to that end, but had come

from him as the last defiant word of a despair which took no

thought of consequences. Furthermore he pleaded within

himself that no Newson could love her as he loved her, or

would tend her to his life's extremity as he was prepared to

do cheerfully.

Thus they lived on in the shop overlooking the churchyard,

and nothing occurred to mark their days during the remainder

of the year. Going out but seldom, and never on a market-

day, they saw Donald Farfrae only at rarest intervals, and

then mostly as a transitory object in the distance of the

street. Yet he was pursuing his ordinary avocations,

smiling mechanically to fellow-tradesmen, and arguing with

bargainers--as bereaved men do after a while.

Time, "in his own grey style," taught Farfrae how to

estimate his experience of Lucetta--all that it was, and all

that it was not. There are men whose hearts insist upon a

dogged fidelity to some image or cause thrown by chance into

their keeping, long after their judgment has pronounced it

no rarity--even the reverse, indeed, and without them the

band of the worthy is incomplete. But Farfrae was not of

those. It was inevitable that the insight, briskness, and

rapidity of his nature should take him out of the dead blank

which his loss threw about him. He could not but perceive

that by the death of Lucetta he had exchanged a looming

misery for a simple sorrow. After that revelation of her

history, which must have come sooner or later in any

circumstances, it was hard to believe that life with her

would have been productive of further happiness.

But as a memory, nothwithstanding such conditions, Lucetta's

image still lived on with him, her weaknesses provoking only

the gentlest criticism, and her sufferings attenuating

wrath at her concealments to a momentary spark now and

then.

By the end of a year Henchard's little retail seed and grain

shop, not much larger than a cupboard, had developed its

trade considerably, and the stepfather and daughter enjoyed

much serenity in the pleasant, sunny corner in which it

stood. The quiet bearing of one who brimmed with an inner

activity characterized Elizabeth-Jane at this period. She

took long walks into the country two or three times a week,

mostly in the direction of Budmouth. Sometimes it occurred

to him that when she sat with him in the evening after those

invigorating walks she was civil rather than affectionate;

and he was troubled; one more bitter regret being added to

those he had already experienced at having, by his severe

censorship, frozen up her precious affection when originally

offered.

She had her own way in everything now. In going and coming,

in buying and selling, her word was law.

"You have got a new muff, Elizabeth," he said to her one day

quite humbly.

"Yes; I bought it," she said.

He looked at it again as it lay on an adjoining table. The

fur was of a glossy brown, and, though he was no judge of

such articles, he thought it seemed an unusually good one

for her to possess.

"Rather costly, I suppose, my dear, was it not?" he

hazarded.

"It was rather above my figure," she said quietly. "But it

is not showy."

"O no," said the netted lion, anxious not to pique her in

the least.

Some little time after, when the year had advanced into

another spring, he paused opposite her empty bedroom in

passing it. He thought of the time when she had cleared out

of his then large and handsome house in corn Street, in

consequence of his dislike and harshness, and he had looked

into her chamber in just the same way. The present room was

much humbler, but what struck him about it was the abundance

of books lying everywhere. Their number and quality made

the meagre furniture that supported them seem absurdly

disproportionate. Some, indeed many, must have been

recently purchased; and though he encouraged her to buy in

reason, he had no notion that she indulged her innate

passion so extensively in proportion to the narrowness of

their income. For the first time he felt a little hurt by

what he thought her extravagance, and resolved to say a word

to her about it. But, before he had found the courage to

speak an event happened which set his thoughts flying in

quite another direction.

The busy time of the seed trade was over, and the quiet

weeks that preceded the hay-season had come--setting their

special stamp upon Casterbridge by thronging the market with

wood rakes, new waggons in yellow, green, and red,

formidable scythes, and pitchforks of prong sufficient to

skewer up a small family. Henchard, contrary to his wont,

went out one Saturday afternoon towards the market-place

from a curious feeling that he would like to pass a few

minutes on the spot of his former triumphs. Farfrae, to

whom he was still a comparative stranger, stood a few steps

below the Corn Exchange door--a usual position with him at

this hour--and he appeared lost in thought about something

he was looking at a little way off.

Henchard's eyes followed Farfrae's, and he saw that the

object of his gaze was no sample-showing farmer, but his own

stepdaughter, who had just come out of a shop over the way.

She, on her part, was quite unconscious of his attention,

and in this was less fortunate than those young women whose

very plumes, like those of Juno's bird, are set with Argus

eyes whenever possible admirers are within ken.

Henchard went away, thinking that perhaps there was nothing

significant after all in Farfrae's look at Elizabeth-Jane at

that juncture. Yet he could not forget that the Scotchman

had once shown a tender interest in her, of a fleeting kind.

Thereupon promptly came to the surface that idiosyncrasy of

Henchard's which had ruled his courses from the beginning

and had mainly made him what he was. Instead of thinking

that a union between his cherished step-daughter and the

energetic thriving Donald was a thing to be desired for her

good and his own, he hated the very possibility.

Time had been when such instinctive opposition would

have taken shape in action. But he was not now the

Henchard of former days. He schooled himself to accept her

will, in this as in other matters, as absolute and

unquestionable. He dreaded lest an antagonistic word should

lose for him such regard as he had regained from her by his

devotion, feeling that to retain this under separation was

better than to incur her dislike by keeping her near.

But the mere thought of such separation fevered his spirit

much, and in the evening he said, with the stillness of

suspense: "Have you seen Mr. Farfrae to-day, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth-Jane started at the question; and it was with some

confusion that she replied "No."

"Oh--that's right--that's right....It was only that I saw

him in the street when we both were there." He was wondering

if her embarrassment justified him in a new suspicion--that

the long walks which she had latterly been taking, that the

new books which had so surprised him, had anything to do

with the young man. She did not enlighten him, and lest

silence should allow her to shape thoughts unfavourable to

their present friendly relations, he diverted the discourse

into another channel.

Henchard was, by original make, the last man to act

stealthily, for good or for evil. But the solicitus

timor of his love--the dependence upon Elizabeth's regard

into which he had declined (or, in another sense, to which

he had advanced)--denaturalized him. He would often weigh

and consider for hours together the meaning of such and such

a deed or phrase of hers, when a blunt settling question

would formerly have been his first instinct. And now,

uneasy at the thought of a passion for Farfrae which should

entirely displace her mild filial sympathy with himself, he

observed her going and coming more narrowly.

There was nothing secret in Elizabeth-Jane's movements

beyond what habitual reserve induced, and it may at once be

owned on her account that she was guilty of occasional

conversations with Donald when they chanced to meet.

Whatever the origin of her walks on the Budmouth Road, her

return from those walks was often coincident with Farfrae's

emergence from corn Street for a twenty minutes' blow on

that rather windy highway--just to winnow the seeds and

chaff out of him before sitting down to tea, as he said.

Henchard became aware of this by going to the Ring, and,

screened by its enclosure, keeping his eye upon the road

till he saw them meet. His face assumed an expression of

extreme anguish.

"Of her, too, he means to rob me!" he whispered. "But he

has the right. I do not wish to interfere."

The meeting, in truth, was of a very innocent kind, and

matters were by no means so far advanced between the young

people as Henchard's jealous grief inferred. Could he have

heard such conversation as passed he would have been

enlightened thus much:--

HE.--"You like walking this way, Miss Henchard--and is

it not so?" (uttered in his undulatory accents, and with an

appraising, pondering gaze at her).

SHE.--"O yes. I have chosen this road latterly. I have

no great reason for it."

HE.--"But that may make a reason for others."

SHE (reddening).--"I don't know that. My reason,

however, such as it is, is that I wish to get a glimpse of

the sea every day.

HE.--"Is it a secret why?"

SHE ( reluctantly ).--"Yes."

HE (with the pathos of one of his native ballads).--"Ah,

I doubt there will be any good in secrets! A secret cast a

deep shadow over my life. And well you know what it was."

Elizabeth admitted that she did, but she refrained from

confessing why the sea attracted her. She could not herself

account for it fully, not knowing the secret possibly to be

that, in addition to early marine associations, her blood

was a sailor's.

"Thank you for those new books, Mr. Farfrae," she added

shyly. "I wonder if I ought to accept so many!"

"Ay! why not? It gives me more pleasure to get them for you,

than you to have them!"

"It cannot."

They proceeded along the road together till they reached the

town, and their paths diverged.

Henchard vowed that he would leave them to their own

devices, put nothing in the way of their courses, whatever

they might mean. If he were doomed to be bereft of

her, so it must be. In the situation which their marriage

would create he could see no locus standi for himself at

all. Farfrae would never recognize him more than

superciliously; his poverty ensured that, no less than his

past conduct. And so Elizabeth would grow to be a stranger

to him, and the end of his life would be friendless

solitude.

With such a possibility impending he could not help

watchfulness. Indeed, within certain lines, he had the

right to keep an eye upon her as his charge. The meetings

seemed to become matters of course with them on special days

of the week.

At last full proof was given him. He was standing behind a

wall close to the place at which Farfrae encountered her.

He heard the young man address her as "Dearest Elizabeth-

Jane," and then kiss her, the girl looking quickly round to

assure herself that nobody was near.

When they were gone their way Henchard came out from the

wall, and mournfully followed them to Casterbridge. The

chief looming trouble in this engagement had not decreased.

Both Farfrae and Elizabeth-Jane, unlike the rest of the

people, must suppose Elizabeth to be his actual daughter,

from his own assertion while he himself had the same belief;

and though Farfrae must have so far forgiven him as to have

no objection to own him as a father-in-law, intimate they

could never be. Thus would the girl, who was his only

friend, be withdrawn from him by degrees through her

husband's influence, and learn to despise him.

Had she lost her heart to any other man in the world than

the one he had rivalled, cursed, wrestled with for life in

days before his spirit was broken, Henchard would have said,

"I am content." But content with the prospect as now

depicted was hard to acquire.

There is an outer chamber of the brain in which thoughts

unowned, unsolicited, and of noxious kind, are sometimes

allowed to wander for a moment prior to being sent off

whence they came. One of these thoughts sailed into

Henchard's ken now.

Suppose he were to communicate to Farfrae the fact that his

betrothed was not the child of Michael Henchard at all--

legally, nobody's child; how would that correct and leading

townsman receive the information? He might possibly forsake

Elizabeth-Jane, and then she would be her step-sire's own

again.

Henchard shuddered, and exclaimed, "God forbid such a thing!

Why should I still be subject to these visitations of the

devil, when I try so hard to keep him away?"

43.

What Henchard saw thus early was, naturally enough, seen at

a little later date by other people. That Mr. Farfrae

"walked with that bankrupt Henchard's step-daughter, of all

women," became a common topic in the town, the simple

perambulating term being used hereabout to signify a wooing;

and the nineteen superior young ladies of Casterbridge, who

had each looked upon herself as the only woman capable of

making the merchant Councilman happy, indignantly left off

going to the church Farfrae attended, left off conscious

mannerisms, left off putting him in their prayers at night

amongst their blood relations; in short, reverted to their

normal courses.

Perhaps the only inhabitants of the town to whom this

looming choice of the Scotchman's gave unmixed satisfaction

were the members of the philosophic party, which included

Longways, Christopher Coney, Billy Wills, Mr. Buzzford, and

the like. The Three Mariners having been, years before, the

house in which they had witnessed the young man and woman's

first and humble appearance on the Casterbridge stage, they

took a kindly interest in their career, not unconnected,

perhaps, with visions of festive treatment at their hands

hereafter. Mrs. Stannidge, having rolled into the large

parlour one evening and said that it was a wonder such a man

as Mr. Farfrae, "a pillow of the town," who might have

chosen one of the daughters of the professional men or

private residents, should stoop so low, Coney ventured to

disagree with her.

"No, ma'am, no wonder at all. 'Tis she that's a

stooping to he--that's my opinion. A widow man--whose first

wife was no credit to him--what is it for a young perusing

woman that's her own mistress and well liked? But as a neat

patching up of things I see much good in it. When a man

have put up a tomb of best marble-stone to the other one, as

he've done, and weeped his fill, and thought it all over,

and said to hisself, 'T'other took me in, I knowed this one

first; she's a sensible piece for a partner, and there's no

faithful woman in high life now';--well, he may do worse

than not to take her, if she's tender-inclined."

Thus they talked at the Mariners. But we must guard against

a too liberal use of the conventional declaration that a

great sensation was caused by the prospective event, that

all the gossips' tongues were set wagging thereby, and so-

on, even though such a declaration might lend some eclat to

the career of our poor only heroine. When all has been said

about busy rumourers, a superficial and temporary thing is

the interest of anybody in affairs which do not directly

touch them. It would be a truer representation to say that

Casterbridge (ever excepting the nineteen young ladies)

looked up for a moment at the news, and withdrawing its

attention, went on labouring and victualling, bringing up

its children, and burying its dead, without caring a tittle

for Farfrae's domestic plans.

Not a hint of the matter was thrown out to her stepfather by

Elizabeth herself or by Farfrae either. Reasoning on the

cause of their reticence he concluded that, estimating him

by his past, the throbbing pair were afraid to broach the

subject, and looked upon him as an irksome obstacle whom

they would be heartily glad to get out of the way.

Embittered as he was against society, this moody view of

himself took deeper and deeper hold of Henchard, till the

daily necessity of facing mankind, and of them particularly

Elizabeth-Jane, became well-nigh more than he could endure.

His health declined; he became morbidly sensitive. He

wished he could escape those who did not want him, and hide

his head for ever.

But what if he were mistaken in his views, and there were no

necessity that his own absolute separation from her

should be involved in the incident of her marriage?

He proceeded to draw a picture of the alternative--himself

living like a fangless lion about the back rooms of a house

in which his stepdaughter was mistress, an inoffensive old

man, tenderly smiled on by Elizabeth, and good-naturedly

tolerated by her husband. It was terrible to his pride to

think of descending so low; and yet, for the girl's sake he

might put up with anything; even from Farfrae; even

snubbings and masterful tongue-scourgings. The privilege of

being in the house she occupied would almost outweigh the

personal humiliation.

Whether this were a dim possibility or the reverse, the

courtship--which it evidently now was--had an absorbing

interest for him.

Elizabeth, as has been said, often took her walks on the

Budmouth Road, and Farfrae as often made it convenient to

create an accidental meeting with her there. Two miles out,

a quarter of a mile from the highway, was the prehistoric

fort called Mai Dun, of huge dimensions and many ramparts,

within or upon whose enclosures a human being as seen from

the road, was but an insignificant speck. Hitherward

Henchard often resorted, glass in hand, and scanned the

hedgeless Via--for it was the original track laid out by

the legions of the Empire--to a distance of two or three

miles, his object being to read the progress of affairs

between Farfrae and his charmer.

One day Henchard was at this spot when a masculine figure

came along the road from Budmouth, and lingered. Applying

his telescope to his eye Henchard expected that Farfrae's

features would be disclosed as usual. But the lenses

revealed that today the man was not Elizabeth-Jane's lover.

It was one clothed as a merchant captain, and as he turned

in the scrutiny of the road he revealed his face. Henchard

lived a lifetime the moment he saw it. The face was

Newson's.

Henchard dropped the glass, and for some seconds made no

other movement. Newson waited, and Henchard waited--if that

could be called a waiting which was a transfixture. But

Elizabeth-Jane did not come. Something or other had caused

her to neglect her customary walk that day. Perhaps

Farfrae and she had chosen another road for variety's

sake. But what did that amount to? She might be here to-

morrow, and in any case Newson, if bent on a private meeting

and a revelation of the truth to her, would soon make his

opportunity.

Then he would tell her not only of his paternity, but of the

ruse by which he had been once sent away. Elizabeth's

strict nature would cause her for the first time to despise

her stepfather, would root out his image as that of an arch-

deceiver, and Newson would reign in her heart in his stead.

But Newson did not see anything of her that morning. Having

stood still awhile he at last retraced his steps, and

Henchard felt like a condemned man who has a few hours'

respite. When he reached his own house he found her there.

"O father!" she said innocently. "I have had a letter--a

strange one--not signed. Somebody has asked me to meet him,

either on the Budmouth Road at noon today, or in the evening

at Mr. Farfrae's. He says he came to see me some time ago,

but a trick was played him, so that he did not see me. I

don't understand it; but between you and me I think Donald

is at the bottom of the mystery, and that it is a relation

of his who wants to pass an opinion on his choice. But I

did not like to go till I had seen you. Shall I go?"

Henchard replied heavily, "Yes; go."

The question of his remaining in Casterbridge was for ever

disposed of by this closing in of Newson on the scene.

Henchard was not the man to stand the certainty of

condemnation on a matter so near his heart. And being an

old hand at bearing anguish in silence, and haughty withal,

he resolved to make as light as he could of his intentions,

while immediately taking his measures.

He surprised the young woman whom he had looked upon as his

all in this world by saying to her, as if he did not care

about her more: "I am going to leave Casterbridge,

Elizabeth-Jane."

"Leave Casterbridge!" she cried, "and leave--me?"

"Yes, this little shop can be managed by you alone as well

as by us both; I don't care about shops and streets and

folk--I would rather get into the country by myself, out of

sight, and follow my own ways, and leave you to yours."

She looked down and her tears fell silently. It seemed

to her that this resolve of his had come on account of her

attachment and its probable result. She showed her devotion

to Farfrae, however, by mastering her emotion and speaking

out.

"I am sorry you have decided on this," she said with

difficult firmness. "For I thought it probable--possible--

that I might marry Mr. Farfrae some little time hence, and I

did not know that you disapproved of the step!"

"I approve of anything you desire to do, Izzy," said

Henchard huskily. "If I did not approve it would be no

matter! I wish to go away. My presence might make things

awkward in the future, and, in short, it is best that I go."

Nothing that her affection could urge would induce him to

reconsider his determination; for she could not urge what

she did not know--that when she should learn he was not

related to her other than as a step-parent she would refrain

from despising him, and that when she knew what he had done

to keep her in ignorance she would refrain from hating him.

It was his conviction that she would not so refrain; and

there existed as yet neither word nor event which could

argue it away.

"Then," she said at last, "you will not be able to come to

my wedding; and that is not as it ought to be."

"I don't want to see it--I don't want to see it!" he

exclaimed; adding more softly, "but think of me sometimes in

your future life--you'll do that, Izzy?--think of me when

you are living as the wife of the richest, the foremost man

in the town, and don't let my sins, WHEN YOU KNOW THEM

ALL, cause 'ee to quite forget that though I loved 'ee late

I loved 'ee well."

"It is because of Donald!" she sobbed.

"I don't forbid you to marry him," said Henchard. "Promise

not to quite forget me when----" He meant when Newson should

come.

She promised mechanically, in her agitation; and the same

evening at dusk Henchard left the town, to whose development

he had been one of the chief stimulants for many years.

During the day he had bought a new tool-basket, cleaned up

his old hay-knife and wimble, set himself up in fresh

leggings, kneenaps and corduroys, and in other ways

gone back to the working clothes of his young manhood,

discarding for ever the shabby-genteel suit of cloth and

rusty silk hat that since his decline had characterized him

in the Casterbridge street as a man who had seen better

days.

He went secretly and alone, not a soul of the many who had

known him being aware of his departure. Elizabeth-Jane

accompanied him as far as the second bridge on the highway--

for the hour of her appointment with the unguessed visitor

at Farfrae's had not yet arrived--and parted from him with

unfeigned wonder and sorrow, keeping him back a minute or

two before finally letting him go. She watched his form

diminish across the moor, the yellow rush-basket at his back

moving up and down with each tread, and the creases behind

his knees coming and going alternately till she could no

longer see them. Though she did not know it Henchard formed

at this moment much the same picture as he had presented

when entering Casterbridge for the first time nearly a

quarter of a century before; except, to be sure, that the

serious addition to his years had considerably lessened the...