Thomas Hardy: The Mayor of Casterbridge

                     Thomas Hardy: The Mayor of
                           Casterbridge
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI


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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge

Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV

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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - I


I
ONE evening of late summer, before the nineteenth century had reached one-third of its span, a young
man and woman, the latter carrying a child, were approaching the large village of Weydon-Priors, in
Upper Wessex, on foot. They were plainly but not ill clad, though the thick hoar of dust which had
accumulated on their shoes and garments from an obviously long journey lent a disadvantageous
shabbiness to their appearance just now.
The man was of fine figure, swarthy, and stern in aspect; and he showed in profile a facial angle so
slightly inclined as to be almost perpendicular. He wore a short jacket of brown corduroy, newer than the
remainder of his suit, which was a fustian waistcoat with white horn buttons, breeches of the same,
tanned leggings, and a straw hat overlaid with black glazed canvas. At his back he carried by a looped
strap a rush basket, from which protruded at one end the crutch of a hayknife, a wimble for hay-bonds
being also visible in the aperture. His measured, springless walk was the walk of the skilled countryman
as distinct from the desultory shamble of the general labourer; while in the turn and plant of each foot
there was, further, a dogged and cynical indifference personal to himself, showing its presence even in
the regularly interchanging fustian folds, now in the left leg, now in the right, as he paced along.
What was really peculiar, however, in this couple's progress, and would have attracted the attention of
any casual observer otherwise disposed to overlook them, was the perfect silence they preserved. They
walked side by side in such a way as to suggest afar off the low, easy, confidential chat of people full of
reciprocity; but on closer view it could be discerned that the man was reading, or pretending to read, a
ballad sheet which he kept before his eyes with some difficulty by the hand that was passed through the
basket strap. Whether this apparent cause were the real cause, or whether it were an assumed one to
escape an intercourse that would have been irksome to him, nobody but himself could have said
precisely; but his taciturnity was unbroken, and the woman enjoyed no society whatever from his
presence. Virtually she walked the highway alone, save for the child she bore. Sometimes the man's bent
elbow almost touched her shoulder, for she kept as close to his side as was possible without actual
contact; but she seemed to have no idea of taking his arm, nor he of offering it; and far from exhibiting
surprise at his ignoring silence she appeared to receive it as a natural thing. If any word at all were
uttered by the little group, it was an occasional whisper of the woman to the child - a tiny girl in short
clothes and blue boots of knitted yarn - and the murmured babble of the child in reply.
The chief - almost the only - attraction of the young woman's face was its mobility. When she looked
down sideways to the girl she became pretty, and even handsome, particularly that in the action her
features caught slantwise the rays of the strongly coloured sun, which made transparencies of her eyelids
and nostrils and set fire on her lips. When she plodded on in the shade of the hedge, silently thinking, she
had the hard, half-apathetic expression of one who deems anything possible at the hands of Time and
Chance except, perhaps, fair play. The first phase was the work of Nature, the second probably of
civilization.
That the man and woman were husband and wife, and the parents of the girl in arms, there could be little
doubt. No other than such relationship would have accounted for the atmosphere of stale familiarity
which the trio carried along with them like a nimbus as they moved down the road.
The wife mostly kept her eyes fixed ahead, though with little interest - the scene for that matter being one


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that might have been matched at almost any spot in any country in England at this time of the year; a
road neither straight nor crooked, neither level nor hilly, bordered by hedges, trees, and other vegetation,
which had entered the blackened-green stage of colour that the doomed leaves pass through on their way
to dingy, and yellow, and red. The grassy margin of the bank, and the nearest hedgerow boughs, were
powdered by the dust that had been stirred over them by hasty vehicles, the same dust as it lay on the
road deadening their footfalls like a carpet; and this, with the aforesaid total absence of conversation,
allowed every extraneous sound to be heard.
For a long time there was none, beyond the voice of a weak bird singing a trite old evening song that
might doubtless have been heard on the hill at the same hour, and with the selfsame trills, quavers, and
breves, at any sunset of that season for centuries untold. But as they approached the village sundry
distant shouts and rattles reached their ears from some elevated spot in that direction, as yet screened
from view by foliage. When the outlying houses of Weydon-Priors could just be descried, the family
group was met by a turnip-hoer with his hoe on his shoulder, and his dinner-bag suspended from it. The
reader promptly glanced up.
"Any trade doing here?" he asked phlegmatically, designating the village in his van by a wave of the
broadsheet. And thinking the labourer did not understand him, he added, "Anything in the hay-trussing
line?"
The turnip-hoer had already begun shaking his head. "Why, save the man, what wisdom's in him that 'a
should come to Weydon for a job of that sort this time o' year?"
"Then is there any house to let - a little small new cottage just a-builded, or such like?" asked the other.
The pessimist still maintained a negative. "Pulling down is more the nater of Weydon. There were five
houses cleared away last year, and three this; and the volk nowhere to go - no, not so much as a thatched
hurdler; that's the way o'Weydon-Priors."
The hay-trusser, which he obviously was, nodded with some superciliousness. Looking towards the
village, be continued, "There is something going on here, however, is there not?"
"Ay. 'Tis Fair Day. Though what you hear now is little more than the clatter and scurry of getting away
the money o' children and fools, for the real business is done earlier than this. I've been working within
sound o't all day, but I didn't go up - not I. 'Twas no business of mine."
The trusser and his family proceeded on their way, and soon entered the Fair-field, which showed
standing-places and pens where many hundreds of horses and sheep had been exhibited and sold in the
forenoon, but were now in great part taken away. At present, as their informant had observed, but little
real business remained on hand, the chief being the sale by auction of a few inferior animals, that could
not otherwise be disposed of, and had been absolutely refused by the better class of traders, who came
and went early. Yet the crowd was denser now than during the morning hours, the frivolous contingent of
visitors, including journeymen out for a holiday, a stray soldier or two home on furlough, village
shopkeepers, and the like, having latterly flocked in; persons whose activities found a congenial field
among the peep-shows, toy-stands, waxworks, inspired monsters, disinterested medical men who
travelled for the public good, thimble-riggers, nick-nack vendors, and readers of Fate.
Neither of our pedestrians had much heart for these things, and they looked around for a refreshment tent
among the many which dotted the down. Two, which stood nearest to them in the ochreous haze of

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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - I

expiring sunlight, seemed almost equally inviting. One was formed of new, milk-hued canvas, and bore
red flags on its summit; it announced "Good Homebrewed Beer, Ale and Cyder". The other was less
new; a little iron stove-pipe came out of it at the back, and in front appeared the placard, "Good Furmity
Sold Hear". The man mentally weighed the two inscriptions, and inclined to the former tent.
"No - no - the other one," said the woman. "I always like furmity; and so does Elizabeth-Jane; and so will
you. It is nourishing after a long hard day."
"I've never tasted it," said the man. However, he gave way to her representations, and they entered the
furmity booth forthwith.
A rather numerous company appeared within, seated at the long narrow tables that ran down the tent on
each side. At the upper end stood a stove, containing a charcoal fire, over which hung a large
three-legged crock, sufficiently polished round the rim to show that it was made of bell-metal. A haggish
creature of about fifty presided, in a white apron, which, as it threw an air of respectability over her as far
as it extended, was made so wide as to reach nearly round her waist. She slowly stirred the contents of
the pot. The dull scrape of her large spoon was audible throughout the tent as she thus kept from burning
the mixture of corn in the grain, flour, milk, raisins, currants, and what not, that composed the antiquated
slop in which she dealt. Vessels holding the separate ingredients stood on a white-clothed table of boards
and trestles close by.
The young man and woman ordered a basin each of the mixture, steaming hot, and sat down to consume
it at leisure. This was very well so far, for furmity, as the woman had said, was nourishing, and as proper
a food as could be obtained within the four seas; though, to those not accustomed to it, the grains of
wheat swollen as large as lemon-pips, which floated on its surface, might have a deterrent effect at first.
But there was more in that tent than met the cursory glance; and the man, with the instinct of a perverse
character, scented it quickly. After a mincing attack on his bowl, he watched the hag's proceedings from
the corner of his eye, and saw the game she played. He winked to her, and passed up his basin in reply to
her nod; when she took a bottle from under the table, slily measured out a quantity of its contents, and
tipped the same into the man's furmity. The liquor poured in was rum. The man as slily sent back money
in payment.
He found the concoction, thus strongly laced, much more to his satisfaction than it had been in its natural
state. His wife had observed the proceeding with much uneasiness; but he persuaded her to have hers
laced also, and she agreed to a milder allowance after some misgiving.
The man finished his basin, and called for another, the rum being signalled for in yet stronger proportion.
The effect of it was soon apparent in his manner, and his wife but too sadly perceived that in strenuously
steering off the rocks of the licensed liquor-tent she had only got into maelstrom depths here amongst the
smugglers.
The child began to prattle impatiently and the wife more than once said to her husband, "Michael, how
about our lodging? You know we may have trouble in getting it if we don't go soon."
But he turned a deaf ear to those bird-like chirpings. He talked loud to the company. The child's black
eyes, after slow, round, ruminating gazes at the candles when they were lighted, fell together; then they
opened, then shut again, and she slept.



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At the end of the first basin the man had risen to serenity; at the second he was jovial; at the third,
argumentative; at the fourth, the qualities signified by the shape of his face, the occasional clench of his
mouth, and the fiery spark of his dark eye, began to tell in his conduct; he was overbearing - even
brilliantly quarrelsome.
The conversation took a high turn, as it often does on such occasion. The ruin of good men by bad wives,
and, more particularly, the frustration of many a promising youth's high aims and hopes and the
extinction of his energies by an early imprudent marriage, was the theme.
"I did for myself that way thoroughly," said the trusser, with a contemplative bitterness that was
well-nigh resentful. "I married at eighteen, like the fool that I was; and this is the consequence o't." He
pointed at himself and family with a wave of the hand intended to bring out the penuriousness of the
exhibition.
The young woman his wife, who seemed accustomed to such remarks, acted as if she did not hear them,
and continued her intermittent private words on tender trifles to the sleeping and waking child, who was
just big enough to be placed for a moment on the bench beside her when she wished to ease her arms.
The man continued--
"I haven't more than fifteen shillings in the world, and yet I am a good experienced hand in my line. I'd
challenge England to beat me in the fodder business; and if I were a free man again I'd be worth a
thousand pound before I'd done o't. But a fellow never knows these little things till all chance of acting
upon 'em is past."
The auctioneer selling the old horses in the field outside could he heard saying, "Now this is the last lot -
now who'll take the last lot for a song? Shall I say forty shillings? 'Tis a very promising brood-mare, a
trifle over five years old, and nothing the matter with the hoss at all, except that she's a little holler in the
back and had her left eye knocked out by the kick of another, her own sister, coming along the road."
"For my part I don't see why men who have got wives and don't want 'em shouldn't get rid of 'em as these
gipsy fellows do their old horses," said the man in the tent. "Why shouldn't they put 'em up and sell 'em
by auction to men who are in need of such articles? Hey? Why, begad, I'd sell mine this minute if
anybody would buy her!"
"There's them that would do that," some of the guests replied, looking at the woman, who was by no
means ill-favoured.
"True," said a smoking gentleman, whose coat had the fine polish about the collar, elbows, seams, and
shoulder-blades that long-continued friction with grimy surfaces will produce, and which is usually more
desired on furniture than on clothes. From his appearance he had possibly been in former time groom or
coachman to some neighbouring county family. "I've had my breedings in as good circles, I may say, as
any man," he added, "and I know true cultivation, or nobody do; and I can declare she's got it - in the
bone, mind ye, I say - as much as any female in the fair - though it may want a little bringing out." Then,
crossing his legs, he resumed his pipe with a nicely-adjusted gaze at a point in the air.
The fuddled young husband stared for a few seconds at this unexpected praise of his wife, half in doubt
of the wisdom of his own attitude towards the possessor of such qualities. But he speedily lapsed into his
former conviction, and said harshly--



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"Well, then, now is your chance; I am open to an offer for this gem o' creation." She turned to her
husband and murmured, "Michael, you have talked this nonsense in public places before. A joke is a
joke, but you may make it once too often, mind!"
"I know I've said it before; I meant it. All I want is a buyer."
At the moment a swallow, one among the last of the season, which had by chance found its way through
an opening into the upper part of the tent, flew to and fro in quick curves above their heads, causing all
eyes to follow it absently. In watching the bird till it made its escape the assembled company neglected to
respond to the workman's offer, and the subject dropped.
But a quarter of an hour later the man, who had gone on lacing his furmity more and more heavily,
though he was either so strong-minded or such an intrepid toper that he still appeared fairly sober,
recurred to the old strain, as in a musical fantasy the instrument fetches up the original theme. "Here - I
am waiting to know about this offer of mine. The woman is no good to me. Who'll have her?"
The company had by this time decidedly degenerated, and the renewed inquiry was received with a laugh
of appreciation. The woman whispered; she was imploring and anxious: "Come, come, it is getting dark,
and this nonsense won't do. If you don't come along, I shall go without you. Come!"
She waited and waited; yet he did not move. In ten minutes the man broke in upon the desultory
conversation of the furmity drinkers with, "I asked this question, and nobody answered to 't. Will any
Jack Rag or Tom Straw among ye buy my goods?"
The woman's manner changed, and her face assumed the grim shape and colour of which mention has
been made.
"Mike, Mike," said she; "this is getting serious. O! - too serious!"
"Will anybody buy her?" said the man.
"I wish somebody would," said she firmly. "Her present owner is not at all to her liking!"
"Nor you to mine," said he. "So we are agreed about that. Gentlemen, you hear? It's an agreement to part.
She shall take the girl if she wants to, and go her ways. I'll take my tools, and go my ways. 'Tis simple as
Scripture history. Now then, stand up, Susan, and show yourself."
"Don't, my chiel," whispered a buxom staylace dealer in voluminous petticoats, who sat near the woman;
"yer good man don't know what he's saying."
The woman, however, did stand up. "Now, who's auctioneer?" cried the hay-trusser.
"I be," promptly answered a short man, with a nose resembling a copper knob, a damp voice, and eyes
like buttonholes. "Who'll make an offer for this lady?"
The woman looked on the ground, as if she maintained her position by a supreme effort of will.
"Five shillings," said some one, at which there was a laugh.
"No insults, said the husband. "Who'll say a guinea?"
Nobody answered; and the female dealer in staylaces interposed.

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"Behave yerself moral, good man, for Heaven's love! Ah, what a cruelty is the poor soul married to! Bed
and board is dear at some figures, 'pon my 'vation 'tis!"
"Set it higher, auctioneer," said the trusser.
"Two guineas!" said the auctioneer; and no one replied.
"If they don't take her for that, in ten seconds they'll have to give more," said the husband. "Very well.
Now, auctioneer, add another."
"Three guineas - going for three guineas!" said the rheumy man.
"No bid?" said the husband. "Good Lord, why she's cost me fifty times the money, if a penny. Go on."
"Four guineas!" cried the auctioneer.
"I'll tell ye what - I won't sell her for less than five," said the husband, bringing down his fist so that he
basins danced. "I'll sell her for five guineas to any man that will pay me the money, and treat her well;
and he shall have her for ever, and never hear aught o' me. But she shan't go for less. Now then - five
guineas - and she's yours. Susan, you agree?"
She bowed her head with absolute indifference.
"Five guineas," said the auctioneer, "or she'll be withdrawn. Do anybody give it? The last time. Yes or
no?"
"Yes," said a loud voice from the doorway.
All eyes were turned. Standing in the triangular opening which formed the door of the tent was a sailor,
who, unobserved by the rest, had arrived there within the last two or three minutes. A dead silence
followed his affirmation.
"You say you do?" asked the husband, staring at him.
"I say so," replied the sailor.
"Saying is one thing, and paying is another. Where's the money?"
The sailor hesitated a moment, looked anew at the woman, came in, unfolded five crisp pieces of paper,
and threw them down upon the table-cloth. They were Bank-of-England notes for five pounds. Upon the
face of this he chinked down the shillings severally - one, two, three, four, five.
The sight of real money in full amount, in answer to a challenge for the same till then deemed slightly
hypothetical, had a great effect upon the spectators. Their eyes became riveted upon the faces of the chief
actors, and then upon the notes as they lay, weighted by the shillings, on the table.
Up to this moment it could not positively have been asserted that the man, in spite of his tantalizing
declaration, was really in earnest. The spectators had indeed taken the proceedings throughout as a piece
of mirthful irony carried to extremes; and had assumed that, being out of work, he was, as a consequence,
out of temper with the world, and society, and his nearest kin. But with the demand and response of real
cash the jovial frivolity of the scene departed. A lurid colour seemed to fill the tent, and change the
aspect of all therein. The mirth-wrinkles left the listeners' faces, and they waited with parting lips.

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"Now," said the woman, breaking the silence, so that her low dry voice sounded quite loud, "before you
go further, Michael, listen to me. If you touch that money, I and this girl go with the man. Mind, it is a
joke no longer."
"A joke? Of course it is not a joke!" shouted her husband, his resentment rising at her suggestion. "I take
the money: the sailor takes you. That's plain enough. It has been done elsewhere - and why not here?"
"'Tis quite on the understanding that the young woman is willing," said the sailor blandly. "I wouldn't
hurt her feelings for the world."
"Faith, nor I," said her husband. "But she is willing, provided she can have the child. She said so only the
other day when I talked o't!"
"That you swear?" said the sailor to her.
"I do," said she, after glancing at her husband's face and seeing no repentance there.
"Very well, she shall have the child, and the bargain's complete," said the trusser. He took the sailor's
notes and deliberately folded them, and put them with the shillings in a high remote pocket, with an air of
finality.
The sailor looked at the woman and smiled. "Come along!" he said kindly. "The little one too - the more
the merrier!" She paused for an instant, with a close glance at him. Then dropping her eyes again, and
saying nothing, she took up the child and followed him as he made towards the door. On reaching it, she
turned, and pulling off her wedding-ring, flung it across the booth in the hay-trusser's face.
"Mike," she said, "I've lived with thee a couple of years, and had nothing but temper! Now I'm no more
to 'ee; I'll try my luck elsewhere. 'Twill be better for me and Elizabeth-Jane, both. So good-bye!"
Seizing the sailor's arm with her right hand, and mounting the little girl on her left, she went out of the
tent sobbing bitterly.
A stolid look of concern filled the husband's face, as if, after all, he had not quite anticipated this ending;
and some of the guests laughed.
"Is she gone?" he said.
"Faith, ay; she's gone clane enough," said some rustics near the door.
He rose and walked to the entrance with the careful tread of one conscious of his alcoholic load. Some
others followed, and they stood looking into the twilight. The difference between the peacefulness of
interior nature and the wilful hostilities of mankind was very apparent at this place. In contrast with the
harshness of the act just ended within the tent was the sight of several horses crossing their necks and
rubbing each other lovingly as they waited in patience to be harnessed for the homeward journey.
Outside the fair, in the valleys and woods, all was quiet. The sun had recently set, and the west heaven
was hung with rosy cloud, which seemed permanent, yet slowly changed. To watch it was like looking at
some grand feat of stagery from a darkened auditorium. In presence of this scene after the other there
was a natural instinct to abjure man as the blot on an otherwise kindly universe; till it was remembered
that all terrestrial conditions were intermittent, and that mankind might some night be innocently
sleeping when these quiet objects were raging loud.


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"Where do the sailor live?" asked a spectator, when they had vainly gazed around.
"God knows that," replied the man who had seen high life. "He's without doubt a stranger here."
"He came in about five minutes ago," said the furmity woman, joining the rest with her hands on her
hips. "And then 'a stepped back, and then 'a looked in again. I'm not a penny the better for him."
"Serves the husband well be-right," said the staylace vendor.
"A comely respectable body like her - what can a man want more? I glory in the woman's sperrit. I'd ha'
done it myself--'od sent if I wouldn't, if a husband had behaved so to me! I'd go, and 'a might call, and
call, till his keacorn was raw; but I'd never come back no, not till the great trumpet, would I!"
"Well, the woman will be better off," said another of a more deliberate turn. "For seafaring natures be
very good shelter for shorn lambs, and the man do seem to have plenty of money, which is what she's not
been used to lately, by all showings."
"Mark me - I'll not go after her!" said the trusser, returning doggedly to his seat. "Let her go! If she's up
to such vagaries she must suffer for 'em. She'd no business to take the maid--'tis my maid; and if it were
the doing again she shouldn't have her!"
Perhaps from some little sense of having countenanced an indefensible proceeding, perhaps because it
was late, the customers thinned away from the tent shortly after this episode. The man stretched his
elbows forward on the table, leant his face upon his arms, and soon began to snore. The furmity seller
decided to close for the night, and after seeing the rum-bottles, milk, corn, raisins, etc., that remained on
hand, loaded into the cart, came to where the man reclined. She shook him but could not wake him. As
the tent was not to be struck that night, the fair continuing for two or three days, she decided to let the
sleeper, who was obviously no tramp, stay where he was, and his basket with him. Extinguishing the last
candle, and lowering the flap of the tent, she left it, and drove away.




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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - II


II
THE morning sun was streaming through the crevices of the canvas when the man awoke. A warm glow
pervaded the whole atmosphere of the marquee, and a single big blue fly buzzed musically round and
round it. Besides the buzz of the fly there was not a sound. He looked about - at the benches - at the table
supported by trestles - at his basket of tools - at the stove where the furmity had been boiled - at the
empty basins - at some shed grains of wheat - at the corks which dotted the grassy floor. Among the odds
and ends he discerned a little shining object, and picked it up. It was his wife's ring.
A confused picture of the events of the previous evening seemed to come back to him, and he thrust his
hand into his breast-pocket. A rustling revealed the sailor's bank-notes thrust carelessly in.
This second verification of his dim memories was enough; he knew now they were not dreams. He
remained seated, looking on the ground for some time. "I must get out of this as soon as I can," he said
deliberately at last, with the air of one who could not catch his thoughts without pronouncing them.
"She's gone - to be sure she is - gone with that sailor who bought her, and the little Elizabeth-Jane. We
walked here, and I had the furmity, and rum in it - and sold her. Yes, that's what's happened, and here am
I. Now, what am I to do - am I sober enough to walk, I wonder?" He stood up, found that he was in fairly
good condition for progress, unencumbered. Next he shouldered his tool basket, and found he could carry
it. Then lifting the tent door he emerged into the open air.
Here the man looked around with gloomy curiosity. The freshness of the September morning inspired
and braced him as he stood. He and his family had been weary when they arrived the night before, and
they had observed but little of the place; so that he now beheld it as a new thing. It exhibited itself as the
top of an open down, bounded on one extreme by a plantation, and approached by a winding road. At the
bottom stood the village which lent its name to the upland and the annual fair that was held thereon. The
spot stretched downward into valleys, and onward to other uplands, dotted with barrows, and trenched
with the remains of prehistoric forts. The whole scene lay under the rays of a newly risen sun, which had
not as yet dried a single blade of the heavily dewed grass, whereon the shadows of the yellow and red
vans were projected far away, those thrown by the felloe of each wheel being elongated in shape to the
orbit of a comet. All the gipsies and showmen who had remained on the ground lay snug within their
carts and tents, or wrapped in horse-cloths under them, and were silent and still as death, with the
exception of an occasional snore that revealed their presence. But the Seven Sleepers had a dog; and dogs
of the mysterious breeds that vagrants own, that are as much like cats as dogs and as much like foxes as
cats, also lay about here. A little one started up under one of the carts, barked as a matter of principle,
and quickly lay down again. He was the only positive spectator of the hay-trusser's exit from the Weydon
Fair-field.
This seemed to accord with his desire. He went on in silent thought, unheeding the yellowhammers
which flitted about the hedges with straws in their bills, the crowns of the mushrooms, and the tinkling of
local sheep-bells, whose wearers had had the good fortune not to be included in the fair. When he
reached a lane, a good mile from the scene of the previous evening, the man pitched his basket and leant
upon a gate. A difficult problem or two occupied his mind.
"Did I tell my name to anybody last night, or didn't I tell my name?" he said to himself; and at last
concluded that he did not. His general demeanour was enough to show how he was surprised and nettled


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that his wife had taken him so literally - as much could be seen in his face, and in the way he nibbled a
straw which he pulled from the hedge. He knew that she must have been somewhat excited to do this;
moreover, she must have believed that there was some sort of binding force in the transaction. On this
latter point he felt almost certain, knowing her freedom from levity of character, and the extreme
simplicity of her intellect. There may, too, have been enough recklessness and resentment beneath her
ordinary placidity to make her stifle any momentary doubts. On a previous occasion when he had
declared during a fuddle that he would dispose of her as he had done, she had replied that she would not
hear him say that many times more before it happened, in the resigned tones of a fatalist... "Yet she
knows I am not in my senses when I do that!" he exclaimed. "Well, I must walk about till I find her...
Seize her, why didn't she know better than bring me into this disgrace!" he roared out. "She wasn't queer
if I was. 'Tis like Susan to show some idiotic simplicity. Meek - that meekness has done me more harm
than the bitterest temper!"
When he was calmer he turned to his original conviction that he must somehow find her and his little
Elizabeth-Jane, and put up with the shame as best he could. It was of his own making, and he ought to
bear it. But first he resolved to register an oath, a greater oath than he had ever sworn before: and to do it
properly he required a fit place and imagery; for there was something fetichistic in this man's beliefs.
He shouldered his basket and moved on, casting his eyes inquisitively round upon the landscape as he
walked, and at the distance of three or four miles perceived the roofs of a village and the tower of a
church. He instantly made towards the latter object. The village was quite still, it being that motionless
hour of rustic daily life which fills the interval between the departure of the field-labourers to their work,
and the rising of their wives and daughters to prepare the breakfast for their return. Hence he reached the
church without observation, and the door being only latched he entered. The haytrusser deposited his
basket by the font, went up the nave till he reached the altar-rails, and opening the gate entered the
sacrarium, where he seemed to feel a sense of the strangeness for a moment; then he knelt upon the
foot-pace. Dropping his head upon the clamped book which lay on the Communion-table, he said aloud--
"I, Michael Henchard, on this morning of the sixteenth of September, do take an oath before God here in
this solemn place that I will avoid all strong liquors for the space of twenty-one years to come, being a
year for every year that I have lived. And this I swear upon the book before me; and may I be strook
dumb, blind, and helpless, if I break this my oath!"
When he had said it and kissed the big book, the hay-trusser arose, and seemed relieved at having made a
start in a new direction. While standing in the porch a moment he saw a thick jet of wood smoke
suddenly start up from the red chimney of a cottage near, and knew that the occupant had just lit her fire.
He went round to the door, and the housewife agreed to prepare him some breakfast for a trifling
payment, which was done. Then he started on the search for his wife and child.
The perplexing nature of the undertaking became apparent soon enough. Though he examined and
inquired, and walked hither and thither day after day, no such characters as those he described had
anywhere been seen since the evening of the fair. To add to the difficulty he could gain no sound of the
sailor's name. As money was short with him he decided, after some hesitation, to spend the sailor's
money in the prosecution of this search; but it was equally in vain. The truth was that a certain shyness of
revealing his conduct prevented Michael Henchard from following up the investigation with the loud
hue-and-cry such a pursuit demanded to render it effectual; and it was probably for this reason that he
obtained no clue, though everything was done by him that did not involve an explanation of the


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circumstances under which he had lost her.
Weeks counted up to months, and still he searched on, maintaining himself by small jobs of work in the
intervals. By this time he had arrived at a seaport, and there he derived intelligence that persons
answering somewhat to his description had emigrated a little time before. Then he said he would search
no longer, and that he would go and settle in the district which he had had for some time in his mind.
Next day he started, journeying south-westward, and did not pause, except for nights' lodgings, till he
reached the town of Casterbridge, in a far distant part of Wessex.




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III
THE highroad into the village of Weydon-Priors was again carpeted with dust. The trees had put on as of
yore their aspect of dingy green, and where the Henchard family of three had once walked along, two
persons not unconnected with that family walked now.
The scene in its broad aspect had so much of its previous character, even to the voices and rattle from the
neighbouring village down, that it might for that matter have been the afternoon following the previously
recorded episode. Change was only to be observed in details; but here it was obvious that a long
procession of years had passed by. One of the two who walked the road was she who had figured as the
young wife of Henchard on the previous occasion; now her face had lost much of its rotundity; her skin
had undergone a textural change; and though her hair had not lost colour it was considerably thinner than
heretofore. She was dressed in the mourning clothes of a window. Her companion, also in black,
appeared as a well-formed young woman about eighteen, completely possessed of that ephemeral
precious essence youth, which is itself beauty, irrespective of complexion or contour.
A glance was sufficient to inform the eye that this was Susan Henchard's grown-up daughter. While life's
middle summer had set its hardening mark on the mother's face, her former spring-like specialities were
transferred so dexterously by Time to the second figure, her child, that the absence of certain facts within
her mother's knowledge from the girl's mind would have seemed for the moment, to one reflecting on
those facts, to be a curious imperfection in Nature's powers of continuity.
The walked with joined hands, and it could be perceived that this was the act of simple affection. The
daughter carried in her outer hand a withy basket of old-fashioned make; the mother a blue bundle, which
contrasted oddly with her black stuff gown.
Reaching the outskirts of the village they pursued the same track as formerly, and ascended to the fair.
Here, too, it was evident that the years had told. Certain mechanical improvements might have been
noticed in the roundabouts and highfliers, machines for testing rustic strength and weight, and in the
erections devoted to shooting for nuts. But the real business of the fair had considerably dwindled. The
new periodical great markets of neighbouring towns were beginning to interfere seriously with the trade
carried on here for centuries. The pens for sheep, the tie-ropes for horses, were about half as long as they
had been. The stalls of tailors, hosiers, coopers, linen-drapers, and other such trades had almost
disappeared, and the vehicles were far less numerous. The mother and daughter threaded the crowd for
some little distance, and then stood still.
"Why did we hinder our time by coming in here? I thought you wished to get onward?" said the maiden.
"Yes, my dear Elizabeth-Jane," explained the other. "But I had a fancy for looking up here."
"Why?"
"It was here I first met with Newson - on such a day as this."
"First met with father here? Yes, you have told me so before. And now he's drowned and gone from us!"
As she spoke the girl drew a card from her pocket and looked at it with a sigh. It was edged with black,
and inscribed within a design resembling a mural tablet were the words, "In affectionate memory of
Richard Newson, mariner, who was unfortunately lost at sea, in the month of November 184 - , aged

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forty-one years."
"And it was here," continued her mother, with more hesitation, "that I last saw the relation we are going
to look for - Mr Michael Henchard."
"What is his exact kin to us, mother? I have never clearly had it told me."
"He is, or was - for he may be dead - a connection by marriage," said her mother deliberately.
"That's exactly what you have said a score of times before!" replied the young woman, looking about her
inattentively. "He's not a near relation, I suppose?"
"Not by any means."
"He was a hay-trusser, wasn't he, when you last heard of him?"
"He was."
"I suppose he never knew me?" the girl innocently continued.
Mrs Henchard paused for a moment, and answered uneasily, "Of course not, Elizabeth-Jane. But come
this way." She moved on to another part of the field.
"It is not much use inquiring here for anybody, I should think," the daughter observed, as she gazed
round about. "People at fairs change like the leaves of trees; and I daresay you are the only one here
today who was here all those years ago."
"I am not so sure of that," said Mrs Newson, as she now called herself, keenly eyeing something under a
green bank a little way off. "See there."
The daughter looked in the direction signified. The object pointed out was a tripod of sticks stuck into the
earth, from which hung a three-legged crock, kept hot by a smouldering wood fire beneath. Over the pot
stooped an old woman, haggard, wrinkled, and almost in rags. She stirred the contents of the pot with a
large spoon, and occasionally croaked in a broken voice, "Good furmity sold here!"
It was indeed the former mistress of the furmity tent - once thriving, cleanly, white-aproned and chinking
with money - now tentless, dirty, owning no tables or benches, and having scarce any customers except
two small whity-brown boys, who came up and asked for "A ha'p'orth, please - good measure", which
she served in a couple of chipped yellow basins of commonest clay.
"She was here at that time," resumed Mrs Newson, making a step as if to draw nearer.
"Don't speak to her - it isn't respectable!" urged the other.
"I will just say a word - you, Elizabeth-Jane, can stay here."
The girl was not loth, and turned to some stalls of coloured prints while her mother went forward. The
old woman begged for the latter's custom as soon as she saw her, and responded to Mrs
Henchard-Newson's request for a pennyworth with more alacrity than she had shown in selling
sixpennyworth in her younger days. When the soi-disant widow had taken the basin of thin poor slop that
stood for the rich concoction of the former time, the hag opened a little basket behind the fire, and
looking up slily, whispered, "Just a though o' rum in it? - smuggled, you know - say two penn'orth--'twill

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make it slip down like cordial!"
Her customer smiled bitterly at this survival of the old trick, and shook her head with a meaning the old
woman was far from translating. She pretended to eat a little of the furmity with the leaden spoon
offered, and as she did so said blandly to the hag, "You've seen better days?"
"Ah, ma'am - well ye may say it!" responded the old woman, opening the sluices of her heart forthwith.
"I've stood in this fairground, maid, wife, and widow, these nine-and-thirty year, and in that time have
known what it was to do business with the richest stomachs in the land! Ma'am you'd hardly believe that
I was once the owner of a great pavilion-tent that was the attraction of the fair. Nobody could come,
nobody could go, without having a dish of Mrs Goodenough's furmity. I knew the clergy's taste, the
dandy gent's taste; I knew the town's taste, the country's, taste. I even knowed the taste of the coarse
shameless females. But Lord's my life - the world's no memory; straightforward dealings don't bring
profit--'tis the sly and the underhand that get on in these times!"
Mrs Newson glanced round - her daughter was still bending over the distant stalls. "Can you call to
mind," she said cautiously to the old woman, "the sale of a wife by her husband in your tent eighteen
years ago today?"
The hag reflected, and half shook her head. "If it had been a big thing I should have minded it in a
moment," she said. 'I can mind every serious fight o' married parties, every murder, every manslaughter,
even every pocket-picking - leastwise large ones - that 't has been my lot to witness. But a selling? Was it
done quite-like?"
"Well, yes. I think so."
The furmity woman half shook her head again. "And yet," she said, "I do. At any rate, I can mind a man
doing something o'the sort - a man in a cord jacket, with a basket of tools; but, Lord bless ye, we don't
gi'e it head-room, we don't, such as that. The only reason why I can mind the man is that he came back
here to the next year's fair, and told me quite private-like that if a woman ever asked for him I was to say
he had gone to - where? - Casterbridge - yes - to Casterbridge, said he. But, Lord's, my life, I shouldn't
ha' thought of it again!"
Mrs Newson would have rewarded the old woman as far as her small means afforded had she not
discreetly borne in mind that it was by that unscrupulous person's liquor her husband had been degraded.
She briefly thanked her informant, and rejoined Elizabeth, who greeted her with, "Mother, do let's go on -
it was hardly respectable for you to buy refreshment there. I see none but the lowest do."
"I have learned what I wanted, however," said her mother quietly. "The last time our relative visited this
fair he said he was living at Casterbridge. It is a long, long way from here, and it was many years ago
that he said it; but there I think we'll go."
With this they descended out of the fair, and went onward to the village, where they obtained a night's
lodging.




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* IV *
HENCHARD'S wife acted for the best, but she had involved herself in difficulties. A hundred times she
had been upon the point of telling her daughter Elizabeth-Jane the true story of her life, the tragical crisis
of which had been the transaction at Weydon Fair, when she was not much older than the girl now beside
her. But she had refrained. An innocent maiden had thus grown up in the belief that the relations between
the genial sailor and her mother were the ordinary ones that they had always appeared to be. The risk of
endangering a child's strong affection by disturbing ideas which had grown with her growth was to Mrs
Henchard too fearful a thing to contemplate. It had seemed, indeed, folly to think of making
Elizabeth-Jane wise.
But Susan Henchard's fear of losing her dearly loved daughter's heart by a revelation had little to do with
any sense of wrong-doing on her own part. Her simplicity - the original ground of Henchard's contempt
for her - had allowed her to live on in the conviction that Newson had acquired a morally real and
justifiable right to her by his purchase - though the exact bearings and legal limits of that right were
vague. It may seem strange to sophisticated minds that a sane young matron could believe in the
seriousness of such a transfer; and were there not numerous other instances of the same belief the thing
might scarcely be credited. But she was by no means the first or last peasant woman who had religiously
adhered to her purchaser, as too many rural records show.
The history of Susan Henchard's adventures in the interim can be told in two or three sentences.
Absolutely helpless she had been taken off to Canada, where they had lived several years without any
great worldly success, though she worked as hard as any woman could to keep their cottage cheerful and
well-provided. When Elizabeth-Jane was about twelve years old the three returned to England, and
settled at Falmouth, where Newson made a living for a few years as boatman and general handy
shoreman.
He then engaged in the Newfoundland trade, and it was during this period that Susan had an awakening.
A friend to whom she confided her history ridiculed her grave acceptance of her position; and all was
over with her peace of mind. When Newson came home at the end of one winter he saw that the delusion
he had so carefully sustained had vanished for ever.
There was then a time of sadness, in which she told him her doubts if she could live with him longer.
Newson left home again on the Newfoundland trade when the season came round. The vague news of his
loss at sea a little on solved a problem which had become torture to her meek conscience. She saw him
no more.
Of Henchard they heard nothing. To the liege subjects of Labour, the England of those days was a
continent, and a mile a geographical degree.
Elizabeth-Jane developed early into womanliness. One day, a month or so after receiving intelligence of
Newson's death off the Bank of Newfoundland, when the girl was about eighteen, she was sitting on a
willow chair in the cottage they still occupied, working twine nets for the fishermen. Her mother was in a
back corner of the same room, engaged in the same labour; and dropping the heavy wood needle she was
filling she surveyed her daughter thoughtfully. The sun shone in at the door upon the young woman's
head and hair, which was worn loose, so that the rays streamed into its depths as into a hazel copse. Her
face, though somewhat wan and incomplete, possessed the raw materials of beauty in a promising

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degree. There was an under-handsomeness in it, struggling to reveal itself through the provisional curves
of immaturity, and the casual disfigurements that resulted from the straitened circumstances of their
lives. She was handsome in the bone, hardly as yet handsome in the flesh. She possibly might never be
fully handsome, unless the carking accidents of her daily existence could be evaded before the mobile
parts of her countenance had settled to their final mould.
The sight of the girl made her mother sad - not vaguely, but by logical inference. They both were still in
that straitwaistcoat of poverty from which she had tried so many times to be delivered for the girl's sake.
The woman had long perceived how zealously and constantly the young mind of her companion was
struggling for enlargement; and yet now, in her eighteenth year, it still remained but little unfolded. The
desire - sober and repressed - of Elizabeth-Jane's heart was indeed to see, to hear, and to understand.
How could she become a woman of wider knowledge, higher repute - ``better'', as she termed it - this was
her constant inquiry of her mother. She sought further into things than other girls in her position ever did,
and her mother groaned as she felt she could not aid in the search.
The sailor, drowned or no, was probably now lost to them; and Susan's staunch, religious adherence to
him as her husband in principle, till her views had been disturbed by enlightenment, was demanded no
more. She asked herself whether the present moment, now that she was a free woman again, were not as
opportune a one as she would find in a world where everything had been so inopportune, for making a
desperate effort to advance Elizabeth. To pocket her pride and search for the first husband seemed,
wisely or not, the best initiatory step. He had possibly drunk himself into his tomb. But he might, on the
other hand, have had too much sense to do so; for in her time with him he had been given to bouts only,
and was not a habitual drunkard.
At any rate, the propriety of returning to him, if he lived, was unquestionable. The awkwardness of
searching for him lay in enlightening Elizabeth, a proceeding which her mother could not endure to
contemplate. She finally resolved to undertake the search without confiding to the girl her former
relations with Henchard, leaving it to him if they found him to take what steps he might choose to that
end. This will account for their conversation at the fair and the half-informed state in which Elizabeth
was led onward.
In this attitude they proceeded on their journey, trusting solely to the dim light afforded to Henchard's
whereabouts by the furmity woman. The strictest economy was indispensable. Sometimes they might
have been seen on foot, sometimes on farmers' waggons, sometimes in carriers' vans; and thus they drew
near to Casterbridge. Elizabeth-Jane discovered to her alarm that her mother's health was not what it once
had been, and there was ever and anon in her talk that renunciatory tone which showed that, but for the
girl, she would not be very sorry to quit a life she was growing thoroughly weary of.
It was on a Friday evening, near the middle of September, and just before dusk, that they reached the
summit of a hill within a mile of the place they sought. There were highbanked hedges to the coach-road
here, and they mounted upon the green turf within, and sat down. The spot commanded a full view of the
town and its environs.
``What an old-fashioned place it seems to be!'' said Elizabeth-Jane, while her silent mother mused on
other things than topography. ``It is huddled all together; and it is shut in by a square wall of trees, like a
plot of garden ground by a boxedging.''
Its squareness was, indeed, the characteristic which most struck the eye in this antiquated borough, the


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borough of Casterbridge - at that time, recent as it was, untouched by the faintest sprinkle of modernism.
It was compact as a box of dominoes. It had no suburbs - in the ordinary sense. Country and town met at
a mathematical line.
To birds of the more soaring kind Casterbridge must have appeared on this fine evening as a
mosaic-work of subdued reds, browns, greys, and crystals, held together by a rectangular frame of deep
green. To the level eye of humanity it stood as an indistinct mass behind a dense stockade of limes and
chestnuts, set in the midst of miles of rotund down and concave field. The mass became gradually
dissected by the vision into towers, gables, chimneys, and casements, the highest glazings shining
bleared and bloodshot with the coppery fire they caught from the belt of sunlit cloud in the west.
From the centre of each side of this tree-bound square ran avenues east, west, and south into the wide
expanse of cornland and coomb to the distance of a mile or so. It was by one of these avenues that the
pedestrians were about to enter. Before they had risen to proceed two men passed outside the hedge,
engaged in argumentative conversation.
``Why, surely,'' said Elizabeth, as they receded, ``those men mentioned the name of Henchard in their
talk - the name of our relative?''
``I thought so too,'' said Mrs Newson.
``That seems a hint to us that he is still here.''
``Yes.''
``Shall I run after them, and ask them about him--''
``No, no, no! Not for the world just yet. He may be in the workhouse, or in the stocks, for all we know.''
``Dear me - why should you think that, mother?''
``'Twas just something to say - that's all! But we must make private inquiries.''
Having sufficiently rested they proceeded on their way at even-fall. The dense trees of the avenue
rendered the road dark as a tunnel, though the open land on each side was still under a faint daylight; in
other words, they passed down a midnight between two gloamings. The features of the town had a keen
interest for Elizabeth's mother, now that the human side came to the fore. As soon as they had wandered
about they could see that the stockade of gnarled trees which framed in Casterbridge was itself an
avenue, standing on a low green bank or escarpment, with a ditch yet visible without. Within the avenue
and bank was a wall more or less discontinuous, and within the wall were packed the abodes of the
burghers.
Though the two women did not know it these external features were but the ancient defences of the town,
planted as a promenade.
The lamplights now glimmered through the engirdling trees, conveying a sense of great snugness and
comfort inside, and rendering at the same time the unlighted country without strangely solitary and
vacant in aspect, considering its nearness to life. The difference between burgh and champaign was
increased, too, by sounds which now reached them above others - the notes of a brass band. The
travellers returned into the High Street, where there were timber houses with overhanging storeys, whose


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small-paned lattices were screened by dimity curtains on a drawing-string, and under whose barge-boards
old cobwebs waved in the breeze. There were houses of brick-nogging, which derived their chief support
from those adjoining. There were slate roofs patched with tiles, and tile roofs patched with slate, with
occasionally a roof of thatch.
The agricultural and pastoral character of the people upon whom the town depended for its existence was
shown by the class of objects displayed in the shop windows. Scythes, reaphooks, sheep-shears,
bill-hooks, spades, mattocks, and hoes at the ironmonger's; bee-hives, butter-firkins, churns, milking
stools and pails, hay-rakes, field-flagons, and seed-lips at the cooper's; cart-ropes and plough-harness at
the saddler's; carts, wheel-barrows, and mill-gear at the wheelwright's and machinist's;
horse-embrocations at the chemist's; at the glover's and leather-cutter's, hedging-gloves, thatchers'
kneecaps, ploughmen's leggings, villagers' pattens and clogs.
They came to a grizzled church, whose massive square tower rose unbroken into the darkening sky, the
lower parts being illuminated by the nearest lamps sufficiently to show how completely the mortar from
the joints of the stonework had been nibbled out by time and weather, which had planted in the crevices
thus made little tufts of stone-crop and grass almost as far up as the very battlements. From this tower the
clock struck eight, and thereupon a bell began to toll with a peremptory clang. The curfew was still rung
in Casterbridge, and it was utilized by the inhabitants as a signal for shutting their shops. No sooner did
the deep notes of the bell throb between the house-fronts than a clatter of shutters arose from the whole
length of the High Street. In a few minutes business at Casterbridge was ended for the day.
Other clocks struck eight from time to time - one gloomily from the gaol, another from the gable of an
almshouse, with a preparative creak of machinery, more audible than the note of the bell; a row of tall,
varnished case-clocks from the interior of a clock-maker's shop joined in one after another just as the
shutters were enclosing them, like a row of actors delivering their final speeches before the fall of the
curtain; then chimes were heard stammering out the Sicilian Mariners'' Hymn;
In an open space before the church walked a woman with her gown-sleeves rolled up so high that the
edge of her underlinen was visible, and her skirt tucked up through her pocket hole. She carried a loaf
under her arm from which she was pulling pieces of bread, and handing them to some other women who
walked with her; which pieces they nibbled critically. The sight reminded Mrs Henchard-Newson and
her daughter that they had an appetite; and they inquired of the woman for the nearest baker's.
``Ye may as well look for manna-food as good bread in Casterbridge just now,'' she said, after directing
them. ``They can blare their trumpets and thump their drums, and have their roaring dinners' - waving her
hand towards a point further along the street, where the brass band could be seen standing in front of an
illuminated building - ``but we must needs be put-to for want of a wholesome crust. There's less good
bread than good beer in Casterbridge now.''
``And less good beer than swipes,'' said a man with his hands in his pockets.
``How does it happen there's no good bread?'' asked Mrs Henchard.
``Oh, 'tis the corn-factor - he's the man that our millers and bakers all deal wi', and he has sold 'em
growed wheat, which they didn't know was growed, so they say, till the dough ran all over the ovens like
quicksilver; so that the loaves be as flat as toads, and like suet pudden inside. I've been a wife, and I've
been a mother, and I never see such unprincipled bread in Casterbridge as this before. - But you must be
a real stranger here not to know what's made all the poor volks' insides plim like blowed bladders this

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week?''
``I am,'' said Elizabeth's mother shyly.
Not wishing to be observed further till she knew more of her future in this place, she withdrew with her
daughter from the speaker's side. Getting a couple of biscuits at the shop indicated as a temporary
substitute for a meal, they next bent their steps instinctively to where the music was playing.




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V
A FEW score yards brought them to the spot where the town band was now shaking the window-panes
with the strains of "The Roast Beef of Old England".
The building before whose doors they had pitched their music-stands was the chief hotel in Casterbridge
- namely, the King's Arms. A spacious bow-window projected into the street over the main portico, and
from the open sashes came the babble of voices, the jingle of glasses, and the drawing of cords. The
blinds, moreover, being left unclosed, the whole interior of this room could be surveyed from the top of a
flight of stone steps to the road-waggon office opposite, for which reason a knot of idlers had gathered
there.
"We might, perhaps, after all, make a few inquiries about - our relation Mr Henchard," whispered Mrs
Newson who, since her entry into Casterbridge had seemed strangely weak and agitated, "And this, I
think, would be a good place for trying it - just to ask, you know, how he stands in the town - if he is
here, as I think he must be. You, Elizabeth-Jane, had better be the one to do it. I'm too worn out to do
anything - pull down your fall first."
She sat down upon the lowest step, and Elizabeth-Jane obeyed her directions and stood among the idlers.
"What's going on tonight?" asked the girl, after singling out an old man and standing by him long enough
to acquire a neighbourly right to converse.
"Well, ye must be a stranger sure," said the old man, without taking his eyes from the window. "Why, 'tis
a great public dinner of the gentle-people and such like leading volk - wi' the Mayor in the chair. As we
plainer fellows bain't invited, they leave the winder-shutters open that we may get jist a sense o't out
here. If you mount the steps you can see 'em. That's Mr Henchard, the Mayor, at the end of the table,
afacing ye; and that's the Council men right and left... Ah lost of them when they begun life were no
more than I be now!"
"Henchard!" said Elizabeth-Jane, surprised, but by no means suspecting the whole force of the revelation.
She ascended to the top of the steps.
Her mother, though her head was bowed, had already caught from the inn-window tones that strangely
riveted her attention before the old man's words, "Mr Henchard, the Mayor", reached her ears. She arose,
and stepped up to her daughter's side as soon as she could do so without showing exceptional eagerness.
The interior of the hotel dining-room was spread out before her, with its tables, and glass, and plate, and
inmates. Facing the window, in the chair of dignity, sat a man about forty years of age; of heavy frame,
large features, and commanding voice; his general build being rather coarse than compact. He had a rich
complexion, which verged on swarthiness, a flashing black eye, and dark, bushy brows and hair. When
he indulged in an occasional loud laugh at some remark among the guests, his large mouth parted so far
back as to show to the rays of the chandelier a full score or more of the two-and-thirty sound white teeth
that he obviously still could boast of.
That laugh was not encouraging to strangers; and hence it may have been well that it was rarely heard.
Many theories might have been built upon it. It fell in well with conjectures of a temperament which
would have no pity for weakness, but would be ready to yield ungrudging admiration to greatness, and

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strength. Its producer's personal goodness, if he had any, would be of a very fitful cast - an occasional
almost oppressive generosity rather than a mild and constant kindness.
Susan Henchard's husband - in law, at least - sat before them, matured in shape, stiffened in line,
exaggerated in traits; disciplined, thought-marked - in a word, older. Elizabeth, encumbered with no
recollections as her mother was, regarded him with nothing more than the keen curiosity and interest
which the discovery of such unexpected social standing in the long-sought relative naturally begot. He
was dressed in an old-fashioned evening suit, an expanse of frilled shirt showing on his broad breast;
jewelled studs, and a heavy gold chain. Three glasses stood at his right hand; but, to his wife's surprise,
the two for wine were empty, while the third, a tumbler, was half full of water.
When last she had seen him he was sitting in a corduroy jacket, fustian waistcoat and breeches, and
tanned leather leggings, with a basin of hot furmity before him. Time, the magician, had wrought much
here. Watching him, and thus thinking of past days, she became so moved that the shrank back against
the jamp of the waggon-office doorway to which the steps gave access, the shadow from it conveniently
hiding her features. She forgot her daughter till a touch from Elizabeth-Jane aroused her. "Have you seen
him, mother?" whispered the girl.
"Yes, yes," answered her companion hastily, "I have seen him, and it is enough for me! Now I only want
to go - pass away - die."
"Why - O what?" She drew closer, and whispered in her mother's ear, "Does he seem to you not likely to
befriend us? I thought he looked a generous man. What a gentleman he is, isn't he? and how his diamond
studs shine! How strange that you should have said he might be in the stocks, or in the workhouse, or
dead! Did ever anything go more by contraries!Why do you feel so afraid of him? I am not at all; I'll call
upon him - he can but say he don't own such remote kin."
"I don't know at all - I can't tell what to set about. I feel so down."
"Don't be that, mother, now we have got here and all! Rest there were you be a little while - I will look
on and find out more about him."
"I don't think I can ever meet Mr Henchard. He is not how I thought he would be - he overpowers me! I
don't wish to see him any more."
"But wait a little time and consider."
Elizabeth-Jane had never been so much interested in anything in her life as in their present position,
partly from the natural elation she felt at discovering herself akin to a coach; and she gazed again at the
scene. The younger guests were talking and eating with animation; their elders were searching for titbits,
and sniffing and grunting over their plates like sows nuzzling for acorns. Three drinks seemed to be
sacred to the company - port, sherry, and rum; outside which old-established trinity few or no palates
ranged.
A row of ancient rummers with ground figures on their sides, and each primed with a spoon, was now
placed down the table, and these were promptly filled with grog at such high temperatures as to raise
serious considerations for the articles exposed to its vapours. But Elizabeth-Jane noticed that, though this
filling went on with great promptness up and down the table, nobody filled the Mayor's glass, who still
drank large quantities of water from the tumbler behind the clump of crystal vessels intended for wine


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and spirits.
"They don't fill Mr Henchard's wine-glasses," she ventured to say to her elbow acquaintance, the old
man.
"Ah, no; don't ye know him to be the celebrated abstaining worthy of that name? He scorns all tempting
liquors; never touches nothing. O yes, he've strong qualities that way. I have heard tell that he swore a
gospel oath in by-gone times, and has bode by it ever since. So they don't press him, knowing it would be
unbecoming in the face of that; for yet gospel oaths is a serious thing."
Another elderly man, hearing this discourse, now joined in by inquiring, "How much longer have he got
to suffer from it, Solomon Longways?"
"Another two year, they say. I don't know the why and the wherefore of his fixing such a time, for 'a
never has told anybody. But 'tis exactly two calendar years longer, they say. A powerful mind to hold out
so long!"
"True... But there's great strength in hope. Knowing that in four-and-twenty months' time ye'll be out of
your bondage, and able to make up for all you've suffered, by partaking without stint - why, it keeps a
man up, no doubt."
"No doubt, Christopher Coney, no doubt. And 'a must need such reflections - a lonely widow man," says
Longways.
"When did he lose his wife?" asked Elizabeth.
"I never knowed her. 'Twas afore he came to Casterbridge," Solomon Longways replied with terminative
emphasis, as if the fact of his ignorance of Mrs Henchard were sufficient to deprive her history of all
interest. "But I know that 'a's a banded teetotaller, and that if any of his men be ever so little overtook by
a drop he's down upon 'em as stern as the Lord upon the jovial Jews."
"Has he many men, then?" said Elizabeth-Jane.
"Many! Why, my good maid, he's the powerfullest member of the Town Council, and quite a principal
man in the country round besides. Never a big dealing in wheat, barley, oats, hay, roots, and such-like but
Henchard's got a hand in it. Ay, and he'll go into other things too; and that's where he makes his mistake.
He worked his way up from nothing when 'a came here; and now he's a pillar of the town. Not but what
he's been shaken a little to-year about this bad corn he has supplied in his contracts. I've seen the sun rise
over Durnover Moor these nine-and-sixty year, and though Mr Henchard has never cussed me unfairly
ever since I've worked for'n, seeing I be but a little small man, I must say that I have never before tasted
such rough bread as has been made from Henchard's wheat lately. 'Tis that growed out that ye could
a'most call it malt, and there's a list at bottom o' the loaf as thick as the sole of one's shoe."
The band now struck up another melody, and by the time it was ended the dinner was over, and speeches
began to be made. The evening being calm, and the windows still open, these orations could be distinctly
heard. Henchard's voice arose above the rest; he was telling a story of his hay-dealing experiences, in
which he had outwitted a sharper who had been bent upon outwitting him.
"Ha-ha-ha!" responded his audience at the upshot of the story; and hilarity was general till a new voice
arose with, "This is all very well; but how about the bad bread?"


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It came from the lower end of the table, where there sat a group of minor tradesmen who, although part
of the company, appeared to be a little below the social level of the others; and who seemed to nourish a
certain independence of opinion and carry on discussions not quite in harmony with those at the head;
just as the west end of a church is sometimes persistently found to sing out of time and tune with the
leading spirits in the chancel.
This interruption about the bad bread afforded infinite satisfaction to the loungers outside, several of
whom were in the mood which finds its pleasure in others' discomfiture; and hence they echoed pretty
freely, "Hey! How about the bad bread, Mr Mayor?" Moreover, feeling none of the restraints of those
who shared the feast, they could afford to add, "You rather ought to tell the story o' that, sir!"
The interruption was sufficient to compel the Mayor to notice it.
"Well, I admit that the wheat turned out badly," he said. "But I was taken in in buying it as much as the
bakers who bought it 'o me."
"And the poor folk who had to eat it whether or no," said the inharmonious man outside the window.
Henchard's face darkened. There was temper under the thin bland surface - the temper which, artificially
intensified, had banished a wife nearly a score of years before.
"You must make allowances for the accidents of a large business," he said. "You must bear in mind that
the weather just at the harvest of that corn was worse than we have known it for years. However, I have
mended my arrangements on account o't. Since I have found my business too large to be well looked
after by myself alone, I have advertised for a thorough good man as manager of the corn department.
When I've got him you will find these mistakes will no longer occur - matters will be better looked into."
"But what are you going to do to repay us for the past?" inquired the man who had before spoken, and
who seemed to be a baker or miller. "Will you replace the grown flour we've still got by sound grain?"
Henchard's face had become still more stern at these interruptions, and he drank from his tumbler of
water as if to calm himself or gain time. Instead of vouchsafing a direct reply, he stiffly observed--
"If anybody will tell me how to turn grown wheat into wholesome wheat I'll take it back with pleasure.
But it can't be done."
Henchard was not to be drawn again. Having said this, he sat down.




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VI
NOW the group outside the window had within the last few minutes been reinforced by new arrivals,
some of them respectable shopkeepers and their assistants, who had come out for a whiff of air after
putting up the shutters for the night; some of them of a lower class. Distinct from either there appeared a
stranger - a young man of remarkably pleasant aspect - who carried in his hand a carpet-bag of the smart
floral pattern prevalent in such articles at that time.
He was ruddy and of a fair countenance, bright-eyed, and slight in build. He might possibly have passed
by without stopping at all, or at most for half a minute to glance in at the scene, had not his advent
coincided with the discussion on corn and bread; in which event this history had never been enacted. But
the subject seemed to arrest him, and he whispered some inquiries of the other bystanders, and remained
listening.
When he heard Henchard's closing words, "It can't be done", he smiled impulsively, drew out his
pocket-book, and wrote down a few words by the aid of the light in the window. He tore out the leaf,
folded and directed it, and seemed about to throw it in through the open sash upon the dining-table; but,
on second thoughts, edged himself through the loiterers, till he reached the door of the hotel, where one
of the waiters who had been serving inside was now idly leaning against the doorpost.
"Give this to the Mayor at once," he said, handing in his hasty note.
Elizabeth-Jane had seen his movements and heard the words, which attracted her both by their subject
any by their accent - a strange one for those parts. It was quaint and northerly.
The waiter took the note, while the young stranger continued--
"And can ye tell me of a respectable hotel that's a little more moderate than this?"
The waiter glanced indifferently up and down the street.
"They say the Three Mariners, just below here, is a very good place," he languidly answered; "but I have
never stayed there myself."
The Scotchman, as he seemed to be, thanked him, and strolled on in the direction of the Three Mariners
aforesaid, apparently more concerned about the question of an inn than about the fate of his note, now
that the momentary impulse of writing it was over. While he was disappearing slowly down the street the
waiter left the door, and Elizabeth-Jane saw with some interest the note brought into the dining-room and
handed to the Mayor.
Henchard looked at it carelessly, unfolded it with one hand, and glanced it through. Thereupon it was
curious to not an unexpected effect. The nettled, clouded aspect which had held possession of his face
since the subject of his corn-dealings had been broached, changed itself into one of arrested attention. He
read the note slowly, and fell into thought, not moody, but fitfully intense, as that of a man who has been
captured by an idea.
By this time toasts and speeches had given place to songs, the wheat subject being quite forgotten. Men
were putting their heads together in twos and threes, telling good stories, with pantomimic laughter
which reached convulsive grimace. Some were beginning to look as if they did not know how they had

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come there, what they had come for, or how they were going to get home again; and provisionally sat on
with a dazed smile. Square-built men showed a tendency to become hunchbacks; men with a dignified
presence lost it in a curious obliquity of figure, in which their features grew disarranged and one-sided;
whilst the heads of a few who had dined with extreme thoroughness were somehow sinking into their
shoulders, the corners of their mouth and eyes being bent upwards by the subsidence. Only Henchard did
not conform to these flexuous changes; he remained stately and vertical, silently thinking.
The clock struck nine. Elizabeth-Jane turned to her companion. "The evening is drawing on, mother," she
said. "What do you propose to do?"
She was surprised to find how irresolute her mother had become. "We must get a place to lie down in,"
she murmured. "I have seen - Mr Henchard; and that's all I wanted to do."
"That's enough for tonight, at any rate," Elizabeth-Jane replied soothingly. "We can think tomorrow what
is best to do about him. The question now is - is it not? - how shall we find a lodging?"
As her mother did not reply Elizabeth-Jane's mind reverted to the words of the waiter, that the Three
Mariners was an inn of moderate charges. A recommendation good for one person was probably good for
another. "Let's go where the young man has gone to," she said. "He is respectable. What do you say?"
Her mother assented, and down the street they went.
In the meantime the Mayor's thoughtfulness, engendered by the note as stated, continued to hold him in
abstraction; till, whispering to his neighbour to take his place, he found opportunity to leave the chair.
This was just after the departure of his wife and Elizabeth.
Outside the door of the assembly-room he saw the waiter, and beckoning to him asked who brought the
note which had been handed in a quarter of an hour before.
"A young man, sir - a sort of traveller. He was a Scotchman seemingly."
"Did he say how he had got it?"
"He wrote it himself, sir, as he stood outside the window."
"Oh - wrote it himself... Is the young man in the hotel?"
"No, sir. He went to the Three Mariners, I believe."
The Mayor walked up and down the vestibule of the hotel with his hands under his coat tails, as if he
were merely seeking a cooler atmosphere than that of the room he had quitted. But there could be no
doubt that he was in reality still possessed to the full by the new idea, whatever that might be. At length
he went back to the door of the dining-room, paused, and found that the songs, toasts, and conversation
were proceeding quite satisfactorily without his presence. The Corporation, private residents, and major
and minor tradesmen had, in fact, gone in for comforting beverages to such an extent that they had quite
forgotten, not only the Mayor, but all those vast political, religious, and social differences which they felt
necessary to maintain in the daytime, and which separated them like iron grills. Seeing this the Mayor
took his hat, and when the waiter had helped him on with a thin holland overcoat, went out and stood
under the portico.
Very few persons were now in the street; and his eyes, by a sort of attraction, turned and dwelt upon a

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spot about a hundred yards further down. It was the house to which the writer of the note had gone - the
Three Mariners - whose two prominent Elizabethan gables, bow-window, and passage-light could be
seen from where he stood. Having kept his eyes on it for a while he strolled in that direction.
This ancient house of accommodation for man and beast, now, unfortunately, pulled down, was built of
mellow sandstone, with mullioned windows of the same material, markedly out of perpendicular from
the settlement of foundations. The bay window projecting into the street, whose interior was so popular
among the frequenters of the inn, was closed with shutters, in each of which appeared a heart-shaped
aperture, somewhat more attenuated in the right and left ventricles than is seen in Nature. Inside these
illuminated holes, at a distance of about three inches, were ranged at this hour, as every passer knew, the
ruddy polls of Billy Wills the glazier, Smart the shoe-maker, Buzzford the general dealer, and others of a
secondary set of worthies, of a grade somewhat below that of the diners of the King's Arms, each with
his yard of clay.
A four-centred Tudor arch was over the entrance, and over the arch the signboard, now visible in the rays
of an opposite lamp. Hereon the Mariners, who had been represented by the artist as persons of two
dimensions only - in other words, flat as a shadow - were standing in a row in paralysed attitudes. Being
on the sunny side of the street the three comrades had suffered largely from warping, splitting, fading,
and shrinkage, so that they were but a half-invisible film upon the reality of the grain, and knots, and
nails, which composed the signboard. As a matter of fact, this state of things was not so much owing to
Stannidge the landlord's neglect, as from the lack of a painter in Casterbridge who would undertake to
reproduce the features of men so traditional.
A long, narrow dimly-lit passage gave access to the inn, within which passage the horses going to their
stalls at the back, and the coming and departing human guests, rubbed shoulders indiscriminately, the
latter running no slight risk of having their toes trodden upon by the animals. The good stabling and the
good ale of the Mariners, thought somewhat difficult to reach on account of there being but this narrow
way to both, were nevertheless perserveringly sought out by the sagacious old heads who knew what was
what in Casterbridge.
Henchard stood without the inn for a few instants; then lowering the dignity of his presence as much as
possible by buttoning the brown holland coat over his shirt-front, and in other ways toning himself down
to his ordinary everyday appearance, he entered the inn door.




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VII
ELIZABETH-JANE and her mother had arrived some twenty minutes earlier. Outside the house they had
stood and considered whether even this homely place, though recommended as moderate, might not be
too serious in its prices for their light pockets. Finally, however, they had found courage to enter, and
duly met Stannidge the landlord; a silent man, who drew and carried frothing measures to this room and
to that, shoulder to shoulder with his waiting-maids - a stately slowness, however, entering into his
ministrations by contrast with theirs, as became one whose service was somewhat optional. It would have
been altogether optional but for the orders of the landlady, a person who sat in the bar, corporeally
motionless, but with a flitting eye and quick ear, with which she observed and heard through the open
door and hatchway the pressing needs of customers whom her husband overlooked though close at hand.
Elizabeth and her mother were passively accepted as sojourners, and shown to a small bedroom under
one of the gables, where they sat down.
The principle of the inn seemed to be to compensate for the antique awkwardness, crookedness, and
obscurity of the passages, floors, and windows, by quantities of clean linen spread about everywhere, and
this had a dazzling effect upon the travellers.
"'Tis too good for us - we can't meet it!" said the elder woman, looking round the apartment with
misgivings as soon as they were left alone.
"I fear it is, too," said Elizabeth. "But we must be respectable."
"We must pay our way even before we must be respectable," replied her mother. "Mr Henchard is too
high for us to make ourselves known to him, I much fear; so we've only our own pockets to depend on."
"I know what I'll do," said Elizabeth-Jane after an interval of waiting, during which their needs seemed
quite forgotten under the press of business below. And leaving the room, she descended the stairs and
penetrated to the bar.
If there was one good thing more than another which characterized this single-hearted girl it was a
willingness to sacrifice her personal comfort and dignity to the common weal.
"As you seem busy here tonight, and mother's not well off, might I take out part of our accommodation
by helping?" she asked of the landlady.
The latter, who remained as fixed in the arm-chair as if she had been melted into it when in a liquid state,
and could not now be unstuck, looked the girl up and down inquiringly, with her hands on the
chair-arms. Such arrangements as the one Elizabeth proposed were not uncommon in country villages;
but, though Casterbridge was old-fashioned, the custom was well-nigh obsolete here. The mistress of the
house, however, was an easy woman to strangers, and she made no objection. Thereupon Elizabeth,
being instructed by nods and motions from the taciturn landlord as to where she could find the different
things, trotted up and down stairs with materials for her own and her parent's meal.
While she was doing this the wood partition in the centre of the house thrilled to its centre with the
tugging of a bell-pull upstairs. A bell below tinkled a note that was feebler in sound than the twanging of
wires and cranks that had produced it.


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"'Tis the Scotch gentleman," said the landlady omnisciently; and turning her eyes to Elizabeth, "Now
then, can you go and see if his supper is on the tray? If it is you can take it up to him. The front room
over this."
Elizabeth-Jane, though hungry willingly postponed serving herself awhile, and applied to the cook in the
kitchen, whence she brought forth the tray of supper viands, and proceeded with it upstairs to the
apartment indicated. The accommodation of the Three Mariners was far from spacious, despite the fair
area of ground it covered. The room demanded by intrusive beams and rafters, partitions, passages,
staircases, disused ovens, settles, and four-posters, left comparatively small quarters for human beings.
Moreover, this being at a time before homebrewing was abandoned by the smaller victuallers, and a
house in which the twelve-bushel strength was still religiously adhered to by the landlord in his ale, the
quality of the liquor was the chief attraction of the premises, so that everything had to make way for
utensils and operations in connection therewith. Thus Elizabeth found that the Scotchman was located in
a room quite close to the small one that had been allotted to herself and her mother.
When she entered nobody was present but the young man himself - the same whom she had seen
lingering without the windows of the King's Arms Hotel. He was now idly reading a copy of the local
paper, and was hardly conscious of her entry, so that she looked at him quite coolly, and saw how his
forehead shone where the light caught it, and how nicely his hair was cut, and the sort of velvet-pile or
down that was on the skin at the back of his neck, and how his cheek was so truly curved as to be part of
a globe, and how clearly drawn were the lids and lashes which hid his bent eyes.
She set down the tray, spread his supper, and went away without a word. On her arrival below the
landlady, who was as kind as she was fat and lazy, saw that Elizabeth-Jane was rather tired, though in her
earnestness to be useful she was waiving her own needs altogether. Mrs Stannidge thereupon said with a
considerate peremptoriness that she and her mother had better take their own suppers if they meant to
have any.
Elizabeth fetched their simple provisions, as she had fetched the Scotchman's, and went up to the little
chamber where she had left her mother, noiselessly pushing open the door with the edge of the tray. To
her surprise her mother, instead of being reclined on the bed where she had left her, was in an erect
position, with lips parted. At Elizabeth's entry she lifted her finger.
The meaning of this was soon apparent. The room allotted to the two women had at one time served as a
dressing-room to the Scotchman's chamber, as was evidenced by signs of a door of communication
between them - now screwed up and pasted over with the wall paper. But, as is frequently the case with
hotels of far higher pretensions than the Three Mariners, every word spoken in either of these rooms was
distinctly audible in the other. Such sounds came through now.
Thus silently conjured Elizabeth deposited the tray, and her mother whispered as she drew near, "'Tis
he."
"Who?" said the girl.
"The Mayor."
The tremors in Susan Henchard's tone might have led any person but one so perfectly unsuspicious of the
truth as the girl was to surmise some closer connection than the admitted simple kinship as a means of
accounting for them.

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Two men were indeed talking in the adjoining chamber, the young Scotchman and Henchard, who,
having entered the inn while Elizabeth-Jane was in the kitchen waiting for the supper, had been
deferentially conducted upstairs by host Stannidge himself. The girl noiselessly laid out their little meal,
and beckoned to her mother to join her, which Mrs Henchard mechanically did, her attention being fixed
on the conversation through the door.
"I merely strolled in on my way home to ask you a question about something that has excited my
curiosity," said the Mayor, with careless geniality. "But I see you have not finished supper."
"Ay, but I will be done in a little! Ye needn't go, sir. Take a seat, I've almost done, and it makes no
difference at all."
Henchard seemed to take the seat offered, and in a moment he resumed: "Well, first I should ask, did you
write this?" A rustling of paper followed.
"Yes, I did," said the Scotchman.
"Then," said Henchard, "I am under the impression that we have met by accident while waiting for the
morning to keep an appointment with each other? My name is Henchard; ha'n't you replied to an
advertisement for a corn-factor's manager that I put into the paper - ha'n't you come here to see me about
it?"
"No," said the Scotchman, with some surprise.
"Surely you are the man," went on Henchard insistingly, "who arranged to come and see me? Joshua,
Joshua, Jipp - Jopp - what was his name?"
"You're wrong!" said the young man. "My name is Donald Farfrae. It is true I am in the corren trade - but
I have replied to no advairrtisement, and arranged to see no one. I am on my way to Bristol - from there
to the other side of the warrld, to try my fortune in the great wheat-growing districts of the West! I have
some inventions useful to the trade, and there is no scope for developing them heere."
"To America - well, well," said Henchard, in a tone of disappointment, so strong as to make itself felt
like a damp atmosphere. "And yet I could have sworn you were the man!"
The Scotchman murmured another negative, and there was a silence, till Henchard resumed: "Then I am
truly and sincerely obliged to you for the few words you wrote on that paper."
"It was nothing, sir."
"Well, it has a great importance for me just now. This row about my grown wheat, which I declare to
Heaven I didn't know to be bad till the people came complaining, has put me to my wits" end. I've some
hundreds of quarters of it on hand; and if your renovating process will make it wholesome, why, you can
see what a quag" twould get me out of. I saw in a moment there might be truth in it. But I should like to
have it proved; and of course you don't care to tell the steps of the process sufficiently for me to do that,
without my paying ye well for't first."
The young man reflected a moment or two. "I don't know that I have any objection," he said. "I'm going
to another country, and curing bad corn is not the line I'll take up there. Yes, I'll tell ye the whole of it -
you'll make more out of it heere than I will in a foreign country. Just look heere a minute, sir. I can show


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ye by a sample in my carpet-bag."
The click of a lock followed, and there was a sifting and rustling; then a discussion about so many ounces
to the bushel, and drying, and refrigerating, and so on.
"These few grains will be sufficient to show ye with," came in the young fellow's voice; and after a
pause, during which some operation seemed to be intently watched by them both, he exclaimed, "There,
now, do you taste that."
"It's complete! - quite restored, or - well - nearly."
"Quite enough restored to make good seconds out of it," said the Scotchman. "To fetch it back entirely is
impossible; Nature won't stand so much as that, but heere you go a great way towards it. Well, sir, that's
the process; I don't value it, for it can be but of little use in countries where the weather is more settled
than in ours; and I'll be only too glad if it's of service to you."
"But hearken to me," pleaded Henchard. "My business, you know, is in corn and in hay; but I was
brought up as a haytrusser simply, and hay is what I understand best, though I now do more in corn than
in the other. If you'll accept the place, you shall manage the corn branch entirely, and receive a
commission in addition to salary."
"You're liberal - very liberal; but no, no - I cannet!" the young man still replied, with some distress in his
accents.
"So be it!" said Henchard conclusively. "Now - to change the subject - one good turn deserves another;
don't stay to finish that miserable supper. Come to my house; I can find something better for 'ee than cold
ham and ale."
Donald Farfrae was grateful - said he feared he must decline - that he wished to leave early next day.
"Very well," said Henchard quickly, "please yourself. But I tell you, young man, if this holds good for
the bulk, as it has done for the sample, you have saved my credit, stranger though you be. What shall I
pay you for this knowledge?"
"Nothing at all, nothing at all. It may not prove necessary to ye to use it often, and I don't value it at all. I
thought I might just as well let ye know, as you were in a difficulty, and they were harrd upon ye."
Henchard paused. "I shan't soon forget this," he said. "And from a stranger!... I couldn't believe you were
not the man I had engaged! Says I to myself ""He knows who I am, and recommends himself by this
stroke."" And yet it turns out, after all, that you are not the man who answered my advertisement, but a
stranger!"
"Ay, ay; that's so," said the young man.
Henchard again suspended his words, and then his voice came thoughtfully: "Your forehead, Farfrae, is
something like my poor brother's - now dead and gone; and the nose, too, isn't unlike his. You must be,
what - five foot nine, I reckon? I am six foot one and a half out of my shoes. But what of that? In my
business, 'tis true that strength and bustle build up a firm. But judgement and knowledge are what keep it
established. Unluckily, I am bad at science, Farfrae; bad at figures - a rule o' thumb sort of man. You are
just the reverse - I can see that. I have been looking for such as you these two year, and yet you are not


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for me. Well, before I go, let me ask this: Though you are not the young man I thought you were, what's
the difference? Can't ye stay just the same? Have you really made up your mind about this American
notion? I won't mince matters. I feel you would be invaluable to me - that needn't be said - and if you
bide and be my manager, I will make it worth your while."
"My plans are fixed," said the young man, in negative tones. "I have formed a scheme, and so we need na
say any more about it. But will you not drink with me, sir? I find this Casterbridge ale warreming to the
stomach."
"No, no; I fain would, but I can't," said Henchard gravely, the scraping of his chair informing the
listeners that he was rising to leave. "When I was a young man I went in for that sort of thing too strong -
far too strong - and was well-nigh ruined by it! I did a deed on account of it which I shall be ashamed of
to my dying day. It made such an impression on me that I swore, there and then, that I'd drink nothing
stronger than tea for as many years as I was old that day. I have kept my oath; and though, Farfrae, I am
sometimes that dry in the dog days that I could drink a quarter-barrel to the pitching, I think o' my oath,
and touch no strong drink at all."
"I'll no' press ye, sir - I'll no' press ye. I respect your vow."
"Well, I shall get a manager somewhere, no doubt," said Henchard, with strong feeling in his tones. "But
it will be long before I see one that would suit me so well!"
The young man appeared much moved by Henchard's warm convictions of his value. He was silent till
they reached the door. "I wish I could stay - sincerely I would like to," he replied. "But no - it cannet be!
it cannet! I want to see the warrld."




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VIII
THUS they parted; and Elizabeth-Jane and her mother remained each in her thoughts over their meal, the
mother's face being strangely bright since Henchard's avowal of shame for a past action. The quivering of
the partition of its core presently denoted that Donald Farfrae had again rung his bell, no doubt to have
his supper removed; for humming a tune, and walking up and down, he seemed to be attracted by the
lively burst of conversation and melody from the general company below. He sauntered out upon the
landing, and descended the staircase.
When Elizabeth-Jane had carried down his supper tray, and also that used by her mother and herself, she
found the bustle of serving to be at its height below, as it always was at this hour. The young woman
shrank from having anything to do with the ground-floor serving, and crept silently about observing the
scene - so new to her, fresh from the seclusion of a seaside cottage. In the general sitting-room, which
was large, she remarked the two or three dozen strong-backed chairs that stood round against the wall,
each fitted with its genial occupant; the sanded floor; the black settle which, projecting endwise from the
wall within the door, permitted Elizabeth to be a spectator of all that went on without herself being
particularly seen.
The young Scotchman had just joined the guests. These, in addition to the respectable master-tradesmen
occupying the seats of privilege in the bow-window and its neighbourhood, included an inferior set at the
unlighted end, whose seats were mere benches against the wall, and who drank from cups instead of from
glasses. Among the latter she noticed some of those personages who had stood outside the windows of
the King's Arms.
Behind their backs was a small window, with a wheel ventilator in one of the panes, which would
suddenly start off spinning with a jingling sound, as suddenly stop, and as suddenly start again.
While thus furtively making her survey the opening words of a song greeted her ears from the front of
the settle, in a melody and accent of peculiar charm. There had been some singing before she came
down; and now the Scotchman had made himself so soon at home that, at the request of some of the
master-tradesmen, he, too, was favouring the room with a ditty.
Elizabeth-Jane was fond of music; she could not help pausing to listen; and the longer she listened the
more she was enraptured. She had never heard any singing like this; and it was evident that the majority
of the audience had not heard such frequently, for they were attentive to a much greater degree than
usual. They neither whispered, nor drank, nor dipped their pipe-stems in their ale to moisten them, nor
pushed the mug to their neighbours. The singer himself grew emotional, till she could imagine a tear in
his eye as the words went on:--
       "It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree!
       There's an eye that ever weeps, and a fair face will be fain, As I pass through Annan Water
       with my bonnie bands again; When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf upon the tree, The
       lark shall sing me hame to my ain countree!"
There was a burst of applause, and a deep silence which was even more eloquent than the applause. It
was of such a kind that the snapping of a pipe-stem too long for him by old Solomon Longways, who
was one of those gathered at the shady end of the room, seemed a harsh and irreverent act. Then the


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ventilator in the window-pane spasmodically started off for a new spin, and the pathos of Donald's song
was temporarily effaced.
"'Twas not amiss - not at all amiss!" muttered Christopher Coney, who was also present. And removing
his pipe a finger's breadth from his lips, he said aloud, "Draw on the next verse, young gentleman,
please."
"Yes. Let's have it again, stranger," said the glazier, a stout, bucket-headed man, with a white apron
rolled up round his waist. "Folks don't lift up their hearts like that in this part of the world." And turning
aside, he said in undertones, "Who is the young man? - Scotch, d'ye say?"
"Yes, straight from the mountains of Scotland, I believe," replied Coney.
Young Farfrae repeated the last verse. It was plain that nothing so pathetic had been heard at the Three
Mariners for a considerable time. The difference of accent, the excitability of the singer, the intense local
feeling, and the seriousness with which he worked himself up to a climax, surprised this sect of worthies,
who were only too prone to shut up their emotions with caustic words.
"Danged if our country down here is worth singing about like that!" continued the glazier, as the
Scotchman again melodized with a dying fall. "My ain countree!" "When you take away from among us
the fools and the rogues, and the lammigers, and the wanton hussies, and the slatterns, and such like,
there's cust few left to ornament a song with in Casterbridge, or the country round."
"True," said Buzzford, the dealer, looking at the grain of the table. "Casterbridge is a old, hoary place o'
wickedness, by all account. 'Tis recorded in history that we rebelled against the King one or two hundred
years ago, in the time of the Romans, and that lots of us was hanged on Gallows Hill, and quartered, and
our different jints sent about the country like butcher's meat; and for my part I can well believe it."
"What did ye come away from yer own country for, young maister, if ye be so wownded about it?"
inquired Christopher Coney, from the background, with the tone of a man who preferred the original
subject. "Faith, it wasn't worth your while on our account, for, as Maister Billy Wills says, we be bruckle
folk here - the best o' us hardly honest sometimes, what with hard winters, and so many mouths to fill,
and God-a'mighty sending his little taties so terrible small to fill 'em with. We don't think about flowers
and fair faces, not we - except in the shape o' cauliflowers and pigs' chaps."
"But no!" said Donald Farfrae, gazing round into their faces with earnest concern; "the best of ye hardly
honest - not that surely? None of ye has been stealing what didn't belong to him?"
"Lord! no, no!" said Solomon Longways, smiling grimly. "That's only his random way o' speaking. 'A
was always such a man of under-thoughts." (And reprovingly towards Christopher): 'Don't ye be so
over-familiar with a gentleman that ye know nothing of - and that's travelled a'most from the North
Pole."
Christopher Coney was silenced, and as he could get no public sympathy, he mumbled his feelings to
himself: "Be dazed, if I loved my country half as well as the young feller do, I'd live by claning my
neighbour's pigsties afore I'd go away!For my part I've no more love for my country than I have for
Botany Bay!"
"Come," said Longways; "let the young man draw onwards with his ballet, or we shall be here all night."


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"That's all of it," said the singer apologetically.
"Soul of my body, then we'll have another|" said the general dealer.
"Can you turn a strain to the ladies, sir?" inquired a fat woman with a figured purple apron, the
waist-string of which was overhung so far by her sides as to be invisible.
"Let him breathe - let him breathe, Mother Cuxsom. He hain't got his second wind yet," said the master
glazier.
"O yes, but I have!" exclaimed the young man; and he at once rendered "O Nannie" with faultless
modulations, and another or two of the like sentiment, winding up at their earnest request with "Auld
Lang Syne."
By this time he had completely taken possession of the hearts of the Three Mariners' inmates, including
even old Coney. Notwithstanding an occasional odd gravity which awoke their sense of the ludicrous for
the moment, they began to view him through a golden haze which the tone of his mind seemed to raise
around him. Casterbridge had sentiment - Casterbridge had romance; but this stranger's sentiment was of
differing quality. Or rather, perhaps, the difference was mainly superficial; he was to them like the poet
of a new school who takes his contemporaries by storm; who is not really new, but is the first to
articulate what all his listeners have felt, though but dimly till then.
The silent landlord came and leant over the settle while the young man sang; and even Mrs Stannidge
managed to unstick herself from the framework of her chair in the bar and get as far as the door-post,
which movement she accomplished by rolling herself round, as a cask is trundled on the chine by a
drayman without losing much of its perpendicular.
"And are you going to bide in Casterbridge, sir?" she asked.
"Ah - no!" said the Scotchman, with melancholy fatality in his voice, "I'm only passing thirrough! I am
on my way to Bristol, and on frae there to foreign parts."
"We be truly sorry to hear it," said Solomon Longways, "We can ill afford to lose tuneful wynd-pipes
like yours when they fall among us. And verily, to mak' acquaintance with a man a-come from so far,
from the land o' perpetual snow, as we may say, where wolves and wild boars and other dangerous
animalcules be as common as blackbirds hereabout - why, 'tis a thing we can't do every day; and there's
good sound information for bide-at-homes like we when such a man opens his mouth."
"Nay, but ye mistake my country," said the young man, looking round upon them with tragic fixity, till
his eye lighted up and his cheek kindled with a sudden enthusiasm to right their errors. "There are not
perpetual snow and wolves at all in it! - except snow in winter, and - well - a little in summer just
sometimes, and a ""gaberlunzie"" or two stalking about here and there, if ye may call them dangerous.
Eh, but you should take a summer jarreny to Edinboro", and Arthur's Seat, and all round there, and then
go on to the lochs, and all the Highland scenery - in May and June - and you would never say 'tis the land
of wolves and perpetual snow!"
"Of course not - it stands to reason," said Buzzford. "'Tis barren ignorance that leads to such words. He's
a simple home-spun man, that never was fit for good company - think nothing of him, sir."
"And do ye carry your flock bed, and your quilt, and your crock, and your bit chiney? or do ye go in bare


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bones, as I may say?" inquired Christopher Coney.
"I've sent on my luggage - though it isn't much; for the voyage is long." Donald's eyes dropped into a
remote gaze as he added: "But I said to myself, ""Never a one of the prizes of life will I come by unless I
undertake it!"" and I decided to go."
A general sense of regret, in which Elizabeth-Jane shared not least, made itself apparent in the company.
As she looked at Farfrae from the back of the settle she decided that his statements showed him to be no
less thoughtful than his fascinating melodies revealed him to be cordial and impassioned. She admired
the serious light in which he looked at serious things. He had seen no jest in ambiguities and roguery, as
the Casterbridge toss-pots had done; and rightly not - there was none. She disliked those wretched
humours of Christopher Coney and his tribe; and he did not appreciate them. He seemed to feel exactly
as she felt about life and its surroundings - that they were a tragical rather than a comical thing; that
though one could be gay on occasion, moments of gaiety were interludes, and no part of the actual
drama. It was extraordinary how similar their views were.
Though it was still early the young Scotchman expressed his wish to retire, whereupon the landlady
whispered to Elizabeth to run upstairs and turn down his bed. She took a candlestick and proceeded on
her mission, which was the act of a few moments only. When, candle in hand, she reached the top of the
stairs on her way down again, Mr Farfrae was at the foot coming up. She could not very well retreat; they
met and passed in the turn of the staircase.
She must have appeared interesting in some way - notwithstanding her plain dress - or rather, possibly, in
consequence of it, for she was a girl characterized by earnestness and soberness of mien, with which
simple drapery accorded well. Her face flushed, too, at the slight awkwardness of the meeting, and she
passed him with her eyes bent on the candle-flame that she carried just below her nose. Thus it happened
that when confronting her he smiled; and then, with the manner of a temporarily light-hearted man, who
has started himself on a flight of song whose momentum he cannot readily check, he softly tuned an old
ditty that she seemed to suggest--
       "As I came in by my bower door, As day was waxin' wearie, Oh wha came tripping down
       the stair But bonnie Peg my dearie."
Elizabeth-Jane, rather disconcerted, hastened on; and the Scotchman's voice died away, humming more
of the same within the closed door of his room.
Here the scene and sentiment ended for the present. When, soon after, the girl rejoined her mother, the
latter was still in thought - on quite another matter than a young man's song.
"We've made a mistake," she whispered (that the Scotchman might not overhear). "On no account ought
ye to have helped serve here tonight. Not because of ourselves, but for the sake of him. If he should
befriend us, and take us up, and then find out what you did when staying here, 'twould grieve and wound
his natural pride as Mayor of the town."
Elizabeth, who would perhaps have been more alarmed at this than her mother had she known the real
relationship, was not much disturbed about it as things stood. Her "he" was another man than her poor
mother's. "For myself," she said, "I didn't at all mind waiting a little upon him. He's so respectable, and
educated - far above the rest of 'em in the inn. They thought him very simple not to know their grim
broad way of talking about themselves here. But of course he didn't know - he was too refined in his


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mind to know such things!" Thus she earnestly pleaded.
Meanwhile, the "he" of her mother was not so far away as even they thought. After leaving the Three
Mariners he had sauntered up and down the empty High Street, passing and repassing the inn in his
promenade. When the Scotchman sang his voice had reached Henchard's ears through the heart-shaped
holes in the window-shutters, and had led him to pause outside them a long while.
"To be sure, to be sure, how that fellow does draw me!" he had said to himself. "I suppose 'tis because
I'm so lonely. I'd have given him a third share in the business to have stayed!"




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* IX *
WHEN Elizabeth-Jane opened the hinged casement next morning the mellow air brought in the feel of
imminent autumn almost as distinctly as if she had been in the remotest hamlet. Casterbridge was the
complement of the rural life around; not its urban opposite. Bees and butterflies in the cornfields at the
top of the town, who desired to get to the meads at the bottom, took no circuitous course, but flew
straight down High Street without any apparent consciousness that they were traversing strange latitudes.
And in autumn airy spheres of thistledown floated into the same street, lodged upon the shop fronts, blew
into drains, and innumerable tawny and yellow leaves skimmed along the pavement, and stole through
people's doorways into their passages with a hesitating scratch on the floor, like the skirts of timid
visitors.
Hearings voices, one of which was close at hand, she withdrew her head and glanced from behind the
window-curtains. Mr Henchard - now habited no longer as a great personage, but as a thriving man of
business - was pausing on his way up the middle of the street, and the Scotchman was looking from the
window adjoining her own. Henchard, it appeared, had gone a little way past the inn before he had
noticed his acquaintance of the previous evening. He came back a few steps, Donald Farfrae opening the
window further.
``And you are off soon, I suppose?'' said Henchard upwards.
``Yes - almost this moment, sir,'' said the other. ``Maybe I'll walk on till the coach makes up on me.''
``Which way?''
``The way ye are going.''
``Then shall we walk together to the top o' town?''
``If ye'll wait a minute,'' said the Scotchman.
In a few minutes the latter emerged, bag in hand. Henchard looked at the bag as at an enemy. It showed
there was no mistake about the young man's departure. ``Ah, my lad,'' he said, ``you should have been a
wise man, and have stayed with me.''
``Yes, yes - it might have been wiser,'' said Donald, looking microscopically at the houses that were
furthest off. ``It is only telling ye the truth when I say my plans are vague.''
They had by this time passed on from the precincts of the inn) and Elizabeth-Jane heard no more. She
saw that they continued in conversation, Henchard turning to the other occasionally, and emphasizing
some remark with a gesture. Thus they passed the King's Arms Hotel, the Market House, St Peter's
churchyard wall, ascending to the upper end of the long street till they were small as two grains of corn;
when they bent suddenly to the right into the Bristol Road, and were out of view.
``He was a good man - and he's gone,'' she said to herself. ``I was nothing to him, and there was no
reason why he should have wished me good-bye.''
The simple thought, with its latent sense of slight, had moulded itself out of the following little fact:
when the Scotchman came out at the door he had by accident glanced up at her; and then he had looked

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away again without nodding, or smiling, or saying a word.
``You are still thinking, mother,'' she said, when she turned inwards.
``Yes; I am thinking of Mr Henchard's sudden liking for that young man. He was always so. Now, surely,
if he takes so warmly to people who are not related to him at all, may he not take as warmly to his own
kin?''
While they debated this question a procession of five large waggons went past, laden with hay up to the
bedroom windows. They came in from the country, and the steaming horses had probably been travelling
a great part of the night. To the shaft of each hung a little broad, on which was painted in white letters,
``Henchard, cornfactor and hay-merchants''. The spectacle renewed his wife's conviction that, for her
daughter's sake, she should strain a point to rejoin him.
The discussion was continued during breakfast, and the end of it was that Mrs Henchard decided, for
good or for ill, to send Elizabeth-Jane with a message to Henchard, to the effect that his relative Susan, a
sailor's widow, was in the town; leaving it to him to say whether or not he would recognize her. What
had brought her to this determination were chiefly two things. He had been described as a lonely
widower; and he had expressed shame for a past transaction of his life. There was promise in both.
``If he says no,'' she enjoined, as Elizabeth-Jane stood, bonnet on, ready to depart; ``if he thinks it does
not become the good position he has reached to in the town, to own - to let us call on him as - his distant
kinsfolk, say, ""Then, sir, we would rather not intrude; we will leave Casterbridge as quietly as we have
come, and go back to our own country.""... I almost feel that I would rather he did say so, as I have not
seen him for so many years, and we are so - little allied to him!''
``And if he say yes?'' inquired the more sanguine one.
``In that case,'' answered Mrs Henchard cautiously, ``ask him to write me a note, saying when and how
he will see us - orme.''
Elizabeth-Jane went a few steps towards the landing. ``And tell him,'' continued her mother, ``that I fully
know I have no claim upon him - that I am glad to find he is thriving; that I hope his life may be long and
happy - there, go.'' Thus with a half-hearted willingness, a smothered reluctance, did the poor forgiving
woman start her unconscious daughter on this errand.
It was about ten o'clock, and market-day, when Elizabeth paced up the High Street, in no great hurry; for
to herself her position was only that of a poor relation deputed to hunt up a rich one. The front doors of
the private houses were mostly left open at this warm autumn time, no thought of umbrella stealers
disturbing the minds of the placid burgesses. Hence, through the long, straight, entrance passages thus
unclosed could be seen, as through tunnels, the mossy gardens at the back, glowing with nasturtiums,
fuchsias, scarlet geraniums, ``bloody warriors'', snapdragons, and dahlias, this floral blaze being backed
by crusted grey stone-work remaining from a yet remoter Casterbridge than the venerable one visible in
the street. The old-fashioned fronts of these houses, which had older than old-fashioned backs, rose sheer
from the pavement, into which the bow-windows protruded like bastions, necessitating a
pleasingchassez-déchassez movement to the timepressed pedestrian at every few yards. He was bound
also to evolve other Terpsichorean figures in respect of door-steps, scrapers, cellar-hatches, church
buttresses. and the overhanging angles of walls which, originally unobtrusive, had become bow-legged
and knock-kneed.

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In addition to these fixed obstacles which spoke so cheerfully of individual unrestraint as to boundaries,
movables occupied the path and roadway to a perplexing extent. First the vans of the carriers in and out
of Casterbridge, who hailed from Mellstock, Weatherbury, The Hintocks, Shertonabbas, Kingsbere,
Overcombe, and many other towns and villages round. Their owners were numerous enough to be
regarded as a tribe, and had almost distinctiveness enough to be regarded as a race. Their vans had just
arrived, and were drawn up on each side of the street in close file, so as to form at places a wall between
the pavement and the roadway. Moreover every shop pitched out half of its contents upon trestles and
boxes on the kerb, extending the display each week a little further and further into the roadway, despite
the expostulations of the two feeble old constables, until there remained but a tortuous defile for
carriages down the centre of the street, which afforded fine opportunities for skill with the reins. Over the
pavement on the sunny side of the way hung shopblinds so constructed as to give the passenger's hat a
smart buffet off his head, as from the unseen hands of Cranstoun's Goblin Page, celebrated in romantic
lore.
Horses for sale were tied in rows, their forelegs on the pavement, their hind legs in the street, in which
position they occasionally nipped little boys by the shoulder who were passing to school. And any
inviting recess in front of a house that had been modestly kept back from the general line was utilized by
pig-dealers as a pen for their stock.
The yeomen, farmers, dairymen, and townsfolk, who came to transact business in these ancient streets,
spoke in other ways than by articulation. Not to hear the words of your interlocutor in metropolitan
centres is to know nothing of his meaning. Here the face, the arms, the hat, the stick, the body throughout
spoke equally with the tongue. To express satisfaction the Casterbridge marketman added to his utterance
a broadening of the cheeks, a crevicing of the eyes, a throwing back of the shoulders, which was
intelligible from the other end of the street. If he wondered, though all Henchard's carts and waggons
were rattling past him, you knew it from perceiving the inside of his crimson mouth, and a target-like
circling of his eyes. Deliberation caused sundry attacks on the moss of adjoining walls with the end of his
stick, a change of his hat from the horizontal to the less so; a sense of tediousness announced itself in a
lowering of the person by spreading the knees to a lozenge-shaped aperture and contorting the arms.
Chicanery, subterfuge, had hardly a place in the streets of his honest borough to all appearance; and it
was said that the lawyers in the Court House hard by occasionally threw in strong arguments for the other
side out of pure generosity (though apparently by mischance) when advancing their own.
Thus Casterbridge was in most respects but the pole, focus, or nerve-knot of the surrounding country life;
differing from the many manufacturing towns which are as foreign bodies set down, like boulders on a
plain, in a green world with which they have nothing in common. Casterbridge lived by agriculture at
one remove further from the fountain-head than the adjoining villages - no more. The townsfolk
understood every fluctuation in the rustic's condition, for its affected their receipts as much as the
labourer's; they entered into the troubles and joys which moved the aristocratic families ten miles round -
for the same reason. And even at the dinner-parties of the professional families the subjects of discussion
were corn, cattle-disease, sowing and reaping, fencing and planting; while politics were viewed by them
less from their own standpoint of burgesses with rights and privileges than from the standpoint of their
county neighbours.
All the venerable contrivances and confusions which delighted the eye by their quaintness, and in a
measure reasonableness, in this rare old market-town, were metropolitan novelties to the unpractised
eyes of Elizabeth-Jane, fresh from netting fish seines in a seaside cottage. Very little inquiry was

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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * IX *

necessary to guide her footsteps. Henchard's house was one of the best, faced with dull red-and-grey old
brick. The front door was open, and, as in other houses, she could see through the passage to the end of
the garden - nearly a quarter of a mile off.
Mr Henchard was not in the house, but in the store-yard. She was conducted into the mossy garden, and
through a door in the wall, which was studded with rusty nails speaking of generations of fruit-trees that
had been trained there. The door opened upon the yard, and here she was left to find him as she could. It
was a place flanked by hay-barns, into which tons of fodder, all in trusses, were being packed from the
waggons she had seen pass the inn that morning. On other sides of the yard were wooden granaries on
stone staddles, to which access was given by Flemish ladders, and a storehouse several floors high.
Wherever the doors of these places were open, a closely packed throng of bursting wheat-sacks could be
seen standing inside, with the air of awaiting a famine that would not come.
She wandered about this place, uncomfortably conscious of the impending interview, till she was quite
weary of searching; she ventured to inquire of a boy in what quarter Mr Henchard could be found. He
directed her to an office which she had not seen before, and knocking at the door she was answered by a
cry of ``Come in''.
Elizabeth turned the handle; and there stood before her, bending over some sample-bags on a table, not
the cornmerchant, but the young Scotchman Mr Farfrae - in the act of pouring some grains of wheat from
one hand to the other. His hat hung on a peg behind him, and the roses of his carpetbag glowed from the
corner of the room.
Having toned her feelings and arranged words on her lips for Mr Henchard, and for him alone, she was
for the moment confounded.
``Yes, what is it?'' said the Scotchman, like a man who permanently ruled there.
She said she wanted to see Mr Henchard.
``Ah, yes; will you wait a minute? He's engaged just now,'' said the young man, apparently not
recognizing her as the girl at the inn. He handed her a chair, bade her sit down, and turned to his
sample-bags again. While Elizabeth-Jane sits waiting in great amaze at the young man's presence we may
briefly explain how he came there.
When the two new acquaintances had passed out of sight that morning towards the Bath and Bristol road
they went on silently, except for a few common places, till they had gone down an avenue on the town
walls called the Chalk Walk, leading to an angle where the North and West escarpments met. From this
high corner of the square earthworks a vast extent of country could be seen. A footpath ran steeply down
the green slope, conducting from the shady promenade on the walls to a road at the bottom of the scarp.
It was by this path the Scotchman had to descend.
``Well, here's success to 'ee,'' said Henchard, holding out his right hand and leaning with his left upon the
wicket which protected the descent. In the act there was the inelegance of one whose feelings are nipped
and wished defeated. ``I shall often think of this time, and of how you came at the very moment to throw
a light upon my difficulty.''
Still holding the young man's hand he paused, and then added deliberately: ``Now I am not the man to let
a cause be lost for want of a word. And before ye are gone for ever I'll speak. Once more, will ye stay?


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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * IX *

There it is, flat and plain. You can see that it isn't all selfishness that makes me press 'ee; for my business
is not quite so scientific as to require an intellect entirely out of the common. Others would do for the
place without doubt. Some selfishness perhaps there is, but there is more; it isn't for me to repeat what.
Come bide with me - and name your own terms. I'll agree to 'em willingly and 'ithout a word of
gainsaying; for, hang it, Farfrae, I like thee well!''
The young man's hand remained steady in Henchard's for a moment or two. He looked over the fertile
country that stretched beneath them, then backward along the shaded walk reaching to the top of the
town. His face flushed.
``I never expected this - I did not!'' he said. ``It's Providence!Should any one go against it? No; I'll not go
to America; I'll stay and be your man!''
His hand, which had lain lifeless in Henchard's, returned the latter's grasp.
``Done,'' said Henchard.
``Done.'' said Donald Farfrae.
The face of Mr Henchard beamed forth a satisfaction that was almost fierce in its strength. ``Now you are
my friend!'' he exclaimed. ``Come back to my house; let's clinch it at once by clear terms, so as to be
comfortable in our minds.'' Farfrae caught up his bag and retraced the North-West Avenue in Henchard's
company as he had come. Henchard was all confidence now.
``I am the most distant fellow in the world when I don't care for a man,'' he said. ``But when a man takes
my fancy he takes it strong. Now I am sure you can eat another breakfast? You couldn't have eater much
so early, even if they had anything at that place to gi'e thee, which they hadn't; so come to my house and
we will have a solid, staunch tuck-in, and settle terms in black-and-white if you like; though my word's
my bond. I can always make a good meal in the morning. I've got a splendid cold pigeon-pie going just
now. You can have some homebrewed if you want to, you know.''
``It is too airly in the morning for that,'' said Farfrae with a smile.
``Well, of course, I didn't know. I don't drink it because of my oath; but I am obliged to brew for my
work-people.''
Thus talking they returned, and entered Henchard's premises by the back way or traffic entrance. Here
the matter was settled over the breakfast, at which Henchard heaped the young Scotchman's plate to a
prodigal fulness. He would not rest satisfied till Farfrae had written for his luggage from Bristol, and
despatched the letter to the post-office. When it was done this man of strong impulses declared that his
new friend should take up his abode in his house - at least till some suitable lodgings could be found.
He then took Farfrae round and showed him the places, and the stores of grain, and other stock; and
finally entered the offices where the younger of them has already been discovered by Elizabeth.




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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * X *


*X*
WHILE she still sat under the Scotchman's eyes a man came up to the door, reaching it as Henchard
opened the door of the inner office to admit Elizabeth. The new-comer stepped forward like the quicker
cripple at Bethesda, and entered in her stead. She could hear his words to Henchard: "Joshua Jopp, sir -
by appointment - the new manager."
"The new manager! - he's in his office," said Henchard bluntly.
"In his office!" said the man, with a stultified air.
"I mentioned Thursday," said Henchard; "and as you did not keep your appointment, I have engaged
another manager. At first I thought he must be you. Do you think I can wait when business is in
question?"
"You said Thursday or Saturday, sir," said the new-comer, pulling out a letter.
"Well, you are too late," said the corn-factor. "I can say no more."
"You as good as engaged me," murmured the man.
"Subject to an interview," said Henchard. "I am sorry for you - very sorry indeed. But it can't be helped."
There was no more to be said, and the man came out, encountering Elizabeth-Jane in his passage. She
could see that his mouth twitched with anger, and that bitter disappointment was written in his face
everywhere.
Elizabeth-Jane now entered, and stood before the master of the premises. His dark pupils - which always
seemed to have a red spark of light in them, though this could hardly be a physical fact - turned
indifferently round under his dark brows until they rested on her figure. "Now then, what is it, my young
woman?" he said blandly.
"Can I speak to you - not on business, sir?" said she.
"Yes - I suppose." He looked at her more thoughtfully.
"I am sent to tell you, sir," she innocently went on, "that a distant relative of yours by marriage, Susan
Newson, a sailor's widow, is in the town; and to ask whether you would wish to see her."
The rich rouge-et-noir of his countenance underwent a slight change. "Oh - Susan is - still alive?" he
asked with difficulty.
"Yes, sir."
"Are you her daughter?"
"Yes sir - her only daughter."
"What - do you call yourself - your Christian name?"
"Elizabeth-Jane, sir."


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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * X *

"Newson?"
"Elizabeth-Jane Newson."
This at once suggested to Henchard that the transaction of his early married life at Weydon Fair was
unrecorded in the family history. It was more than he could have expected. His wife had behaved kindly
to him in return for his unkindness, and had never proclaimed her wrong to her child or to the world.
"I am - a good deal interested in your news," he said. "And as this is not a matter of business, but
pleasure, suppose we go indoors."
It was with a gentle delicacy of manner, surprising to Elizabeth, that he showed her out of the office and
through the outer room, where Donald Farfrae was overhauling bins and samples with the inquiring
inspection of a beginner in charge. Henchard preceded her through the door in the wall to the suddenly
changed scene of the garden and flowers, and onward into the house. The dining-room to which he
introduced her still exhibited the remnants of the lavish breakfast laid for Farfrae. It was furnished to
profusion with heavy mahogany furniture of the deepest red-Spanish hues. Pembroke tables, with leaves
hanging so low that they well-nigh touched the floor, stood against the walls on legs and feet shaped like
those of an elephant, and on one lay three huge folio volumes - a Family Bible, a "Josephus", and a
"Whole Duty of Man". In the chimney corner was a fire-grate with a fluted semicircular back, having
urns and festoons cast in relief thereon; and the chairs were of the kind which, since that day, has cast
lustre upon the names of Chippendale and Sheraton, though, in point of fact, their patterns may have
been such as those illustrious carpenters never saw or heard of.
"Sit down - Elizabeth-Jane - sit down," he said, with a shake in his voice as he uttered her name; and
sitting down himself he allowed his hands to hang between his knees, while he looked upon the carpet.
"Your mother, then, is quite well?"
"She is rather worn out, sir, with travelling."
"A sailor's widow - when did he die?"
"Father was lost last spring."
Henchard winced at the word "father", thus applied. "Do you and she come from abroad - America of
Australia?" he asked.
"No. We have been in England some years. I was twelve when we came here from Canada."
"Ah; exactly." By such conversation he discovered the circumstances which had enveloped his wife and
her child in such total obscurity that he had long ago believed them to be in their graves. These things
being clear, he returned to the present. "And where is your mother staying?"
"At the Three Mariners."
"And you are her daughter Elizabeth-Jane?" repeated Henchard. He arose, came close to her, and glanced
in her face. "I think," he said, suddenly turning away with a wet eye, "you shall take a note from me to
your mother. I should like to see her... She is not left very well off by her late husband?" His eye fell on
Elizabeth's clothes, which, though a respectable suit of black, and her very best, were decidedly
old-fashioned even to Casterbridge eyes.


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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * X *

"Not very well," she said, glad that he had divined this without her being obliged to express it.
He sat down at the table and wrote a few lines; next taking from his pocket-book a five-pound note,
which he put in the envelope with the letter, adding to it, as by an after-thought, five shillings. Sealing
the whole up carefully, he directed it to "Mrs Newson, Three Mariners Inn", and handed the packet to
Elizabeth.
"Deliver it to her personally, please," said Henchard. "Well, I am glad to see you here, Elizabeth-Jane -
very glad. We must have a long talk together - but not just now."
He took her hand at parting, and held it so warmly that she, who had known so little friendship, was
much affected, and tears rose to her aerial-grey eyes. The instant that she was gone Henchard's state
showed itself more distinctly; having shut the door he sat in his dining-room stiffly erect, gazing at the
opposite wall as if he read his history there.
"Begad!" he suddenly exclaimed, jumping up. "I didn't think of that. Perhaps these are impostors - and
Susan and the child dead after all!"
However, a something in Elizabeth-Jane soon assured him that, as regarded her, at least, there could be
little doubt. And a few hours would settle the question of her mother's identity; for he had arranged in his
note to see her that evening.
"It never rains but it pours!" said Henchard. His keenly excited interest in his new friend the Scotchman
was now eclipsed by this event; and Donald Farfrae saw so little of him during the rest of the day that he
wondered at the suddenness of his employer's moods.
In the meantime Elizabeth had reached the inn. Her mother, instead of taking the note with the curiosity
of a poor woman expecting assistance, was much moved at sight of it. She did not read it at once, asking
Elizabeth to describe her reception, and the very words Mr Henchard used. Elizabeth's back was turned
when her mother opened the letter. It ran thus:--
Meet me at eight o'clock this evening, if you can, at the Ring on the Budmouth road. The place is easy to
find. I can say no more now. The news upsets me almost. The girl seems to be in ignorance. Keep her so
till I have seen you.
M.H.
He said nothing about the enclosure of five guineas. The amount was significant; it may tacitly have said
to her that he bought her back again. She waited restlessly for the close of the day, telling Elizabeth-Jane
that she was invited to see Mr Henchard; that she would go alone. But she said nothing to show that the
place of meeting was not at his house, nor did she hand the note to Elizabeth.




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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XI *


* XI *
THE Ring at Casterbridge was merely the local name of one of the finest Roman Amphitheatres, if not
the very finest, remaining in Britain.
Casterbridge announced old Rome in every street, alley, and precinct. It looked Roman, bespoke the art
of Rome, concealed dead men of Rome. It was impossible to dig more than a foot or two deep about the
town fields and gardens without coming upon some tall soldier or other of the Empire, who had lain there
in his silent unobtrusive rest for a space of fifteen hundred years. He was mostly found lying on his side,
in an oval scoop in the chalk, like a chicken in its shell; his knees drawn up to his chest; sometimes with
the remains of his spear against his arm; a fibula or brooch of bronze on his breast or forehead; an urn at
his knees, a jar at his throat, a bottle at his mouth; and mystified conjecture pouring down upon him from
the eyes of Casterbridge street boys and men, who had turned a moment to gaze at the familiar spectacle
as they passed by.
Imaginative inhabitants, who would have felt an unpleasantness at the discovery of a comparatively
modern skeleton in their gardens, were quite unmoved by these hoary shapes. They had lived so long
ago, their time was so unlike the present, their hopes and motives were so widely removed from ours,
that between them and the living there seemed to stretch a gulf too wide for even a spirit to pass.
The Amphitheatre was a huge circular enclosure, with a notch at opposite extremities of its diameter
north and south. From its sloping internal form it might have been called the spittoon of the Jötuns. It
was to Casterbridge what the ruined Coliseum is to modern Rome, and was nearly of the same
magnitude. The dusk of evening was the proper hour at which a true impression of this suggestive place
could be received. Standing in the middle of the arena at that time there by degrees became apparent its
real vastness, which a cursory view from the summit at noon-day was apt to obscure. Melancholy,
impressive, lonely, yet accessible from every part of the town, the historic circle was the frequent spot for
appointments of a furtive kind. Intrigues were arranged there; tentative meetings were there
experimented after divisions and feuds. But one kind of appointment - in itself the most common of any -
seldom had place in the Amphitheatre: that of happy lovers.
Why, seeing that it was pre-eminently an airy, accessible, and sequestered spot for interviews, the
cheerfullest form of those occurrences never took kindly to the soil of the ruin, would be a curious
inquiry. Perhaps it was because its associations had about them something sinister. Its history proved
that. Apart from the sanguinary nature of the games originally played therein, such incidents attached to
its past as these: that for scores of years the town-gallows had stood at one corner; that in 1705 a woman
who had murdered her husband was half-strangled and then burnt there in the presence of ten thousand
spectators. Tradition reports that at a certain stage of the burning her heart burst and leapt out of her
body, to the terror of them all, and that not one of those ten thousand people ever cared particularly for
hot roast after that. In addition to these old tragedies, pugilistic encounters almost to the death had come
off down to recent dates in that secluded arena, entirely invisible to the outside world save by climbing to
the top of the enclosure, which few townspeople in the daily round of their lives ever took the trouble to
do. So that, though close to the turnpike-road, crimes might be perpetrated there unseen at mid-day.
Some boys had latterly tried to impart gaiety to the ruin by using the central arena as a cricket-ground.
But the game usually languished for the aforesaid reason - the dismal privacy which the earthen circle


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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XI *

enforced, shutting out every appreciative passer's vision, every commendatory remark from outsiders -
everything, except the sky; and to play at games in such circumstances was like acting to an empty
house. Possibly, too, the boys were timid, for some old people said that at certain moments in the
summer time, in broad daylight, persons sitting with a book or dozing in the arena had, on lifting their
eyes, beheld the slopes lined with a gazing legion of Hadrian's soldiery as if watching the gladiatorial
combat; and had heard the roar of their excited voices; that the scene would remain but a moment, like a
lightning flash, and then disappear.
It was related that there still remained under the south entrance excavated cells for the reception of the
wild animals and athletes who took part in the games. The arena was still smooth and circular, as if used
for its original purpose not so very long ago. The sloping pathways by which spectators had ascended to
their seats were pathways yet. But the whole was grown over with grass, which now, at the end of
summer, was bearded with withered bents that formed waves under the brush of the wind, returning to
the attentive ear Aeolian modulations, and detaining for moments the flying globes of thistledown.
Henchard had chosen this spot as being the safest from observation which he could think of for meeting
his long-lost wife, and at the same time as one easily to be found by a stranger after nightfall. As Mayor
of the town, with a reputation to keep up, he could not invite her to come to his house till some definite
course had been decided on.
Just before eight he approached the deserted earthwork, and entered by the south path which descended
over the débris of the former dens. In a few moments he could discern a female figure creeping in by the
great north gap, or public gateway. They met in the middle of the arena. Neither spoke just at first - there
was no necessity for speech - and the poor woman leant against Henchard, who supported her in his
arms.
"I don't drink," he said in a low, halting, apologetic voice. "You hear, Susan? - I don't drink now - I
haven't since that night." Those were his first words.
He felt her bow her head in acknowledgment that she understood. After a minute or two he again began:
"If I had known you were living, Susan! But there was every reason to suppose you and the child were
dead and gone. I took every possible step to find you - travelled - advertised. My opinion at last was that
you had started for some colony with that man, and had been drowned on your voyage out. Why did you
keep silent like this?"
"O Michael! because of him - what other reason could there be? I thought I owed him faithfulness to the
end of one of our lives - foolishly I believed there was something solemn and binding in the bargain; I
thought that even in honour I dared not desert him when he had paid so much for me in good faith. I meet
you now only as his widow - I consider myself that, and that I have no claim upon you. Had he not died I
should never have come - never! Of that you may be sure."
"Ts-s-s! How could you be so simple?"
"I don't know. Yet it would have been very wicked - if I had not thought like that!" said Susan, almost
crying.
"Yes - yes - so it would. It is only that which makes me feel 'ee an innocent woman. But - to lead me into
this!"


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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XI *

"What, Michael?" she asked, alarmed.
"Why, this difficulty about our living together again, and Elizabeth-Jane. She cannot be told all - she
would so despise us both that - I could not bear it!"
"That was why she was brought up in ignorance of you. I could not bear it either."
"Well - we must talk of a plan for keeping her in her present belief, and getting matters straight in spite
of it. You have heard I am in a large way of business here - that I am Mayor of the town, and
churchwarden, and I don't know what all?"
"Yes," she murmured.
"These things, as well as the dread of the girl discovering our disgrace, make it necessary to act with
extreme caution. So that I don't see how you two can return openly to my house as the wife and daughter
I once treated badly, and banished from me; and there's the rub o't."
"We'll go away at once. I only came to see - "
"No, no, Susan; you are not to go - you mistake me!" he said, with kindly severity. "I have thought of this
plan: that you and Elizabeth take a cottage in the town as the widow Mrs Newson and her daughter; that I
meet you, court you, and marry you, Elizabeth-Jane coming to my house as my stepdaughter. The thing
is so natural and easy that it is half done in thinking o't. This would leave my shady, headstrong,
disgraceful life as a young man absolutely unopened; the secret would be yours and mine only; and I
should have the pleasure of seeing my own only child under my roof, as well as my wife."
"I am quite in your hands, Michael," she said meekly. "I came here for the sake of Elizabeth; for myself,
if you tell me to leave again tomorrow morning, and never come near you more, I am content to go."
"Now, now; we don't want to hear that," said Henchard gently, "Of course you won't leave again. Think
over the plan I have proposed for a few hours; and if you can't hit upon a better one we'll adopt it. I have
to be away for a day or two on business, unfortunately; but during that time you can get lodgings - the
only ones in the town fit for you are those over the china-shop in High Street - and you can also look for
a cottage."
"If the lodgings are in High Street they are dear, I suppose?"
"Never mind - you must start genteel if our plan is to be carried out. Look to me for money. Have you
enough till I come back?"
"Quite," said she.
"And are you comfortable at the inn?"
"O yes."
"And the girl is quite safe from learning the shame of her case and ours? - that's what makes me most
anxious of all."
"You would be surprised to find how unlikely she is to dream of the truth. How could she ever suppose
such a thing?"


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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XI *

"True!"
"I like the idea of repeating our marriage," said Mrs Henchard, after a pause. "It seems the only right
course, after all this. Now I think I must go back to Elizabeth-Jane, and tell her that our kinsman, Mr
Henchard, kindly wishes us to stay in the town."
"Very well - arrange that yourself. I'll go some way with you."
"No, no. Don't run any risk!" said his wife anxiously. "I can find my way back - it is not late. Please let
me go alone."
"Right," said Henchard. "But just one word. Do you forgive me, Susan?"
She murmured something; but seemed to find it difficult to frame her answer.
"Never mind - all in good time," said he. "Judge me by my future works - good-bye!"
He retreated, and stood at the upper side of the Amphitheatre while his wife passed out through the lower
way, and descended under the trees to the town. Then Henchard himself went homeward, going so fast
that by the time he reached his door he was almost upon the heels of the unconscious woman from whom
he had just parted. He watched her up the street, and turned into his house.




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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - XII


XII
ON entering his own door after watching his wife out of sight, the Mayor walked on through the
tunnel-shaped passage into the garden, and thence by the back door towards the stores and granaries. A
light shone from the office-window, and there being no blind to screen the interior Henchard could see
Donald Farfrae still seated where he had left him, initiating himself into the managerial work of the
house by overhauling the books. Henchard entered, merely observing, "Don't let me interrupt you, if ye
will stay so late."
He stood behind Farfrae's chair, watching his dexterity in clearing up the numerical fogs which had been
allowed to grow so thick in Henchard's books as almost to baffle even the Scotchman's perspicacity. The
corn-factor's mien was half admiring, and yet it was not without a dash of pity for the tastes of any one
who could care to give his mind to such finnikin details. Henchard himself was mentally and physically
unfit for grubbing subtleties from soiled paper; he had in a modern sense received the education of
Achilles, and found penmanship a tantalizing art.
"You shall do no more tonight," he said at length, spreading his great hand over the paper. "There's time
enough tomorrow. Come indoors with me and have some supper. Now you shall!I am determined on't."
He shut the account-books with friendly force.
Donald had wished to get to his lodgings; but he already saw that his friend and employer was a man
who knew no moderation in his requests and impulses, and he yielded gracefully. He liked Henchard's
warmth, even if it inconvenienced him; the great difference in their characters adding to the liking.
They locked up the office, and the young man followed his companion through the private little door
which, admitting directly into Henchard's garden, permitted a passage from the utilitarian to the beautiful
at one step. The garden was silent, dewy, and full of perfume. It extended a long way back from the
house, first as lawn and flower-beds, then as fruit-garden, where the long-tied espaliers, as old as the old
house itself, had grown so stout, and cramped, and gnarled that they had pulled their stakes out of the
ground and stood distorted and writhing in vegetable agony, like leafy Laocoöns. The flowers which
smelt so sweetly were not discernible; and they passed through them into the house.
The hospitalities of the morning were repeated, and when they were over Henchard said, "Pull your chair
round to the fireplace, my dear fellow, and let's make a blaze - there's nothing I hate like a black grate,
even in September." He applied a light to the laid-in fuel, and a cheerful radiance spread around.
"It is odd," said Henchard, "that two men should meet as we have done on a purely business ground, and
that at the end of the first day I should wish to speak to 'ee on a family matter. But, damn it all, I am a
lonely man, Farfrae: I have nobody else to speak to; and why shouldn't I tell it to 'ee?"
"I'll be glad to hear it, if I can be of any service," said Donald, allowing his eyes to travel over the
intricate wood-carvings of the chimney-piece, representing garlanded lyres, shields, and quivers, on
either side of a draped ox-skull, and flanked by heads of Apollo and Diana in low relief.
"I've not been always what I am now," continued Henchard, his firm deep voice being ever so little
shaken. He was plainly under that strange influence which sometimes prompts men to confide to the
new-found friend what they will not tell to the old. "I began life as a working hay-trusser, and when I


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was eighteen I married on the strength o' my calling. Would you think me a married man?"
"I heard in the town that you were a widower."
"Ah, yes - you would naturally have heard that. Well, I lost my wife nineteen years ago or so - by my
own fault... This is how it came about. One summer evening I was travelling for employment, and she
was walking at my side, carrying the baby, our only child. We came to a booth in a country fair. I was a
drinking man at that time."
Henchard paused a moment, threw himself back so that his elbow rested on the table, his forehead being
shaded by his hand, which, however, did not hide the marks of introspective inflexibility on his features
as he narrated in fullest details the incidents of the transaction with the sailor. The tinge of indifference
which had at first been visible in the Scotchman now disappeared.
Henchard went on to describe his attempts to find his wife; the oath he swore; the solitary life he led
during the years which followed. "I have kept my oath for nineteen years," he went on; "I have risen to
what you see me now."
"Ay!"
"Well - no wife could I hear of in all that time; and being by nature something of a woman-hater, I have
found it no hardship to keep mostly at a distance from the sex. No wife could I hear of, I say, till this very
day. And now - she has come back."
"Come back, has she!"
"This morning - this very morning. And what's to be done?"
"Can ye no' take her and live with her, and make some amends?"
"That's what I've planned and proposed. But, Farfrae," said Henchard gloomily, "by doing right with
Susan I wrong another innocent woman."
"Ye don't say that?"
"In the nature of things, Farfrae, it is almost impossible that a man of my sorts should have the good
fortune to tide through twenty years o' life without making more blunders than one. It has been my
custom for many years to run across to Jersey in the way of business, particularly in the potato and root
season. I do a large trade wi' them in that line. Well, one autumn when stopping there I fell quite ill, and
in my illness I sank into one of those gloomy fits I sometimes suffer from, on account o' the loneliness of
my domestic life, when the world seems to have the blackness of hell, and, like Job, I could curse the day
that gave me birth."
"Ah, no, I never feel like it," said Farfrae.
"Then pray to God that you never may, young man. While in this state I was taken pity on by a woman -
a young lady I should call her, for she was of good family, well bred, and well educated - the daughter of
some harum-scarum military officer who had got into difficulties, and had his pay sequestrated. He was
dead now, and her mother too, and she was as lonely as I. This young creature was staying at the
boardinghouse where I happened to have my lodging; and when I was pulled down she took upon herself
to nurse me. Heaven knows why, for I wasn't worth it. But being together in the same house, and her

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feelings warm, we got naturally intimate. I won't go into particulars of what our relations were. It is
enough to say that we honestly meant to marry. There arose a scandal, which did me no harm, but was of
course ruin to her. Though, Farfrae, between you and me, as man and man, I solemnly declare that
philandering with womankind has neither been my vice nor my virtue. She was terribly careless of
appearances, and I was perhaps more, because o' my dreary state; and it was through this that the scandal
arose. At last I was well and came away. When I was gone she suffered much on my account, and didn't
forget to tell me so in letters one after another; till, latterly, I felt I owed her something, and thought that,
as I had not heard of Susan for so long, I would make this other one the only return I could make, and ask
her if she would run the risk of Susan being alive (very slight as I believed) and marry me, such as I was.
She jumped for joy, and we should no doubt soon have been married - but, behold, Susan appears!"
Donald showed his deep concern at a complication so far beyond the degree of his simple experiences.
"Now see what injury a man may cause around him! Even after that wrong-doing at the fair when I was
young, if I had never been so selfish as to let this giddy girl devote herself to me over at Jersey, to the
injury of her name, all might now be well. Yet, as it stands, I must bitterly disappoint one of these
women; and it is the second. My first duty is to Susan - there's no doubt about that."
"They are both in a very melancholy position, and that's true!" murmured Donald.
"They are! For myself I don't care--'twill all end one way. But these two." Henchard paused in reverie. "I
feel I should like to treat the second, no less than the first, as kindly as a man can in such a case."
"Ah, well, it cannet be helped!" said the other, with philosophic woefulness. "You mun write to the
young lady, and in your letter you must put it plain and honest that it turns out she cannet be your wife,
the first having come back; that ye cannet see her more; and that - ye wish her weel."
"That won't do. 'Od seize it, I must do a little more than that! I must - though she did always brag about
her rich uncle or rich aunt, and her expectations from 'em - I must send a useful sum of money to her, I
suppose - just as a little recompense, poor girl... Now, will you help me in this, and draw up an
explanation to her of all I've told ye, breaking it as gently as you can? I'm so bad at letters."
"And I will."
"Now, I haven't told you quite all yet. My wife Susan has my daughter with her - the baby that was in her
arms at the fair; and this girl knows nothing of me beyond that I am some sort of relation by marriage.
She has grown up in the belief that the sailor to whom I made over her mother, and who is now dead, was
her father, and her mother's husband. What her mother has always felt, she and I together feel now - that
we can't proclaim our disgrace to the girl by letting her know the truth. Now what would you do? - I want
your advice."
"I think I'd run the risk, and tell her the truth. She'll forgive ye both."
"Never!" said Henchard. "I am not going to let her know the truth. Her mother and I be going to marry
again; and it will not only help us to keep our child's respect, but it will be more proper. Susan looks
upon herself as the sailor's widow, and won't think o' living with me as formerly without another
religious ceremony - and she's right."
Farfrae thereupon said no more. The letter to the young Jersey woman was carefully framed by him, and
the interview ended, Henchard saying, as the Scotchman left, "I feel it a great relief, Farfrae, to tell some

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friend o' this! You see now that the Mayor of Casterbridge is not so thriving in his mind as it seems he
might be from the state of his pocket."
"I do. And I'm sorry for ye!" said Farfrae.
When he had gone Henchard copied the letter, and, enclosing a cheque, took it to the post-office, from
which he walked back thoughtfully.
"Can it be that it will go off so easily!" he said. "Poor thing - God knows! Now then, to make amends to
Susan!"




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* XIII *
THE cottage which Michael Henchard hired for his wife Susan under her name of Newson - in pursuance
of their plan - was in the upper or western part of the town, near the Roman wall, and the avenue which
overshadowed it. The evening sun seemed to shine more yellowly there than anywhere else this autumn -
stretching its rays, as the hours grew later, under the lowest sycamore boughs, and steeping the
ground-floor of the dwelling, with its green shutters, in the substratum of radiance which the foliage
screened from the upper parts. Beneath these sycamores on the town walls could be seen from the
sitting-room the tumuli and earth forts of the distant uplands; making it altogether a pleasant spot, with
the usual touch of melancholy that a past-marked prospect lends.
As soon as the mother and daughter were comfortably installed, with a white-aproned servant and all
complete, Henchard paid them a visit, and remained to tea. During the entertainment Elizabeth was
carefully hoodwinked by the very general tone of the conversation that prevailed - a proceeding which
seemed to afford some humour to Henchard, though his wife was not particularly happy in it. The visit
was repeated again and again with business-like determination by the Mayor, who seemed to have
schooled himself into a course of strict mechanical rightness towards this woman of prior claim, at any
expense to the later one and to his own sentiments.
One afternoon the daughter was not indoors when Henchard came, and he said drily, "This is a very good
opportunity for me to ask you to name the happy day, Susan."
The poor woman smiled faintly; she did not enjoy pleasantries on a situation into which she had entered
solely for the sake of her girl's reputation. She liked them so little, indeed, that there was room for
wonder why she had countenanced deception at all, and had not bravely let the girl know her history. But
the flesh is weak; and the true explanation came in due course.
"O Michael!" she said, "I am afraid all this is taking up your time and giving trouble - when I did not
expect any such thing!" And she looked at him and at his dress as a man of affluence, and at the furniture
he had provided for the room - ornate and lavish to her eyes.
"Not at all," said Henchard, in rough benignity. "This is only a cottage - it costs me next to nothing. And
as to taking up my time" - here his red and black visage kindled with satisfaction - "I've a splendid fellow
to superintend my business now - a man whose like I've never been able to lay hands on before. I shall
soon be able to leave everything to him, and have more time to call my own than I've had for these last
twenty years."
Henchard's visits here grew so frequent and so regular that it soon became whispered, and then openly
discussed, in Casterbridge that the masterful, coercive Mayor of the town was captured and enervated by
the genteel widow Mrs Newson. His well-known haughty indifference to the society of womankind, his
silent avoidance of converse with the sex, contributed a piquancy to what would otherwise have been an
unromantic matter enough. That such a poor fragile woman should be his choice was inexplicable, except
on the ground that the engagement was a family affair in which sentimental passion had no place; for it
was known that they were related in some way. Mrs Henchard was so pale that the boys called her "The
Ghost". Sometimes Henchard overheard this epithet when they passed together along the Walks - as the
avenues on the walls were named - at which his face would darken with an expression of destructiveness
towards the speakers ominous to see; but he said nothing.

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He pressed on the preparations for his union, or rather reunion, with this pale creature in a dogged,
unflinching spirit which did credit to his conscientiousness. Nobody would have conceived from his
outward demeanour that there was no amatory fire or pulse of romance acting as stimulant to the bustle
going on in his gaunt, great house; nothing but three large resolves - one, to make amends to his
neglected Susan; another, to provide a comfortable home for Elizabeth-Jane under his paternal eye; and a
third, to castigate himself with the thorns which these restitutory acts brought in their train; among them
the lowering of his dignity in public opinion by marrying so comparatively humble a woman.
Susan Henchard entered a carriage for the first time in her life when she stepped into the plain brougham
which drew up at the door on the wedding-day to take her and Elizabeth-Jane to church. It was a
windless morning of warm November rain, which floated down like meal, and lay in a powdery form on
the nap of hats and coats. Few people had gathered round the church door though they were well packed
within. The Scotchman, who assisted as groomsman, was of course, the only one present, beyond the
chief actors, who knew the true situation of the contracting parties. He, however, was too inexperienced,
too thoughtful, too judicial, too strongly conscious of the serious side of the business, to enter into the
scene in its dramatic aspect. That required the special genius of Christopher Coney, Solomon Longways,
Buzzford, and their fellows. But they knew nothing of the secret; though, as the time for coming out of
church drew on, they gathered on the pavement adjoining, and expounded the subject according to their
lights.
"'Tis five-and-forty years since I had my settlement in this here town," said Coney; "but daze me if ever I
see a man wait so long before to take so little! There's a chance even for thee after this, Nance
Mockridge." The remark was addressed to a woman who stood behind his shoulder - the same who had
exhibited Henchard's bad bread in public when Elizabeth and her mother entered Casterbridge.
"Be cust if I'd marry any such as he, or thee either," replied that lady. "As for thee, Christopher, we know
what ye be, and the less said the better. And as for he - well, there - (lowering her voice) 'tis said 'a was a
poor parish 'prentice - I wouldn't say it for all the world - but 'a was a poor parish 'prentice, that began
life wi' no more belonging to 'en than a carrion crow."
"And now he's worth ever so much a minute," murmured Longways. "When a man is said to be worth so
much a minute, he's a man to be considered!"
Turning, he saw a circular disc reticulated with creases, and recognized the smiling countenance of the
fat woman who had asked for another song at the Three Mariners. "Well, Mother Cuxsom," he said,
"how's this? Here's Mrs Newson, a mere skellinton, has got another husband to keep her, while a woman
of your tonnage have not."
"I have not. Nor another to beat me... Ah, yes, Cuxsom's gone, and so shall leather breeches!"
"Yes; with the blessing of God leather breeches shall go."
"'Tisn't worth my old while to think of another husband," continued Mrs Cuxsom. "And yet I'll lay my
life I'm as respectable born as she."
"True; your mother was a very good woman - I can mind her. She were rewarded by the Agricultural
Society for having begot the greatest number of healthy children without parish assistance, and other
virtuous marvels."



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"'Twas that that kept us so low upon the ground - that great hungry family."
"Ay. Where the pigs be many the wash runs thin."
"And dostn't mind how mother would sing, Christopher?" continued Mrs Cuxsom, kindling at the
retrospection; "and how we went with her to the party at Mellstock, do ye mind? - at old Dame Ledlow's,
farmer Shiner's aunt, do ye mind? - she we used to call Toad-skin, because her face were so yaller and
freckled, do ye mind?"
"I do, hee-hee, I do!" said Christopher Coney.
"And well do I - for I was getting up husband-high at that time - one-half girl, and t'other half woman, as
one may say. And canst mind" - she prodded Solomon's shoulder with her finger-tip, while her eyes
twinkled between the crevices of their lids - "canst mind the sherry-wine, and the zilver-snuffers, and
Joan Dummett was took bad when we were coming home, and Jack Griggs was forced to carry her
through the mud; and how 'a let her fall in Dairyman Sweetapple's cow-barton, and we had to clane her
gown wi' grass - never such a mess as 'a were in?"
"Ay - that I do - hee-hee, such doggery as there was in them ancient days, to be sure! Ah, the miles I used
to walk then; and now I can hardly step over a furrow!"
Their reminiscences were cut short by the appearance of the reunited pair - Henchard looking round upon
the idlers with that ambiguous gaze of his, which at one moment seemed to mean satisfaction, and at
another fiery disdain.
"Well - there's a difference between 'em, though he do call himself a teetotaller," said Nance Mockridge.
"She'll wish her cake dough afore she's done of him. There's a bluebeardy look about 'en; and 'twill out in
time."
"Stuff - he's well enough! Some folk want their luck buttered. If I had a choice as wide as the ocean sea I
wouldn't wish for a better man. A poor twanking woman like her--'tis a godsend for her, and hardly a pair
of jumps or nightrail to her name."
The plain little brougham drove off in the mist, and the idlers dispersed. "Well, we hardly know how to
look at things in these times!" said Solomon. "There was a man dropped down dead yesterday, not so
very many miles from here; and what wi' that, and this moist weather, 'tis scarce worth one's while to
begin any work o' consequence today. I'm in such a low key with drinking nothing but small table
ninepenny this last week or two that I shall call and warm up at the Mar'ners as I pass along."
"I don't know but that I may as well go with 'ee, Solomon," said Christopher: "I'm as clammy as a
cockle-snail."




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* XIV *
A MARTINMAS summer of Mrs Henchard's life set in with her entry into her husband's large house and
respectable social orbit; and it was as bright as such summers well can be. Lest she should pine for
deeper affection than he could give he made a point of showing some semblance of it in external action.
Among other things he had the iron railings, that had smiled sadly in dull rust for the last eighty years,
painted a bright green, and the heavy-barred, small-paned Georgian sash windows enlivened with three
coats of white. He was as kind to her as a man, mayor, and churchwarden could possibly be. The house
was large, the rooms lofty, and the landings wide; and the two unassuming women scarcely made a
perceptible addition to its contents.
To Elizabeth-Jane the time was a most triumphant one. The freedom she experienced, the indulgence
with which she was treated, went beyond her expectations. The reposeful, easy, affluent life to which her
mother's marriage had introduced her was, in truth, the beginning of a great change in Elizabeth. She
found she could have nice personal possessions and ornaments for the asking, and, as the medieval
saying puts it "Take, have, and keep, are pleasant words." With peace of mind came development, and
with development beauty. Knowledge - the result of great natural insight - she did not lack; learning,
accomplishments - those, alas, she had not; but as the winter and spring passed by her thin face and
figure filled out in rounder and softer curves; the lines and contractions upon her young brow went away;
the muddiness of skin which she had looked upon as her lot by nature departed with a change to
abundance of good things, and a bloom came upon her cheek. Perhaps, too, her grey, thoughtful eyes
revealed an arch gaiety sometimes; but this was infrequent; the sort of wisdom which looked from their
pupils did not readily keep company with these lighter moods. Like all people who have known rough
times, light-heartedness seemed to her too irrational and inconsequent to be indulged in except as a
reckless dram now and then; for she had been too early habituated to anxious reasoning to drop the habit
suddenly. She felt none of those ups and downs of spirit which beset so many people without cause;
never - to paraphrase a recent poet - never a gloom in Elizabeth-Jane's soul but she well knew how it
came there; and her present cheerfulness was fairly proportionate to her solid guarantees for the same.
It might have been supposed that, given a girl rapidly becoming good-looking, comfortably
circumstanced, and for the first time in her life commanding ready money, she would go and make a fool
of herself by dress. But no. The reasonableness of almost everything that Elizabeth did was nowhere
more conspicuous than in this question of clothes. To keep in the rear of opportunity in matters of
indulgence is as valuable a habit as to keep abreast of opportunity in matters of enterprise. This
unsophisticated girl did it by an innate perceptiveness that was almost genius. Thus she refrained from
bursting out like a water-flower that spring, and clothing herself in puffings and knick-knacks, as most of
the Casterbridge girls would have done in her circumstances. Her triumph was tempered by
circumspection; she had still that fieldmouse fear of the coulter of destiny despite fair promise, which is
common among the thoughtful who have suffered early from poverty and oppression.
"I won't be too gay on any account," she would say to herself. "It would be tempting Providence to hurl
mother and me down, and afflict us again as He used to do."
We now see her in a black silk bonnet, velvet mantle or silk spencer, dark dress, and carrying a sunshade.
In this latter article she drew the line at fringe, and had it plain edged, with a little ivory ring for keeping
it closed. It was odd about the necessity for that sunshade. She discovered that with the clarification of

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her complexion and the birth of pink cheeks her skin had grown more sensitive to the sun's rays. She
protected those cheeks forthwith, deeming spotlessness part of womanliness.
Henchard had become very fond of her, and she went out with him more frequently than with her mother
now. Her appearance one day was so attractive that he looked at her critically.
"I happened to have the ribbon by me, so I made it up," she faltered, thinking him perhaps dissatisfied
with some rather bright trimming she had donned for the first time.
"Ay - of course - to be sure," he replied in his leonine way. "Do as you like - or rather as your mother
advises ye. 'Od send - I've nothing to say to't!"
Indoors she appeared with her hair divided by a parting that arched like a white rainbow from ear to ear.
All in front of this line was covered with a thick encampment of curls; all behind was dressed smoothly,
and drawn to a knob.
The three members of the family were sitting at breakfast one day, and Henchard was looking silently, as
he often did, at this head of hair, which in colour was brown - rather light than dark. "I thought
Elizabeth-Jane's hair - didn't you tell me that Elizabeth-Jane's hair promised to be black when she was a
baby?" he said to his wife.
She looked startled, jerked her foot warningly, and murmured, "Did I?"
As soon as Elizabeth was gone to her own room Henchard resumed. "Begad, I nearly forgot myself just
now! What I meant was that the girl's hair certainly looked as if it would be darker, when she was a
baby."
"It did; but they alter so," replied Susan.
"Their hair gets darker, I know - but I wasn't aware it lightened ever?"
"O yes." And the same uneasy expression came out on her face, to which the future held the key. It
passed as Henchard went on:
"Well, so much the better. Now, Susan, I want to have her called Miss Henchard - not Miss Newson.
Lots o' people do it already in carelessness - it is her legal name - so it may as well be made her usual
name - I don't like t'other name at all for my own flesh and blood. I'll advertise it in the Casterbridge
paper - that's the way they do it. She won't object."
"No. O no. But - "
"Well, then, I shall do it," said he, peremptorily. "Surely, if she's willing, you must wish it as much as I?"
"O yes - if she agrees let us do it by all means," she replied.
Then Mrs Henchard acted somewhat inconsistently; it might have been called falsely, but that her
manner was emotional and full of the earnestness of one who wishes to do right at great hazard. She went
to Elizabeth-Jane, whom she found sewing in her own sitting-room upstairs, and told her what had been
proposed about her surname. "Can you agree - is it not a slight upon Newson - now he's dead and gone?"
Elizabeth reflected. "I'll think of it, mother," she answered.


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When, later in the day, she saw Henchard, she adverted to the matter at once, in a way which showed that
the line of feeling started by her mother had been persevered in. "Do you wish this change so very much,
sir?" she asked.
"Wish it? Why, my blessed fathers, what an ado you women make about a trifle! I proposed it - that's all.
Now, 'Lizabeth-Jane, just please yourself. Curse me if I care what you do. Now, you understand, don't 'ee
go agreeing to it to please me."
Here the subject dropped, and nothing more was said, and nothing was done, and Elizabeth still passed as
Miss Newson, and not by her legal name.
Meanwhile the great corn and hay traffic conducted by Henchard throve under the management of
Donald Farfrae as it had never thriven before. It had formerly moved in jolts; now it went on oiled
castors. The old crude vivâ voce system of Henchard, in which everything depended upon his memory,
and bargains were made by the tongue alone, was swept away. Letters and ledgers took the place of "I'll
do't", and "you shall hae't"; and, as in all such cases of advance, the rugged picturesqueness of the old
method disappeared with its inconveniences.
The position of Elizabeth-Jane's room - rather high in the house, so that it commanded a view of the
hay-stores and granaries across the garden - afforded her opportunity for accurate observation of what
went on there. She saw that Donald and Mr Henchard were inseparables. When walking together
Henchard would lay his arm familiarly on his manager's shoulder, as if Farfrae were a younger brother,
bearing so heavily that his slight figure bent under the weight. Occasionally she would hear a perfect
cannonade of laughter from Henchard, arising from something Donald had said, the latter looking quite
innocent and not laughing at all. In Henchard's somewhat lonely life he evidently found the young man
as desirable for comradeship as he was useful for consultations. Donald's brightness of intellect
maintained in the corn-factor the admiration it had won at the first hour of their meeting. The poor
opinion, and but ill-concealed, that he entertained of the slim Farfrae's physical girth, strength, and dash
was more than counterbalanced by the immense respect he had for his brains.
Her quiet eye discerned that Henchard's tigerish affection for the younger man, his constant liking to
have Farfrae near him, now and then resulted in a tendency to domineer, which, however, was checked in
a moment when Donald exhibited marks of real offence. One day, looking down on their figures from on
high, she heard the latter remark, as they stood in the doorway between the garden and yard, that their
habit of walking and driving about together rather neutralized Farfrae's value as a second pair of eyes,
which should be used in places where the principal was not. "'Od damn it," cried Henchard, "what's all
the world! I like a fellow to talk to. Now come along and hae some supper, and don't take too much
thought about things, or ye'll drive me crazy."
When she walked with her mother, on the other hand, she often beheld the Scotchman looking at them
with a curious interest. The fact that he had met her at the Three Mariners was insufficient to account for
it, since on the occasion on which she had entered his room he had never raised his eyes. Besides, it was
at her mother more particularly than at herself that he looked, to Elizabeth-Jane's half-conscious,
simpleminded, perhaps pardonable, disappointment. Thus she could not account for this interest by her
own attractiveness, and she decided that it might be apparent only - a way of turning his eyes that Mr
Farfrae had.
She did not divine the ample explanation of his manner, without personal vanity, that was afforded by the


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fact of Donald being the depositary of Henchard's confidence in respect of his past treatment of the pale,
chastened mother who walked by her side. Her conjectures on that past never went further than faint ones
based on things casually heard and seen - mere guesses that Henchard and her mother might have been
lovers in their younger days, who had quarrelled and parted.
Casterbridge, as has been hinted, was a place deposited in the block upon a corn-field. There was no
suburb in the modern sense, or transitional intermixture of town and down. It stood, with regard to the
wide fertile land adjoining, clean-cut and distinct, like a chessboard on a green table-cloth. The farmer's
boy could sit under his barley-mow and pitch a stone into the office-window of the town-clerk; reapers at
work among the sheaves nodded to acquaintances standing on the pavement-corner; the red-robed judge,
when he condemned a sheep-stealer, pronounced sentence to the tune of Baa, that floated in at the
window from the remainder of the flock browsing hard by; and at executions the waiting crowd stood in
a meadow immediately before the drop, out of which the cows had been temporarily driven to give the
spectators room.
The corn grown on the uplands side of the borough was garnered by farmers who lived in an eastern
purlieu called Durnover. Here wheat-ricks overhung the old Roman street, and thrust their eaves against
the church tower; green-thatched barns, with doorways as high as the gates of Solomon's temple, opened
directly upon the main thoroughfare. Barns indeed were so numerous as to alternate with every
half-dozen houses along the way. Here lived burgesses who daily walked the fallow; shepherds in an
intra-mural squeeze. A street of farmers' homesteads - a street ruled by a mayor and corporation, yet
echoing with the thump of the flail, the flutter of the winnowingfan, and the purr of the milk into the pails
- a street which had nothing urban in it whatever - this was the Durnover end of Casterbridge.
Henchard, as was natural, dealt largely with this nursery or bed of small farmers close at hand - and his
waggons were often down that way. One day, when arrangements were in progress for getting home corn
from one of the aforesaid farms, Elizabeth-Jane received a note by hand, asking her to oblige the writer
by coming at once to a granary on Durnover Hill. As this was the granary whose contents Henchard was
removing, she thought the request had something to do with his business, and proceeded thither as soon
as she had put on her bonnet. The granary was just within the farm-yard, and stood on stone staddles,
high enough for persons to walk under. The gates were open, but nobody was within. However, she
entered and waited. Presently she saw a figure approaching the gate - that of Donald Farfrae. He looked
up at the church clock, and came in. By some unaccountable shyness, some wish not to meet him there
alone, she quickly ascended the step-ladder leading to the granary door, and entered it before he had seen
her. Farfrae advanced, imagining himself in solitude; and a few drops of rain beginning to fall he moved
and stood under the shelter where she had just been standing. Here he leant against one of the staddles,
and gave himself up to patience. He, too, was plainly expecting some one; could it be herself? if so, why?
In a few minutes he looked at his watch, and then pulled out a note, a duplicate of the one she had herself
received.
The situation began to be very awkward, and the longer she waited the more awkward it became. To
emerge from a door just above his head and descend the ladder, and show she had been in hiding there,
would look so very foolish that she still waited on. A winnowing machine stood close beside her, and to
relieve her suspense she gently moved the handle; whereupon a cloud of wheat husks flew out into her
face, and covered her clothes and bonnet, and struck into the fur of her victorine. He must have heard the
slight movement for he looked up, and then ascended the steps.



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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XIV *

"Ah - it's Miss Newson," he said as soon as he could see into the granary. "I didn't know you were there.
I have kept the appointment, and am at your service."
"O Mr Farfrae," she faltered; "so have I. But I didn't know it was you who wished to see me, otherwise I
-"
"I wished to see you? Oh no - at least, that is, I am afraid there may be a mistake."
"Didn't you ask me to come here? Didn't you write this?" Elizabeth held out her note.
"No. Indeed, at no hand would I have thought of it! And for you - didn't you ask me? This is not your
writing?" And he held up his.
"By no means."
"And is that really so! Then it's somebody wanting to see us both. Perhaps we would do well to wait a
little longer."
Acting on this consideration they lingered, Elizabeth-Jane's face being arranged to an expression of
preternatural composure, and the young Scot, at every footstep in the street without, looking from under
the granary to see if the passer were about to enter and declare himself their summoner. They watched
individual drops of rain creeping down the thatch of the opposite rick - straw after straw - till they
reached the bottom; but nobody came, and the granary roof began to drip.
"The person is not likely to be coming," said Farfrae. "It's a trick perhaps, and if so, it's a great pity to
waste our time like this, and so much to be done."
"'Tis a great liberty," said Elizabeth.
"It's true, Miss Newson. We'll hear news of this some day, depend on't, and who it was that did it. I
wouldn't stand for it hindering myself; but you, Miss Newson - "
"I don't mind - much," she replied.
"Neither do I."
They lapsed again into silence. "You are anxious to get back to Scotland, I suppose, Mr Farfrae?" she
inquired.
"O no, Miss Newson. Why would I be?"
"I only supposed you might be from the song you sang at the Three Mariners - about Scotland and home,
I mean - which you seemed to feel so deep down in your heart; so that we all felt for you."
"Ay - and I did sing there - I did - But, Miss Newson" - and Donald's voice musically undulated between
two semitones, as it always did when he became earnest - "it's well you feel a song for a few minutes,
and your eyes they get quite tearful; but you finish it, and for all you felt you don't mind it or think of it
again for a long while. O no, I don't want to go back!Yet I'll sing the song to you wi' pleasure whenever
you like. I could sing it now, and not mind at all?"
"Thank you, indeed. But I fear I must go - rain or no."



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"Ay! Then, Miss Newson, ye had better say nothing about this hoax, and take no heed of it. And if the
person should say anything to you, be civil to him or her, as if you did not mind it - so you'll take the
clever person's laugh away." In speaking his eyes became fixed upon her dress, still sown with wheat
husks. "There's husks and dust on you. Perhaps you don't know it?" he said, in tones of extreme delicacy.
"And it's very bad to let rain come upon clothes when there's chaff on them. It washes in and spoils them.
Let me help you - blowing is the best."
As Elizabeth neither assented nor dissented Donald Farfrae began blowing her back hair, and her side
hair, and her neck, and the crown of her bonnet, and the fur of her victorine, Elizabeth saying, "O, thank
you," at every puff. At last she was fairly clean, though Farfrae, having got over his first concern at the
situation, seemed in no manner of hurry to be gone.
"Ah - now I'll go and get ye an umbrella," he said.
She declined the offer, stepped out and was gone. Farfrae walked slowly after, looking thoughtfully at
her diminishing figure, and whistling in undertones, "As I came down through Cannobie".




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* XV *
AT first Miss Newson's budding beauty was not regarded with much interest by anybody in Casterbridge.
Donald Farfrae's gaze, it is true, was now attracted by the Mayor's socalled step-daughter, but he was
only one. The truth is that she was but a poor illustrative instance of the prophet Baruch's sly definition:
"The virgin that loveth to go gay".
When she walked abroad she seemed to be occupied with an inner chamber of ideas, and to have slight
need for visible objects. She formed curious resolves on checking gay fancies in the matter of clothes,
because it was inconsistent with her past life to blossom gaudily the moment she had become possessed
of money. But nothing is more insidious than the evolution of wishes from mere fancies, and of wants
from mere wishes. Henchard gave Elizabeth-Jane a box of delicately-tinted gloves one spring day. She
wanted to wear them to show her appreciation of his kindness, but she had no bonnet that would
harmonize. As an artistic indulgence she thought she would have such a bonnet. When she had a bonnet
that would go with the gloves she had no dress that would go with the bonnet. It was now absolutely
necessary to finish; she ordered the requisite article, and found that she had no sunshade to go with the
dress. In for a penny in for a pound; she bought the sunshade, and the whole structure was at last
complete.
Everybody was attracted, and some said that her bygone simplicity was the art that conceals art, the
"delicate imposition" of Rochefoucauld; she had produced an effect, a contrast, and it had been done on
purpose. As a matter of fact this was not true, but it had its result; for as soon as Casterbridge thought her
artful it thought her worth notice. "It is the first time in my life that I have been so much admired," she
said to herself; "though perhaps it is by those whose admiration is not worth having."
But Donald Farfrae admired her, too; and altogether the time was an exciting one; sex had never before
asserted itself in her so strongly, for in former days she had perhaps been too impersonally human to be
distinctively feminine. After an unprecedented success one day she came indoors, went upstairs, and
leant upon her bed face downwards, quite forgetting the possible creasing and damage. "Good Heaven,"
she whispered, "can it be? Here am I setting up as the town beauty!"
When she had thought it over, her usual fear of exaggerating appearances engendered a deep sadness.
"There is something wrong in all this," she mused. "If they only knew what an unfinished girl I am - that
I can't talk Italian, or use globes, or show any of the accomplishments they learn at boarding-schools,
how they would despise me! Better sell all this finery and buy myself grammar-books and dictionaries
and a history of all the philosophies!"
She looked from the window and saw Henchard and Farfrae in the hay-yard talking, with that impetuous
cordiality on the Mayor's part, and genial modesty on the younger man's, that was now so generally
observable in their intercourse. Friendship between man and man; what a rugged strength there was in it,
as evinced by these two. And yet the seed that was to lift the foundation of this friendship was at that
moment taking root in a chink of its structure.
It was about six o'clock; the men were dropping off homeward one by one. The last to leave was a round
shouldered, blinking young man of nineteen or twenty, whose mouth fell ajar on the slightest
provocation, seemingly because there was no chin to support it. Henchard called aloud to him as he went
out of the gate. "Here - Abel Whittle!"

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Whittle turned, and ran back a few steps. "Yes, sir," he said, in breathless deprecation, as if he knew what
was coming next.
"Once more - be in time tomorrow morning. You see what's to be done, and you hear what I say, and you
know I'm not going to be trifled with any longer."
"Yes, sir." Then Abel Whittle left, and Henchard and Farfrae; and Elizabeth saw no more of them.
Now there was good reason for this command on Henchard's part. Poor Abel, as he was called, had an
inveterate habit of over-sleeping himself and coming late to his work. His anxious will was to be among
the earliest; but if his comrades omitted to pull the string that he always tied round his great toe and left
hanging out of the window for that purpose, his will was as wind. He did not arrive in time.
As he was often second hand at the hay-weighing, or at the crane which lifted the sacks, or was one of
those who had to accompany the waggons into the country to fetch away stacks that had been purchased,
this affliction of Abel's was productive of much inconvenience. For two mornings in the present week he
had kept the others waiting nearly an hour; hence Henchard's threat. It now remained to be seen what
would happen tomorrow.
Six o'clock struck, and there was no Whittle. At half-past six Henchard entered the yard; the waggon was
horsed that Abel was to accompany; and the other man had been waiting twenty minutes. Then Henchard
swore, and Whittle coming up breathless at that instant, the corn-factor turned on him, and declared with
an oath that this was the last time; that if he were behind once more, by God, he would come and drag
him out o' bed.
"There is sommit wrong in my make, your worshipful!" said Abel, "especially in the inside, whereas my
poor dumb brain gets as dead as a clot afore I've said my few scrags of prayers. Yes - it came on as a
stripling, just afore I'd got man's wages, whereas I never enjoy my bed at all, for no sooner do I lie down
than I be asleep, and afore I be awake I be up. I've fretted my gizzard green about it, maister, but what
can I do? Now last night, afore I went to bed, I only had a scantling o' cheese and - "
"I don't want to hear it!" roared Henchard. "Tomorrow the waggons must start at four, and if you're not
here, stand clear, I'll mortify thy flesh for thee!"
"But let me clear up my points, your worshipful - "
Henchard turned away.
"He asked me and he questioned me, and then 'a wouldn't hear my points!" said Abel, to the yard in
general. "Now, I shall twitch like a moment-hand all night tonight for fear o' him!"
The journey to be taken by the waggons next day was a long one into Blackmoor Vale, and at four
o'clock lanterns were moving about the yard. But Abel was missing. Before either of the other men could
run to Abel's and warn him, Henchard appeared in the garden doorway. "Where's Abel Whittle? Not
come after all I've said? Now I'll carry out my word, by my blessed fathers - nothing else will do him any
good! I'm going up that way."
Henchard went off, entered Abel's house, a little cottage in Back Street, the door of which was never
locked because the inmates had nothing to lose. Reaching Whittle's bedside the corn factor shouted a
bass note so vigorously that Abel started up instantly, and beholding Henchard standing over him, was


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galvanized into spasmodic movements which had not much relation to getting on his clothes.
"Out of bed, sir, and off to the granary, or you leave my employ today! 'Tis to teach ye a lesson. March
on; never mind your breeches!"
The unhappy Whittle threw on his sleeve waistcoat, and managed to get into his boots at the bottom of
the stairs, while Henchard thrust his hat over his head. Whittle then trotted on down Back Street,
Henchard walking sternly behind.
Just at this time Farfrae, who had been to Henchard's house to look for him, came out of the back gate,
and saw something white fluttering in the morning gloom, which he soon perceived to be the part of
Abel's shirt that showed below his waistcoat.
"For maircy's sake, what object's this?" said Farfrae, following Abel into the yard, Henchard being some
way in the rear by this time.
"Ye see, Mr Farfrae," gibbered Abel with a resigned smile of terror, "he said he'd mortify my flesh if so
be I didn't get up sooner, and now he's a-doing on't! Ye see it can't be helped, Mr Farfrae; things do
happen queer sometimes! Yes - I'll go to Blackmoor Vale half naked as I be, since he do command; but I
shall kill myself afterwards; I can't outlive the disgrace; for the women-folk will be looking out of their
winders at my mortification all the way along, and laughing me to scorn as a man 'ithout breeches! You
know how I feel such things, Maister Farfrae, and how forlorn thoughts get hold upon me. Yes - I shall
do myself harm - I feel it coming on!"
"Get back home, and slip on your breeches, and come to wark like a man! If ye go not, you'll ha'e your
death standing there!"
"I'm afeard I mustn't! Mr Henchard said - "
"I don't care what Mr Henchard said, nor anybody else!'Tis simple foolishness to do this. Go and dress
yourself instantly, Whittle."
"Hullo, hullo!" said Henchard, coming up behind. "Who's sending him back?"
All the men looked towards Farfrae.
"I am," said Donald. "I say this joke has been carried far enough."
"And I say it hasn't! Get up in the waggon, Whittle."
"Not if I am manager," said Farfrae. "He either goes home, or I march out of this yard for good."
Henchard looked at him with a face stern and red. But he paused for a moment, and their eyes met.
Donald went up to him, for he saw in Henchard's look that he began to regret this.
"Come," said Donald quietly, "a man o' your position should ken better, sir! It is tyrannical and no
worthy of you."
"'Tis not tyrannical!" murmured Henchard, like a sullen boy. "It is to make him remember!" He presently
added, in a tone of one bitterly hurt: "Why did you speak to me before them like that, Farfrae? You might
have stopped till we were alone. Ah - I know why! I've told ye the secret o' my life - fool that I was to
do't - and you take advantage of me!"

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"I had forgot it," said Farfrae simply.
Henchard looked on the ground, said nothing more, and turned away. During the day Farfrae learnt from
the men that Henchard had kept Abel's old mother in coals and snuff all the previous winter, which made
him less antagonistic to the corn-factor. But Henchard continued moody and silent, and when one of the
men inquired of him if some oats should be hoisted to an upper floor or not, he said shortly, "Ask Mr
Farfrae. He's master here!"
Morally he was; there could be no doubt of it. Henchard, who had hitherto been the most admired man in
his circle, was the most admired no longer. One day the daughters of a deceased farmer in Durnover
wanted an opinion on the value of their haystack, and sent a messenger to ask Mr Farfrae to oblige them
with one. The messenger, who was a child, met in the yard not Farfrae, but Henchard.
"Very well," he said. "I'll come."
"But please will Mr Farfrae come?" said the child.
"I am going that way... Why Mr Farfrae?" said Henchard, with the fixed look of thought. "Why do
people always want Mr Farfrae?"
"I suppose because they like him so - that's what they say."
"Oh - I see - that's what they say - hey? They like him because he's cleverer than Mr Henchard, and
because he knows more; and in short, Mr Henchard can't hold a candle to him - hey?"
"Yes - that's just it, sir - some of it."
"Oh, there's more? Of course there's more! What besides? Come, here's sixpence for a fairing."
"""And he's better-tempered, and Henchard's a fool to him,"" they say. And when some of the women
were a-walking home they said, ""He's a diment - he's a chap o' wax - he's the best - he's the horse for my
money,"" says they. And they said, ""He's the most understanding man o' them two by long chalks. I
wish he was the master instead of Henchard,"" they said."
"They'll talk any nonsense," Henchard replied with covered gloom. "Well, you can go now. And I am
coming to value the hay, d'ye hear? - I." The boy departed, and Henchard murmured, "Wish he were
master here, do they?"
He went towards Durnover. On his way he overtook Farfrae. They walked on together, Henchard looking
mostly on the ground.
"You're no yoursel' the day?" Donald inquired.
"Yes, I am very well," said Henchard.
"But ye are a bit down - surely ye are down? Why, there's nothing to be angry about! 'Tis splendid stuff
that we've got from Blackmoor Vale. By the by, the people in Durnover want their hay valued."
"Yes. I am going there."
"I'll go with ye."



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As Henchard did not reply Donald practised a piece of music sotto voce, till, getting near the bereaved
people's door, he stopped himself--
"Ah, as their father is dead I won't go on with such as that. How could I forget?"
"Do you care so very much about hurting folks' feelings?" observed Henchard with a half sneer. "You do,
I know - especially mine!"
"I am sorry if I have hurt yours, sir," replied Donald, standing still, with a second expression of the same
sentiment in the regretfulness of his face. "Why should you say it - think it?"
The cloud lifted from Henchard's brow, and as Donald finished the corn-merchant turned to him,
regarding his breast rather than his face.
"I have been hearing things that vexed me," he said. "'Twas that made me short in my manner - made me
overlook what you really are. Now, I don't want to go in here about this hay - Farfrae, you can do it better
than I. They sent for 'ee, too. I have to attend a meeting of the Town Council at eleven, and 'tis drawing
on for't."
They parted thus in renewed friendship, Donald forbearing to ask Henchard for meanings that were not
very plain to him. On Henchard's part there was now again repose; and yet, whenever he thought of
Farfrae, it was with a dim dread; and he often regretted that he had told the young man his whole heart,
and confided to him the secrets of his life.




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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XVI *


* XVI *
ON this account Henchard's manner towards Farfrae insensibly became more reserved. He was courteous
- too courteous - and Farfrae was quite surprised at the good breeding which now for the first time
showed itself among the qualities of a man he had hitherto thought undisciplined, if warm and sincere.
The corn-factor seldom or never again put his arm upon the young man's shoulder so as to nearly weigh
him down with the pressure of mechanized friendship. He left off coming to Donald's lodgings and
shouting into the passage. "Hoy, Farfrae, boy, come and have some dinner with us! Don't sit here in
solitary confinement!" But in the daily routine of their business there was little change.
Thus their lives rolled on till a day of public rejoicing was suggested to the country at large in celebration
of a national event that had recently taken place.
For some time Casterbridge, by nature slow, made no response. Then one day Donald Farfrae broached
the subject to Henchard by asking if he would have any objection to lend some rick-cloths to himself and
a few others, who contemplated getting up an entertainment of some sort on the day named, and required
a shelter for the same, to which they might charge admission at the rate of so much a head.
"Have as many cloths as you like," Henchard replied.
When his manager had gone about the business Henchard was fired with emulation. It certainly had been
very remiss of him, as Mayor, he thought, to call no meeting ere this, to discuss what should be done on
this holiday. But Farfrae had been so cursed quick in his movements as to give old-fashioned people in
authority no chance of the initiative. However, it was not too late; and on second thoughts he determined
to take upon his own shoulders the responsibility of organizing some amusements, if the other
Councilmen would leave the matter in his hands. To this they quite readily agreed, the majority being
fine old crusted characters who had a decided taste for living without worry.
So Henchard set about his preparations for a really brilliant thing - such as should be worthy of the
venerable town. As for Farfrae's little affair, Henchard nearly forgot it; except once now and then when,
on it coming into his mind, he said to himself, "Charge admission at so much a head - just like a
Scotchman! - who is going to pay anything a head?" The diversions which the Mayor intended to provide
were to be entirely free.
He had grown so dependent upon Donald that he could scarcely resist calling him in to consult. But by
sheer selfcoercion he refrained. No, he thought, Farfrae would be suggesting such improvements in his
damned luminous way that in spite of himself he, Henchard, would sink to the position of second fiddle,
and only scrape harmonies to his manager's talents.
Everybody applauded the Mayor's proposed entertainment, especially when it became known that he
meant to pay for it all himself.
Close to the town was an elevated green spot surrounded by an ancient square earthwork - earthworks
square, and not square, were as common as blackberries hereabout - a spot whereon the Casterbridge
people usually held any kind of merry-making, meeting, or sheep-fair that required more space than the
streets would afford. On one side it sloped to the river Froom, and from any point a view was obtained of
the country round for many miles. This pleasant upland was to be the scene of Henchard's exploit.


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He advertised about the town, in long posters of a pink colour, that games of all sorts would take place
here; and set to work a little battalion of men under his own eye. They erected greasy-poles for climbing,
with smoked hams and local cheese at the top. They placed hurdles in rows for jumping over; across the
river they laid a slippery pole, with a live pig of the neighbourhood tied at the other end, to become the
property of the man who could walk over and get it. There were also provided wheelbarrows for racing,
donkeys for the same, a stage for boxing, wrestling, and drawing blood generally; sacks for jumping in.
Moreover, not forgetting his principles, Henchard provided a mammoth tea, of which everybody who
lived in the borough was invited to partake without payment. The tables were laid parallel with the inner
slope of the rampart, and awnings were stretched overhead.
Passing to and fro the Mayor beheld the unattractive exterior of Farfrae's erection in the West Walk,
rick-cloths of different sizes and colours being hung up to the arching trees without any regard to
appearance. He was easy in his mind now, for his own preparations far transcended these.
The morning came. The sky, which had been remarkably clear down to within a day or two, was
overcast, and the weather threatening, the wind having an unmistakable hint of water in it. Henchard
wished he had not been quite so sure about the continuance of a fair season. But it was too late to modify
or postpone, and the proceedings went on. At twelve o'clock the rain began to fall, small and steady,
commencing and increasing so insensibly that it was difficult to state exactly when dry weather ended or
wet established itself. In an hour the slight moisture resolved itself into a monotonous smiting of earth by
heaven, in torrents to which no end could be prognosticated.
A number of people had heroically gathered in the field, but by three o'clock Henchard discerned that his
project was doomed to end in failure. The hams at the top of the poles dripped watered smoke in the form
of a brown liquor, the pig shivered in the wind, the grain of the deal tables showed through the sticking
tableclothes, for the awning allowed the rain to drift under at its will, and to enclose the sides at this hour
seemed a useless undertaking. The landscape over the river disappeared; the wind played on the
tent-cords in Aeolian improvisations; and at length rose to such a pitch that the whole erection slanted to
the ground, those who had taken shelter within it having to crawl out on their hands and knees.
But towards six the storm abated, and a drier breeze shook the moisture from the grass bents. It seemed
possible to carry out the programme after all. The awning was set up again; the band was called out from
its shelter, and ordered to begin, and where the tables had stood a place was cleared for dancing.
"But where are the folk?" said Henchard, after the lapse of half-an-hour, during which time only two men
and a woman had stood up to dance. "The shops are all shut. Why don't they come?"
"They are at Farfrae's affair in the West Walk," answered a Councilman who stood in the field with the
Mayor.
"A few, I suppose. But where are the body o' 'em?"
"All out of doors are there."
"Then the more fools they!"
Henchard walked away moodily. One or two young fellows gallantly came to climb the poles, to save the
hams from being wasted; but as there were no spectators, and the whole scene presented the most
melancholy appearance, Henchard gave orders that the proceedings were to be suspended, and the


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entertainment closed, the food to be distributed among the poor people of the town. In a short time
nothing was left in the field but a few hurdles, the tents, and the poles.
Henchard returned to his house, had tea with his wife and daughter, and then walked out. It was now
dusk. He soon saw that the tendency of all promenaders was towards a particular spot in the Walks, and
eventually proceeded thither himself. The notes of a stringed band came from the enclosure that Farfrae
had erected - the pavilion as he called it - and when the Mayor reached it he perceived that a gigantic tent
had been ingeniously constructed without poles or ropes. The densest point of the avenue of sycamores
had been selected, where the boughs made a closely interlaced vault overhead; to these boughs the
canvas had been hung, and a barrel roof was the result. The end towards the wind was enclosed, the other
end was open. Henchard went round and saw the interior.
In form it was like the nave of a cathedral with one gable removed, but the scene within was anything but
devotional. A reel or fling of some sort was in progress; and the usually sedate Farfrae was in the midst
of the other dancers in the costume of a wild Highlander, flinging himself about and spinning to the tune.
For a moment Henchard could not help laughing. Then he perceived the immense admiration for the
Scotchman that revealed itself in the women's faces; and when this exhibition was over, and a new dance
proposed, and Donald had disappeared for a time to return in his natural garments, he had an unlimited
choice of partners, every girl being in a coming-on disposition towards one who so thoroughly
understood the poetry of motion as he.
All the town crowded to the Walk, such a delightful idea of a ballroom never having occurred to the
inhabitants before. Among the rest of the onlookers were Elizabeth and her mother - the former
thoughtful yet much interested, her eyes beaming with a longing lingering light, as if Nature had been
advised by Correggio in their creation. The dancing progressed with unabated spirit, and Henchard
walked and waited till his wife should be disposed to go home. He did not care to keep in the light, and
when he went into the dark it was worse, for there he heard remarks of a kind which were becoming too
frequent:
"Mr Henchard's rejoicings couldn't say good morning to this," said one. "A man must be a headstrong
stunpoll to think folk would go up to that bleak place today."
The other answered that people said it was not only in such things as those that the Mayor was wanting.
"Where would his business be if it were not for this young fellow? 'Twas verily Fortune sent him to
Henchard. His accounts were like a bramblewood when Mr Farfrae came. He used to reckon his sacks by
chalk strokes all in a row like gardenpalings, measure his ricks by stretching with his arms, weigh his
trusses by a lift, judge his hay by a chaw, and settle the price with a curse. But now this accomplished
young man does it all by ciphering and mensuration. Then the wheat - that sometimes used to taste so
strong o' mice when made into bread that people could fairly tell the breed - Farfrae has a plan for
purifying, so that nobody would dream the smallest four-legged beast had walked over it once. O yes,
everybody is full of him, and the care Mr Henchard has to keep him, to be sure!" concluded this
gentleman.
"But he won't do it for long, good-now," said the other.
"No!" said Henchard to himself behind the tree. "Or if he do, he'll be honeycombed clean out of all the
character and standing that he's built up in these eighteen year!"
He went back to the dancing pavilion. Farfrae was footing a quaint little dance with Elizabeth-Jane - an

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old country thing, the only one she knew, and though he considerately toned down his movements to suit
her demurer gait, the pattern of the shining little nails in the soles of his boots became familiar to the eyes
of every bystander. The tune had enticed her into it; being a tune of a busy, vaulting, leaping sort - some
low notes on the silver string of each fiddle, then a skipping on the small, like running up and down
ladders - "Miss M`Leod of Ayr" was its name, so Mr Farfrae had said, and that it was very popular in his
own country.
It was soon over, and the girl looked at Henchard for approval; but he did not give it. He seemed not to
see her. "Look here, Farfrae," he said, like one whose mind was elsewhere, "I'll go to Port-Bredy Great
Market tomorrow myself. You can stay and put things in your clothes-box, and recover strength to your
knees after your vagaries." He planted on Donald an antagonistic glare that had begun as a smile.
Some other townsmen came up, and Donald drew aside. "What's this, Henchard," said Alderman Tubber,
applying his thumb to the corn-factor like a cheese-taster. "An opposition randy to yours, eh? Jack's as
good as his master, eh? Cut ye out quite, hasn't he?"
"You see, Mr Henchard," said the lawyer, another goodnatured friend, "where you made the mistake was
in going so far afield. You should have taken a leaf out of his book, and have had your sports in a
sheltered place like this. But you didn't think of it, you see; and he did, and that's where he's beat you."
"He'll be top-sawyer soon of you two, and carry all afore him," added jocular Mr Tubber.
"No," said Henchard gloomily. "He won't be that, because he's shortly going to leave me." He looked
towards Donald, who had again come near. "Mr Farfrae's time as my manager is drawing to a close - isn't
it, Farfrae?"
The young man, who could now read the lines and folds of Henchard's strongly-traced face as if they
were clear verbal inscriptions, quietly assented; and when people deplored the fact, and asked why it
was, he simply replied that Mr Henchard no longer required his help.
Henchard went home, apparently satisfied. But in the morning, when his jealous temper had passed
away, his heart sank within him at what he had said and done. He was the more disturbed when he found
that this time Farfrae was determined to take him at his word.




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* XVII *
ELIZABETH-JANE had perceived from Henchard's manner that in assenting to dance she had made a
mistake of some kind. In her simplicity she did not know what it was till a hint from a nodding
acquaintance enlightened her. As the Mayor's step-daughter, she learnt, she had not been quite in her
place in treading a measure amid such a mixed throng as filled the dancing pavilion.
Thereupon her ears, cheeks, and chin glowed like live coals at the dawning of the idea that her tastes
were not good enough for her position, and would bring her into disgrace.
This made her very miserable, and she looked about for her mother; but Mrs Henchard, who had less idea
of conventionality than Elizabeth herself, had gone away, leaving her daughter to return at her own
pleasure. The latter moved into the dark dense old avenues, or rather vaults of living woodwork, which
ran along the town boundary, and stood reflecting.
A man followed in a few minutes, and her face being towards the shine from the tent he recognized her.
It was Farfrae - just come from the dialogue with Henchard which had signified his dismissal.
"And it's you, Miss Newson? - and I've been looking for ye everywhere!" he said, overcoming a sadness
imparted by the estrangement with the corn-merchant. "May I walk on with you as far as your
street-corner?"
She thought there might be something wrong in this, but did not utter any objection. So together they
went on, first down the West Walk, and then into the Bowling Walk, till Farfrae said, "It's like that I'm
going to leave you soon."
She faltered "Why?"
"Oh - as a mere matter of business - nothing more. But we'll not concern ourselves about it - it is for the
best. I hoped to have another dance with you."
She said she could not dance - in any proper way.
"Nay, but you do! It's the feeling for it rather than the learning of steps that makes pleasant dancers... I
fear I offend your father by getting up this! And now, perhaps, I'll have to go to another part o' the warrld
altogether!"
This seemed such a melancholy prospect that Elizabeth-Jane breathed a sigh - letting it off in fragments
that he might not hear her. But darkness makes people truthful, and the Scotchman went on impulsively -
perhaps he had heard her after all:
"I wish I was richer, Miss Newson; and your stepfather had not been offended; I would ask you
something in a short time - yes, I would ask you tonight. But that's not for me!"
What he would have asked her he did not say, and instead of encouraging him she remained
incompetently silent. Thus afraid one of another they continued their promenade along the walls till they
got near the bottom of the Bowling Walk; twenty steps further and the trees would end, and the
streetcorner and lamps appear. In consciousness of this they stopped.



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"I never found out who it was that sent us to Durnover granary on a fool's errand that day," said Donald,
in his undulating tones. "Did ye ever know yourself, Miss Newson?"
"Never," said she.
"I wonder why they did it!"
"For fun, perhaps."
"Perhaps it was not for fun. It might have been that they thought they would like us to stay waiting there,
talking to one another? Ay, well! I hope you Casterbridge folk will not forget me if I go."
"That I'm sure we won't!" she said earnestly. "I - wish you wouldn't go at all."
They had got into the lamplight. "Now, I'll think over that," said Donald Farfrae. "And I'll not come up to
your door; but part from you here; lest it make your father more angry still."
They parted, Farfrae returning into the dark Bowling Walk, and Elizabeth-Jane going up the street.
Without any consciousness of what she was doing she started running with all her might till she reached
her father's door. "O dear me - what am I at?" she thought, as she pulled up breathless.
Indoors she fell to conjecturing the meaning of Farfrae's enigmatic words about not daring to ask her
what he fain would. Elizabeth, that silent observing woman, had long noted how he was rising in favour
among the townspeople; and knowing Henchard's nature now she had feared that Farfrae's days as
manager were numbered; so that the announcement gave her little surprise. Would Mr Farfrae stay in
Casterbridge despite his words and her father's dismissal? His occult breathings to her might be solvable
by his course in that respect.
The next day was windy - so windy that walking in the garden she picked up a portion of the draft of a
letter on business in Donald Farfrae's writing, which had flown over the wall from the office. The useless
scrap she took indoors, and began to copy the calligraphy, which she much admired. The letter began
"Dear Sir", and presently writing on a loose slip "Elizabeth-Jane", she laid the latter over "Sir", making
the phrase "Dear Elizabeth-Jane". When she saw the effect a quick red ran up her face and warmed her
through, though nobody was there to see what she had done. She quickly tore up the slip, and threw it
away. After this she grew cool and laughed at herself, walked about the room, and laughed again; not
joyfully, but distressfully rather.
It was quickly known in Casterbridge that Farfrae and Henchard had decided to dispense with each other.
Elizabeth-Jane's anxiety to know if Farfrae were going away from the town reached a pitch that disturbed
her, for she could no longer conceal from herself the cause. At length the news reached her that he was
not going to leave the place. A man following the same trade as Henchard, but on a very small scale, had
sold his business to Farfrae, who was forthwith about to start as corn and hay merchant on his own
account.
Her heart fluttered when she heard of this step of Donald's, proving that he meant to remain; and yet,
would a man who cared one little bit for her have endangered his suit by setting up a business in
opposition to Mr Henchard's? Surely not; and it must have been a passing impulse only which had led
him to address her so softly.
To solve the problem whether her appearance on the evening of the dance were such as to inspire a


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fleeting love at first sight, she dressed herself up exactly as she had dressed then - the muslin, the
spencer, the sandals, the parasol - and looked in the mirror. The picture glassed back was, in her opinion,
precisely of such a kind as to inspire that fleeting regard, and no more - "just enough to make him silly,
and not enough to keep him so," she said luminously; and Elizabeth thought, in a much lower key, that
by this time he had discovered how plain and homely was the informing spirit of that pretty outside.
Hence, when she felt her heart going out to him, she would say to herself with a mock pleasantry that
carried an ache with it, "No, no, Elizabeth-Jane - such dreams are not for you!" She tried to prevent
herself from seeing him, and thinking of him; succeeding fairly well in the former attempt, in the latter
not so completely.
Henchard, who had been hurt at finding that Farfrae did not mean to put up with his temper any longer,
was incensed beyond measure when he learnt what the young man had done as an alternative. It was in
the town-hall, after a council meeting, that he first became aware of Farfrae's coup for establishing
himself independently in the town; and his voice might have been heard as far as the town-pump
expressing his feelings to his fellow councilmen. Those tones showed that, though under a long reign of
self-control he had become Mayor and churchwarden and what not, there was still the same unruly
volcanic stuff beneath the rind of Michael Henchard as when he had sold his wife at Weydon Fair.
"Well, he's a friend of mine, and I'm a friend of his - or if we are not, what are we? 'Od send, if I've not
been his friend, who has, I should like to know? Didn't he come here without a sound shoe to his voot?
Didn't I keep him here - help him to a living? Didn't I help him to money, or whatever he wanted? I stuck
out for no terms - I said ""Name your own price."" I'd have shared my last crust with that young fellow at
one time, I liked him so well. And now he's defied me! But damn him, I'll have a tussle with him now - at
fair buying and selling, mind - at fair buying and selling! And if I can't overbid such a stripling as he,
then I'm not wo'th a varden! We'll show that we know our business as well as one here and there!"
His friends of the Corporation did not specially respond. Henchard was less popular now than he had
been when, nearly two years before, they had voted him to the chief magistracy on account of his
amazing energy. While they had collectively profited by this quality of the corn-factor's they had been
made to wince individually on more than one occasion. So he went out of the hall and down the street
alone.
Reaching home he seemed to recollect something with a sour satisfaction. He called Elizabeth-Jane.
Seeing how he looked when she entered she appeared alarmed.
"Nothing to find fault with," he said, observing her concern. "Only I want to caution you, my dear. That
man, Farfrae - it is about him. I've seen him talking to you two or three times - he danced with 'ee at the
rejoicings, and came home with 'ee. Now, now, no blame to you. But just hearken: Have you made him
any foolish promise? Gone the least bit beyond sniff and snaff at all?"
"No. I have promised him nothing."
"Good. All's well that ends well. I particularly wish you not to see him again."
"Very well, sir."
"You promise?"
She hesitated for a moment, and then said--

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"Yes, if you much wish it."
"I do. He's an enemy to our house!"
When she had gone he sat down, and wrote in a heavy hand to Farfrae thus:--
SIR, - I make request that henceforth you and my step-daughter be as strangers to each other. She on her
part has promised to welcome no more addresses from you; and I trust, therefore, you will not attempt to
force them upon her.
M. HENCHARD
One would almost have supposed Henchard to have had policy to see that no better modus vivendi could
be arrived at with Farfrae than by encouraging him to become his son-in-law. But such a scheme for
buying over a rival had nothing to recommend it to the Mayor's headstrong faculties. With all domestic
finesse of that kind he was hopelessly at variance. Loving a man or hating him, his diplomacy was as
wrongheaded as a buffalo's; and his wife had not ventured to suggest the course which she, for many
reasons, would have welcomed gladly.
Meanwhile Donald Farfrae had opened the gates of commerce on his own account at a spot on Durnover
Hill - as far as possible from Henchard's stores, and with every intention of keeping clear of his former
friend and employer's customers. There was, it seemed to the younger man, room for both of them and to
spare. The town was small, but the corn and haytrade was proportionately large, and with his native
sagacity he saw opportunity for a share of it.
So determined was he to do nothing which should seem like trade-antagonism to the Mayor that he
refused his first customer - a large farmer of good repute - because Henchard and this man had dealt
together within the preceding three months.
"He was once my friend," said Farfrae, "and it's not for me to take business from him. I am sorry to
disappoint you, but I cannot hurt the trade of a man who's been so kind to me."
In spite of this praiseworthy course the Scotchman's trade increased. Whether it were that his northern
energy was an over-mastering force among the easy-going Wessex worthies, or whether it was sheer
luck, the fact remained that whatever he touched he prospered in. Like Jacob in Padan-Aram, he would
no sooner humbly limit himself to the ringstraked-and-spotted exceptions of trade than the
ringstraked-and-spotted would multiply and prevail.
But most probably luck had little to do with it. Character is Fate, said Novalis, and Farfrae's character
was just the reverse of Henchard's, who might be described as Faust has been described - as a vehement
gloomy being who had quitted the ways of vulgar men, without light to guide him on a better way.
Farfrae duly received the request to discontinue attentions to Elizabeth-Jane. His acts of that kind had
been so slight that the request was almost superfluous. Yet he had felt a considerable interest in her, and
after some cogitation he decided that it would be as well to enact no Romeo part just then - for the young
girl's sake no less than his own. Thus the incipient attachment was stifled down.
A time came when, avoid collision with his former friend as he might, Farfrae was compelled, in sheer
self-defence, to close with Henchard in mortal commercial combat. He could no longer parry the fierce
attacks of the latter by simple avoidance. As soon as their war of prices began everybody was interested,


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and some few guessed the end. It was, in some degree, Northern insight matched against Southron
doggedness - the dirk against the cudgel - and Henchard's weapon was one which, if it did not deal ruin
at the first or second stroke, left him afterwards well-nigh at his antagonist's mercy.
Almost every Saturday they encountered each other amid the crowd of farmers which thronged about the
market-place in the weekly course of their business. Donald was always ready, and even anxious, to say a
few friendly words; but the Mayor invariably gazed stormfully past him, like one who had endured and
lost on his account, and could in no sense forgive the wrong; nor did Farfrae's snubbed manner of
perplexity at all appease him. The large farmers, corn-merchants, millers, auctioneers, and others had
each an official stall in the cornmarket room, with their names painted thereon; and when to the familiar
series of "Henchard", "Everdene", "Shiner", "Darton", and so on, was added one inscribed "Farfrae", in
staring new letters, Henchard was stung into bitterness; like Bellerophon, he wandered away from the
crowd, cankered in soul.
From that day Donald Farfrae's name was seldom mentioned in Henchard's house. If at breakfast or
dinner Elizabeth-Jane's mother inadvertently alluded to her favourite's movements, the girl would
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* XVIII *
THERE came a shock which had been foreseen for some time by Elizabeth, as the box passenger
foresees the approaching jerk from some channel across the highway.
Her mother was ill - too unwell to leave her room. Henchard, who treated her kindly, except in moments
of irritation, sent at once for the richest, busiest doctor, whom he supposed to be the best. Bedtime came,
and they burnt a light all night. In a day or two she rallied.
Elizabeth, who had been staying up, did not appear at breakfast on the second morning, and Henchard sat
down alone. He was startled to see a letter for him from Jersey in a writing he knew too well, and had
expected least to behold again. He took it up in his hands and looked at it as at a picture, a vision, a vista
of past enactments; and then he read it as an unimportant finale to conjecture.
The writer said that she at length perceived how impossible it would be for any further communications
to proceed between them now that his re-marriage had taken place. That such re-union had been the only
straighforward course open to him she was bound to admit.
"On calm reflection, therefore," she went on, "I quite forgive you for landing me in such a dilemma,
remembering that you concealed nothing before our ill-advised acquaintance; and that you really did set
before me in your grim way the fact of there being a certain risk in intimacy with you, slight as it seemed
to be after fifteen or sixteen years of silence on your wife's part. I thus look upon the whole as a
misfortune of mine, and not a fault of yours.
"So that, Michael, I must ask you to overlook those letters with which I pestered you day after day in the
heat of my feelings. They were written whilst I thought your conduct to me cruel; but now I know more
particulars of the position you were in I see how inconsiderate my reproaches were.
"Now you will, I am sure, perceive that the one condition which will make any future happiness possible
for me is that the past connection between our lives be kept secret outside this isle. Speak of it I know
you will not; and I can trust you not to write of it. One safeguard more remains to be mentioned - that no
writings of mine, or trifling articles belonging to me, should be left in your possession through neglect or
forgetfulness. To this end may I request you to return to me any such you may have, particularly the
letters written in the first abandonment of feeling.
"For the handsome sum you forwarded to me as a plaster to the wound I heartily thank you.
"I am now on my way to Bristol, to see my only relative. She is rich, and I hope will do something for
me. I shall return through Casterbridge and Budmouth, where I shall take the packet-boat. Can you meet
me with the letters and others trifles? I shall be in the coach which changes horses at the Antelope Hotel
at half past five Wednesday evening; I shall be wearing a Paisley shawl with a red centre, and thus may
easily be found. I should prefer this plan of receiving them to having them sent. - I remain still, yours
ever,
LUCETTA"
Henchard breathed heavily. "Poor thing - better you had not known me! Upon my heart and soul, if ever I
should be left in a position to carry out that marriage with thee, I ought to do it - I ought to do it, indeed!"


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The contingency that he had in his mind was, of course, the death of Mrs Henchard.
As requested, he sealed up Lucetta's letters, and put the parcel aside till the day she had appointed; this
play of returning them by hand being apparently a little ruse of the young lady for exchanging a word of
two with him on past times. He would have preferred not to see her; but deeming that there could be no
great harm in acquiescing thus far, he went at dusk and stood opposite the coach-office.
The evening was chilly, and the coach was late. Henchard crossed over to it while the horses were being
changed; but there was no Lucetta inside or out. Concluding that something had happened to modify her
arrangements he gave the matter up and went home, not without a sense of relief.
Meanwhile Mrs Henchard was weakening visibly. She could not go out of doors any more. One day,
after much thinking which seemed to distress her, she said she wanted to write something. A desk was
put upon her bed with pen and paper, and at her request she was left alone. She remained writing for a
short time, folded her paper carefully, called Elizabeth-Jane at bring a taper and wax, and then, still
refusing assistance, sealed up the sheet, directed it, and locked it in her desk. She had directed it in these
words:--
"Mr Michael Henchard. Not to be opened till Elizabeth-Jane's wedding-day."
The latter sat up with her mother to the utmost of her strength night after night. To learn to take the
universe seriously there is no quicker way than to watch - to be a "waker", as the country-people call it.
Between the hours at which the last toss-pot went by and the first sparrow shook himself, the silence in
Casterbridge - barring the rare sound of the watchman - was broken in Elizabeth's ear only by the
time-piece in the bedroom ticking frantically against the clock on the stairs; ticking harder and harder till
it seemed to clang like a gong; and all this while the subtle-souled girl asking herself why she was born,
why sitting in a room, and blinking at the candle; why things around her had taken the shape they wore in
preference to every other possible shape. Why they started at her so helplessly, as if waiting for the touch
of some wand that should release them from terrestrial constraint; what that chaos called consciousness,
which spun in her at this moment like a top, tended to, and began in. Her eyes fell together; she was
awake, yet she was asleep.
A word from her mother roused her. Without preface, and as the continuation of a scene already
progressing in her mind, Mrs Henchard said: "You remember the note sent to you and Mr Farfrae -
asking you to meet some one in Durnover Barton - and that you thought it was a trick to make fools of
you?"
"Yes."
"It was not to make fools of you - it was done to bring you together. 'Twas I did it."
"Why?" said Elizabeth, with a start.
"I - wanted you to marry Mr Farfrae."
"O mother!" Elizabeth-Jane bent down her head so much that she looked quite into her own lap. But as
her mother did not go on, she said, "What reason?"
"Well, I had a reason. 'Twill out one day. I wish it could have been in my time! But there - nothing is as
you wish it!Henchard hates him."

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"Perhaps they'll be friends again," murmured the girl.
"I don't know - I don't know." After this her mother was silent, and dozed; and she spoke on the subject
no more.
Some little time later on Farfrae was passing Henchard's house on a Sunday morning, when he observed
that the blinds were all down. He rang the bell so softly that it only sounded a single full note and a small
one; and then he was informed that Mrs Henchard was dead - just dead - that very hour.
At the town-pump there were gathered when he passed a few old inhabitants, who came there for water
whenever they had, as at present, spare time to fetch it, because it was purer from that original fount than
from their own wells. Mrs Cuxsom, who had been standing there for an indefinite time with her pitcher,
was describing the incidents of Mrs Henchard's death, as she had learnt them from the nurse.
"And she was as white as marble-stone," said Mrs Cuxsom. "And likewise such a thoughtful woman, too
- ah, poor soul - that a' minded every little thing that wanted tending. ""Yes,"" says she, ""when I'm gone,
and my last breath's blowed, look in the top drawer o' the chest in the back room by the window, and
you'll find all my coffin clothes; a piece of flannel - that's to put under me, and the little piece is to put
under my head; and my new stockings for my feet - they are folded alongside, and all my other things.
And there's four ounce pennies, the heaviest I could find, a-tied up in bits of linen, for weights - two for
my right eye and two for my left,"" she said. ""And when you've used 'em, and my eyes don't open no
more, bury the pennies, good souls, and don't ye go spending 'em, for I shouldn't like it. And open the
windows as soon as I am carried out, and make it as cheerful as you can for Elizabeth-Jane."""
"Ah, poor heart!"
"Well, and Martha did it, and buried the ounce pennies in the garden. But if ye'll believe words, that man,
Christopher Coney, went and dug 'em up, and spent 'em at the Three Mariners. ""Faith,"" he said, ""why
should death rob life o'fourpence? Death's not of such good report that we should respect 'en to that
extent,"" says he."
"'Twas a cannibal deed!" deprecated her listeners.
"Gad, then, I won't quite ha'e it," said Solomon Longways. "I say it today, and 'tis a Sunday morning, and
I wouldn't speak wrongfully for a zilver zixpence at such a time. I don't see noo harm in it. To respect the
dead is sound doxology; and I wouldn't sell skellintons - leastwise respectable skellintons - to be
varnished for 'natomies, except I were out o' work. But money is scarce, and throats get dry. Why should
death rob life o' fourpence? I say there was no treason in it."
"Well, poor soul; she's helpless to hinder that or anything now," answered Mother Cuxsom. "And all her
shining keys will be took from her, and her cupboards opened; and little things a' didn't wish seen,
anybody will see; and her wishes and ways will all be as nothing!"




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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XIX *


* XIX *
HENCHARD and Elizabeth sat conversing by the fire. It was three weeks after Mrs Henchard's funeral;
the candles were not lighted, and a restless, acrobatic flame, poised on a coal, called from the shady walls
the smiles of all shapes that could respond - the old pier-glass, with gilt columns and huge entablature,
the picture-frames, sundry knobs and handles, and the brass rosette at the bottom of each riband bell-pull
on either side of the chimney-piece.
"Elizabeth, do you think much of old times?" said Henchard.
"Yes, sir; often," said she.
"Who do you put in your pictures of 'em?"
"Mother and father - nobody else hardly."
Henchard always looked like one bent on resisting pain when Elizabeth-Jane spoke of Richard Newson
as "father". "Ah! I am out of all that, am I not?" he said... "Was Newson a kind father?"
"Yes, sir; very."
Henchard's face settled into an expression of stolid lonelines which gradually modulated into something
softer. "Suppose I had been your real father?" he said. "Would you have cared for me as much as you
cared for Richard Newson?"
"I can't think it," she said quickly. "I can think of no other as my father, except my father."
Henchard's wife was dissevered from him by death; his friend and helper Farfrae by estrangement;
Elizabeth-Jane by ignorance. It seemed to him that only one of them could possibly be recalled, and that
was the girl. His mind began vibrating between the wish to reveal himself to her and the policy of leaving
well alone, till he could no longer sit still. He walked up and down, and then he came and stood behind
her chair, looking down upon the top of her head. He could no longer restrain his impulse. "What did
your mother tell you about me - my history?" he asked.
"That you were related by marriage."
"She should have told more - before you knew me! Then my task would not have been such a hard one...
Elizabeth, it is I who am your father, and not Richard Newson. Shame alone prevented your wretched
parents from owning this to you while both of 'em were alive."
The back of Elizabeth's head remained still, and her shoulders did not denote even the movements of
breathing. Henchard went on: "I'd rather have your scorn, your fear, anything than your ignorance; 'tis
that I hate. Your mother and I were man and wife when we were young. What you saw was our second
marriage. Your mother was too honest. We had thought each other dead - and - Newson became her
husband."
This was the nearest approach Henchard could make to the full truth. As far as he personally was
concerned he would have screened nothing; but he showed a respect for the young girl's sex and years
worthy of a better man.


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When he had gone on to give details which a whole series of slight unregarded incidents in her past life
strangely corroborated; when, in short, she believed his story to be true, she became greatly agitated, and
turning round to the table flung her face upon it weeping.
"Don't cry - don't cry!" said Henchard, with vehement pathos, "I can't bear it, I won't bear it. I am your
father; why should you cry? Am I so dreadful, so hateful to 'ee? Don't take against me, Elizabeth-Jane!"
he cried, grasping her wet hand. "Don't take against me - though I was a drinking man once and used
your mother roughly - I'll be kinder to you than he was! I'll do anything, if you will only look upon me as
your father!"
She tried to stand up and confront him trustfully; but she could not; she was troubled at his presence, like
the brethren at the avowal of Joseph.
"I don't want you to come to me all of a sudden," said Henchard in jerks, and moving like a great tree in a
wind. "No, Elizabeth, I don't. I'll go away and not see you till tomorrow, or when you like; and then I'll
show 'ee papers to prove my words. There, I am gone, and won't disturb you any more... 'Twas I that
chose your name, my daughter; your mother wanted it Susan. There, don't forget 'twas I gave you your
name!" He went out at the door and shut her softly in, and she heard him go away into the garden. But he
had not done. Before she had moved, or in any way recovered from the effect of his disclosure, he
reappeared.
"One word more, Elizabeth," he said. "You'll take my surname now - hey? Your mother was against it;
but it will be much more pleasant to me. 'Tis legally yours, you know. But nobody need know that. You
shall take it as if by choice. I'll talk to my lawyer - I don't know the law of it exactly; but will you do this
- let me put a few lines into the newspaper that such is to be your name?"
"If it is my name I must have it, mustn't I?" she asked.
"Well, well; usage is everything in these matters."
"I wonder why mother didn't wish it?"
"Oh some whim of the poor soul's. Now get a bit of paper and draw up a paragraph as I shall tell you. But
let's have a light."
"I can see by the firelight," she answered. "Yes - I'd rather."
"Very well."
She got a piece of paper, and bending over the fender wrote at his dictation words which he had evidently
got by heart from some advertisement or other - words to the effect that she, the writer, hitherto known as
Elizabeth-Jane Newson, was going to call herself Elizabeth-Jane Henchard forthwith. It was done, and
fastened up and directed to the office of the Casterbridge Chronicle.
"Now," said Henchard, with the blaze of satisfaction that he always emitted when he had carried his point
- though tenderness softened it this time - I'll go upstairs and hunt for some documents that will prove it
all to you. But I won't trouble you with them till tomorrow. Good-night, my Elizabeth-Jane!"
He was gone before the bewildered girl could realize what it all meant, or adjust her filial sense to the
new centre of gravity. She was thankful that he had left her to herself for the evening, and sat down over


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the fire. Here she remained in silence, and wept - not for her mother now, but for the genial sailor
Richard Newson, to whom she seemed doing a wrong.
Henchard in the meantime had gone upstairs. Papers of a domestic nature he kept in a drawer in his
bedroom, and this he unlocked. Before turning them over he leant back and indulged in reposeful
thought. Elizabeth was his at last, and she was a girl of such good sense and kind heart that she would be
sure to like him. He was the kind of man whom some human object for pouring out his heat upon - were
it emotive or were it choleric - was almost a necessity. The craving of his heart for the re-establishment
of this tenderest human tie had been great during his wife's lifetime, and now he had submitted to its
mastery without reluctance and without fear. He bent over the drawer again, and proceeded in his search.
Among the other papers had been placed the contents of his wife's little desk, the keys of which had been
handed to him at her request. Here was the letter addressed to him with the restriction, "Not to be opened
till Elizabeth-Jane's wedding-day."
Mrs Henchard, though more patient than her husband, had been no practical hand at anything. In sealing
up the sheet, which was folded and tucked in without an envelope, in the old-fashioned way, she had
overlaid the junction with a large mass of wax without the requisite under-touch of the same. The seal
had cracked, and the letter was open. Henchard had no reason to suppose the restriction one of serious
weight, and his feeling for his late wife had not been of the nature of deep respect. "Some trifling fancy
or other of poor Susan's, I suppose," he said; and without curiosity he allowed his eyes to scan the
letter:--
MY DEAR MICHAEL, - For the good of all of us I have kept one thing a secret from you till now. I
hope you will understand why; I think you will; though perhaps you may not forgive me. But, dear
Michael, I have done it for the best. I shall be in my grave when you read this, and Elizabeth-Jane will
have a home. Don't curse me, Mike - think of how I was situated. I can hardly write it, but here it is.
Elizabeth-Jane is not your Elizabeth-Jane - the child who was in my arms when you sold me. No; she
died three months after that, and this living one is my other husband's. I christened her by the same name
we had given to the first, and she filled up the ache I felt at the other's loss. Michael, I am dying, and I
might have held my tongue; but I could not. Tell her husband of this or not, as you may judge; and
forgive, if you can, a woman you once deeply wronged, as she forgives you.
SUSAN HENCHARD
Her husband regarded the paper as if it were a windowpane through which he saw for miles. His lips
twitched, and he seemed to compress his frame, as if to bear better. His usual habit was not to consider
whether destiny were hard upon him or not - the shape of his ideas in cases of affliction being simply a
moody "I am to suffer, I perceive." "This much scourging, then, is it for me?" But now through his
passionate head there stormed this thought - that the blasting disclosure was what he had deserved.
His wife's extreme reluctance to have the girl's name altered from Newson to Henchard was now
accounted for fully. It furnished another illustration of that honesty in dishonesty which had
characterized her in other things.
He remained unnerved and purposeless for near a couple of hours; till he suddenly said, "Ah - I wonder if
it is true!"
He jumped up in an impulse, kicked off his slippers, and went with a candle to the door of

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Elizabeth-Jane's room, where he put his ear to the keyhole and listened. She was breathing profoundly.
Henchard softly turned the handle, entered, and shading the light, approached the bedside. Gradually
bringing the light from behind a screening curtain he held it in such manner that it fell slantwise on her
face without shining on her eyes. He steadfastly regarded her features.
They were fair: his were dark. But this was an unimportant preliminary. In sleep there come to the
surface buried genealogical facts, ancestral curves, dead men's traits, which the mobility of daytime
animation screens and overwhelms. In the present statuesque repose of the young girl's countenance
Richard Newson's was unmistakably reflected. He could not endure the sight of her, and hastened away.
Misery taught him nothing more than defiant endurance of it. His wife was dead, and the first impulse for
revenge died with the thought that she was beyond him. He looked out at the night as at a fiend.
Henchard, like all his kind, was superstitious, and he could not help thinking that the concatenation of
events this evening had produced was the scheme of some sinister intelligence bent on punishing him.
Yet they had developed naturally. If he had not revealed his past history to Elizabeth he would not have
searched the drawer for papers, and so on. The mockery was, that he should have no sooner taught a girl
of claim the shelter of his paternity than he discovered her to have no kinship with him.
This ironical sequence of things angered him like an impish trick from a fellow-creature. Like Prester
John's, his table had been spread, and infernal harpies had snatched up the food. He went out of the
house, and moved sullenly onward down the pavement till he came to the bridge at the bottom of the
High Street. Here he turned in upon a bypath on the river bank, skirting the north-east limits of the town.
These precincts embodied the mournful phases of Casterbridge life, as the south avenues embodied its
cheerful moods. The whole way along here was sunless, even in summer time; in spring, white frosts
lingered here when other places were steaming with warmth; while in winter it was the seed-field of all
aches, rheumatisms, and torturing cramps of the year. The Casterbridge doctors must have pined away
for want of sufficient nourishment but for the configuration of the landscape on the north-eastern side.
The river-slow, noiseless, and dark - the Schwarzwasser of Casterbridge - ran beneath a low cliff, the two
together forming a defence which had rendered walls and artificial earthworks on this side unnecessary.
Here were ruins of a Franciscan priory, and a mill attached to the same, the water of which roared down a
back-hatch like the voice of desolation. Above the cliff, and behind the river, rose a pile of buildings, and
in the front of the pile of square mass cut into the sky. It was like a pedestal lacking its statue. This
missing feature, without which the design remained incomplete, was, in truth, the corpse of a man; for
the square mass formed the base of the gallows, the extensive buildings at the back being the county
gaol. In the meadow where Henchard now walked the mob were wont to gather whenever an execution
took place, and there to the tune of the roaring weir they stood and watched the spectacle.
The exaggeration which darkness imparted to the glooms of this region impressed Henchard more than
he had expected. The lugubrious harmony of the spot with his domestic situation was too perfect for him,
impatient of effects, scenes, and adumbrations. It reduced his heartburning to melancholy, and he
exclaimed, "Why the deuce did I come here!" He went on past the cottage in which the old local
hangman had lived and died, in times before that calling was monopolized over all England by a single
gentleman; and climbed up by a steep back lane into the town.
For the sufferings of that night, engendered by his bitter disappointment, he might well have been pitied.
He was like one who had half fainted, and could neither recover nor complete the swoon. In words he


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could blame his wife, but not in his heart; and had he obeyed the wise directions outside her letter this
pain would have been spared him for long - possibly for ever, Elizabeth-Jane seeming to show no
ambition to quit her safe and secluded maiden courses for the speculative path of matrimony.
The morning came after this night of unrest, and with it the necessity for a plan. He was far too
self-willed to recede from a position, especially as it would involve humiliation. His daughter he had
asserted her to be, and his daughter she should always think herself, no matter what hypocrisy it
involved.
But he was ill-prepared for the first step in this new situation. The moment he came into the
breakfast-room Elizabeth advanced with open confidence to him and took him by the arm.
"I have thought and thought all night of it," she said frankly. "And I see that everything must be as you
say. And I am going to look upon you as the father that you are, and not to call you Mr Henchard any
more. It is so plain to me now. Indeed, father, it is. For, of course, you would not have done half the
things you have done for me, and let me have my own way so entirely, and bought me presents, if I had
only been your stepdaughter! He - Mr Newson - whom my poor mother married by such a strange
mistake" (Henchard was glad that he had disguised matters here), "was very kind - O so kind!" (she
spoke with tears in her eyes); "but that is not the same thing as being one's real father after all. Now,
father, breakfast is ready!" said she cheerfully.
Henchard bent and kissed her cheek. The moment and the act he had prefigured for weeks with a thrill of
pleasure; yet it was no less than a miserable insipidity to him now that it had come. His reinstation of her
mother had been chiefly for the girl's sake, and the fruition of the whole scheme was such dust and ashes
as this.




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* XX *
OF all the enigmas which ever confronted a girl there can have been seldom one like that which followed
Henchard's announcement of himself to Elizabeth as her father. He had done it in an ardour and an
agitation which had half carried the point of affection with her; yet, behold, from the next morning
onwards his manner was constrained as she had never seen it before.
The coldness soon broke out into open chiding. One grievous failing of Elizabeth's was her occasional
pretty and picturesque use of dialect words - those terrible marks of the beast to the truly genteel.
It was dinner-time - they never met except at meals - and she happened to say when he was rising from
table, wishing to show him something, "If you'll bide where you be a minute, father, I'll get it."
"""Bide where you be,""" he echoed sharply. "Good God, are you only fit to carry wash to a pig-trough,
that ye use such words as those?"
She reddened with shame and sadness.
"I meant ""Stay where you are"", father," she said, in a low, humble voice. "I ought to have been more
careful."
He made no reply, and went out of the room.
The sharp reprimand was not lost upon her, and in time it came to pass that for "fay" she said "succeed";
that she no longer spoke of "dumbledores" but of "humble bees"; no longer said of young men and
women that they "walked together", but that they were "engaged"; that she grew to talk of "greggles" as
"wild hyacinths"; that when she had not slept she did not quaintly tell the servants next morning that she
had been "hagrid", but that she had "suffered from indigestion".
These improvements, however, are somewhat in advance of the story. Henchard, being uncultivated
himself, was the bitterest critic the fair girl could possibly have had of her own lapses - really slight now,
for she read omnivorously. A gratuitous ordeal was in store for her in the matter of her handwriting. She
was passing the dining-room door one evening, and had occasion to go in for something. It was not till
she had opened the door that she knew the Mayor was there in the company of a man with whom he
transacted business.
"Here, Elizabeth-Jane," he said, looking round at her, "just write down what I tell you - a few words of an
agreement for me and this gentleman to sign. I am a poor tool with a pen."
"Be jowned, and so be I," said the gentleman.
She brought forward blotting-book, paper, and ink, and sat down.
"Now then - ""An agreement entered into this sixteenth day of October"" - write that first."
She started the pen in an elephantine march across the sheet. It was a splendid round, bold hand of her
own conception, a style that would have stamped a woman as Minerva's own in more recent days. But
other ideas reigned then. Henchard's creed was that proper young girls wrote ladies'-hand - nay, he
believed that bristling characters were as innate and inseparable a part of refined womanhood as sex


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itself. Hence when, instead of scribbling, like the Princess Ida. --
        In such a hand as when a field of corn Bows all its ears before the roaring East,
Elizabeth-Jane produced a line of chain-shot and sand-bags, he reddened in angry shame for her, and,
peremptorily saying, "Never mind - I'll finish it," dismissed her there and then.
Her considerate disposition became a pitfall to her now. She was, it must be admitted, sometimes
provokingly and unnecessarily willing to saddle herself with manual labours. She would go to the kitchen
instead of ringing. "Not to make Phoebe come up twice." She went down to her knees, shovel in hand,
when the cat overturned the coal-scuttle; moreover, she would persistently thank the parlour-maid for
everything, till one day, as soon as the girl was gone from the room. Henchard broke out with, "Good
God, why dostn't leave off thanking that girl as if she were a goddess-born! Don't I pay her a dozen
pound a year to do things for 'ee?" Elizabeth shrank so visibly at the exclamation that he became sorry a
few minutes after, and said that he did not mean to be rough.
These domestic exhibitions were the small protruding needle-rocks which suggested rather than revealed
what was underneath. But his passion had less terror for her than his coldness. The increasing frequency
of the latter mood told her the sad news that he disliked her with a growing dislike. The more interesting
that her appearance and manners became under the softening influences which she could now command,
and in her wisdom did command, the more she seemed to estrange him. Sometimes she caught him
looking at her with a louring invidiousness that she could hardly bear. Not knowing his secret it was a
cruel mockery that she should for the first time excite his animosity when she had taken his surname.
But the most terrible ordeal was to come. Elizabeth had latterly been accustomed of an afternoon to
present a cup of cider or ale and bread-and-cheese to Nance Mockridge, who worked in the yard
wimbling hay-bonds. Nance accepted this offering thankfully at first; afterwards as a matter of course.
On a day when Henchard was on the premises he saw his stepdaughter enter the hay-barn on this errand;
and, as there was no clear spot on which to deposit the provisions, she at once set to work arranging two
trusses of hay as a table, Mockridge meanwhile standing with her hands on her hips, easefully looking at
the preparations on her behalf.
"Elizabeth, come here!" said Henchard; and she obeyed.
"Why do you lower yourself so confoundedly?" he said with suppressed passion. "Haven't I told you o't
fifty times? Hey? Making yourself a drudge for a common workwoman of such a character as hers! Why,
ye'll disgrace me to the dust!"
Now these words were uttered loud enough to reach Nance inside the barn door, who fired up
immediately at the slur upon her personal character. Coming to the door she cried, regardless of
consequences, "Come to that, Mr Michael Henchard, I can let 'ee know she've waited on worse!"
"Then she must have had more charity than sense," said Henchard.
"O no, she hadn't. 'Twere not for charity but for hire; and at a public-house in this town!"
"It is not true!" cried Henchard indignantly.
"Just ask her," said Nance, folding her naked arms in such a manner that she could comfortably scratch
her elbows.


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Henchard glanced at Elizabeth-Jane, whose complexion, now pink the white from confinement, lost
nearly all of the former colour. "What does this mean?" he said to her. "Anything or nothing?"
"It is true," said Elizabeth-Jane. "But it was only - "
"Did you do it, or didn't you? Where was it?"
"At the Three Mariners; one evening for a little while, when we were staying there."
Nance glanced triumphantly at Henchard, and sailed into the barn; for assuming that she was to be
discharged on the instant she had resolved to make the most of her victory. Henchard, however, said
nothing about discharging her. Unduly sensitive on such points by reason of his own past, he had the
look of one completely ground down to the last indignity. Elizabeth followed him to the house like a
culprit; but when she got inside she could not see him. Nor did she see him again that day.
Convinced of the scathing damage to his local repute and position that must have been caused by such a
fact, though it had never before reached his own ears, Henchard showed a positive distaste for the
presence of this girl not his own, whenever he encountered her. He mostly dined with the farmers at the
market-room of one of the two chief hotels, leaving her in utter solitude. Could he have seen how she
made use of those silent hours he might have found reason to reverse his judgement on her quality. She
read and took notes incessantly, mastering facts with painful laboriousness, but never flinching from her
self-imposed task. She began the study of Latin, incited by the Roman characteristics of the town she
lived in. "If I am not well-informed it shall be by no fault of my own," she would say to herself through
the tears that would occasionally glide down her peachy cheeks when she was fairly baffled by the
portentous obscurity of many of these educational works.
Thus she lived on, a dumb, deep-feeling, great-eyed creature, construed by not a single contiguous being;
quenching with patient fortitude her incipient interest in Farfrae, because it seemed to be one-sided,
unmaidenly, and unwise. True, that for reasons best known to herself, she had, since Farfrae's dismissal,
shifted her quarters from the back room affording a view of the yard (which she had occupied with such
zest) to a front chamber overlooking the street; but as for the young man, whenever he passed the house
he seldom or never turned his head.
Winter had almost come, and unsettled weather made her still more dependent upon indoor resources.
But there were certain early winter days in Casterbridge - days of firmamental exhaustion which
followed angry south-westerly tempests - when, if the sun shone, the air was like velvet. She seized on
these days for her periodical visits to the spot where her mother lay buried - the still-used burial-ground
of the old Roman-British city, whose curious feature was this, its continuity as a place of sepulture. Mrs
Henchard's dust mingled with the dust of women who lay ornamented with glass hairpins and amber
necklaces, and men who held in their mouths coins of Hadrian, Posthumus, and the Constantines.
Half-past ten in the morning was about her hour for seeking this spot - a time when the town avenues
were deserted as the avenues of Karnac. Business had long since passed down them into its daily cells,
and Leisure had not arrived there. So Elizabeth-Jane walked and read, or looked over the edge of the
book to think, and thus reached the churchyard.
There, approaching her mother's grave, she saw a solitary dark figure in the middle of the gravel-walk.
This figure, too, was reading; but not from a book: the words which engrossed it being the inscription on
Mrs Henchard's tombstone. The personage was in mourning like herself, was about her age and size, and

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might have been her wraith or double, but for the fact that it was a lady much more beautifully dressed
than she. Indeed, comparatively indifferent as Elizabeth-Jane was to dress, unless for some temporary
whim or purpose, her eyes were arrested by the artistic perfection of the lady's appearance. Her gait, too,
had a flexuousness about it, which seemed to avoid angularity of movement less from choice than from
predisposition. It was a revelation to Elizabeth that human beings could reach this stage of external
development - she had never suspected it. She felt all the freshness and grace to be stolen from herself on
the instant by the neighbourhood of such a stranger. And this was in face of the fact that Elizabeth could
have been writ handsome, while the young lady was simply pretty.
Had she been envious she might have hated the woman; but she did not do that - she allowed herself the
pleasure of feeling fascinated. She wondered where the lady had come from. The stumpy and practical
walk of honest homeliness which mostly prevailed there, the two styles of dress thereabout, the simple
and the mistaken, equally avouched that this figure was no Casterbridge woman's, even if a book in her
hand resembling a guide-book had not also suggested it.
The stranger presently moved from the tombstone of Mrs Henchard, and vanished behind the corner of
the wall. Elizabeth went to the tomb herself; beside it were two footprints distinct in the soil, signifying
that the lady had stood there a long time. She returned homeward, musing on what she had seen, as she
might have mused on a rainbow or the Northern Lights, a rare butterfly or a cameo.
Interesting as things had been out of doors, at home it turned out to be one of her bad days. Henchard,
whose two years' mayoralty was ending, had been made aware that he was not to be chosen to fill a
vacancy in the list of aldermen; and that Farfrae was likely to become one of the Council. This caused the
unfortunate discovery that she had played the waiting-maid in the town of which he was Mayor to rankle
in his mind yet more poisonously. He had learnt by personal inquiry at the time that it was to Donald
Farfrae - that treacherous upstart - that she had thus humiliated herself. And though Mrs Stannidge
seemed to attach no great importance to the incident - the cheerful souls at the Three Mariners having
exhausted its aspects long ago - such was Henchard's haughty spirit that the simple thrifty deed was
regarded as little less than a social catastrophe by him.
Ever since the evening of his wife's arrival with her daughter there had been something in the air which
had changed his luck. That dinner at the King's Arms with his friends had been Henchard's Austerlitz: he
had had his successes since, but his courses had not been upward. He was not to be numbered among the
aldermen - that Peerage of burghers - as he had expected to be, and the consciousness of this soured him
today.
"Well, where have you been?" he said to her with off-hand laconism.
"I've been strolling in the Walks and churchyard, father, till I feel quite leery." She clapped her hand to
her mouth, but too late.
This was just enough to incense Henchard after the other crosses of the day. "I won't have you talk like
that!" he thundered. """Leery"", indeed. One would think you worked upon a farm! One day I learn that
you lend a hand in public-houses. Then I hear you talk like a clodhopper. I'm burned, if it goes on, this
house can't hold us two."
The only way of getting a single pleasant thought to go to sleep upon after this was by recalling the lady
she had seen that day, and hoping she might see her again.


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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XX *

Meanwhile Henchard was sitting up, thinking over his jealous folly in forbidding Farfrae to pay his
addresses to this girl who did not belong to him, when if he had allowed them to go on he might not have
been encumbered with her. At last he said to himself with satisfaction as he jumped up and went to the
writing-table: "Ah! he'll think it means peace, and a marriage portion - not that I don't want my house to
be troubled with her, and no portion at all!" He wrote as follows:--
SIR, - On consideration, I don't wish to interfere with your courtship of Elizabeth-Jane, if you care for
her. I therefore withdraw my objection; excepting in this - that the business be not carried on in my
house. - Yours,
M. HENCHARD
Mr Farfrae
The morrow, being fairly fine, found Elizabeth-Jane again in the churchyard; but while looking for the
lady she was startled by the apparition of Farfrae, who passed outside the gate. He glanced up for a
moment from a pocket-book in which he appeared to be making figures as he went; whether or not he
saw her he took no notice, and disappeared.
Unduly depressed by a sense of her own superfluity she thought he probably scorned her; and quite
broken in spirit sat down on a bench. She fell into painful thought on her position, which ended with her
saying quite loud, "O, I wish I was dead with dear mother!"
Behind the bench was a little promenade under the wall where people sometimes walked instead of on
the gravel. The bench seemed to be touched by something; she looked round, and a face was bending
over her, veiled, but still distinct, the fact of the young woman she had seen yesterday.
Elizabeth-Jane looked confounded for a moment, knowing she had been overheard, though there was
pleasure in her confusion. "Yes, I heard you," said the lady, in a vivacious voice, answering her look.
"What can have happened?"
"I don't - I can't tell you," said Elizabeth, putting her hand to her face to hide a quick flush that had come.
There was no movement or word for a few seconds; then the girl felt that the young lady was sitting
down beside her.
"I guess how it is with you," said the latter. "That was your mother." She waved her hand towards the
tombstone. Elizabeth looked up at her as if inquiring to herself whether there should be confidence. The
lady's manner was so desirous, so anxious, that the girl decided there should be confidence. "It was my
mother," she said, "my old friend."
"But your father, Mr Henchard. He is living?"
"Yes, he is living," said Elizabeth-Jane.
"Is he not kind to you?"
"I've no wish to complain of him."
"There has been a disagreement?"
"A little."

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"Perhaps you were to blame," suggested the stranger.
"I was - in many ways," sighed the meek Elizabeth. "I swept up the coals when the servant ought to have
done it; and I said I was leery; - and he was angry with me."
The lady seemed to warm towards her for that reply. "Do you known the impression your words give
me?" she said ingenuously. "That he is a hot-tempered man - a little proud - perhaps ambitious; but not a
bad man." Her anxiety not to condemn Henchard while siding with Elizabeth was curious.
"O no; certainly not bad," agreed the honest girl. "And he has not even been unkind to me till lately -
since mother died. But it has been very much to bear while it has lasted. All is owing to my defects, I
daresay; and my defects are owing to my history."
"What is your history?"
Elizabeth-Jane looked wistfully at her questioner. She found that her questioner was looking at her;
turned her eyes down; and then seemed compelled to look back again. "My history is not gay or
attractive," she said. "And yet I can tell it, if you really want to know."
The lady assured her that she did want to know; whereupon Elizabeth-Jane told the tale of her life as she
understood it, which was in general the true one, except that the sale at the fair had no part therein.
Contrary to the girl's expectation her new friend was not shocked. This cheered her; and it was not till she
thought of returning to that home in which she had been treated so roughly of late that her spirits fell.
"I don't know how to return," she murmured. "I think of going away. But what can I do? Where can I
go?"
"Perhaps it will be better soon," said her friend gently. "So I would not go far. Now what do you think of
this: I shall soon want somebody to live in my house, partly as housekeeper, partly as companion; would
you mind coming to me? But perhaps - "
"O yes," cried Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes. "I would, indeed - I would do anything to be
independent; for then perhaps my father might get to love me. But, ah!"
"What?"
"I am no accomplished person. And a companion to you must be that."
"O, not necessarily."
"Not? But I can't help using rural words sometimes, when I don't mean to."
"Never mind, I shall like to know them."
"And - O, I know I shan't do!" - she cried with a distressful laugh. "I accidentally learned to write round
hand instead of ladies'-hand. And, of course, you want some one who can write that?"
"Well, no."
"What, not necessary to write ladies'-hand?" cried the joyous Elizabeth.
"Not at all."

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"But where do you live?"
"In Casterbridge, or rather I shall be living here after twelve o' clock today."
Elizabeth expressed her astonishment.
"I have been staying at Budmouth for a few days while my house was getting ready. The house I am
going into is that one they call High-Place Hall - the old stone one looking down the lane to the Market.
Two or three rooms are fit for occupation, though not all: I sleep there tonight for the first time. Now will
you think over my proposal, and meet me here the first fine day next week, and say if you are still in the
same mind?"
Elizabeth, her eyes shining at this prospect of a change from an unbearable position, joyfully assented;
and the two parted at the gate of the churchyard.




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HARDY: The Mayor of Casterbridge - * XXI *


* XXI *
AS a maxim glibly repeated from childhood remains practically unmarked till some mature experience
enforces it, so did this High-Place Hall now for the first time really show itself to Elizabeth-Jane, though
her ears had heard its name on a hundred occasions.
Her mind dwelt upon nothing else but the stranger, and the house, and her own chance of living there, all
the rest of the day. In the afternoon she had occasion to pay a few bills in the town and do a little
shopping, when she learnt that what was a new discovery to herself had become a common topic about
the streets. High-Place Hall was undergoing repair; a lady was coming there to live shortly; all the
shop-people knew it, and had already discounted the chance of her being a customer.
Elizabeth-Jane could, however, add a capping touch to information so new to her in the bulk. The lady,
she said, had arrived that day.
When the lamps were lighted, and it was yet not so dark as to render chimneys, attics, and roofs invisible,
Elizabeth, almost with a lover's feeling, thought she would like to look at the outside of High-Place Hall.
She went up the street in that direction.
The Hall, with its grey façade and parapet, was the only residence of its sort so near the centre of the
town. It had, in the first place, the characteristics of a country mansion - birds' nests in its chimneys,
damp nooks where fungi grew, and irregularities of surface direct from Nature's trowel. At night the
forms of passengers were patterned by the lamps in black shadows upon the pale walls.
This evening motes of straw lay around, and other signs of the premises having been in that lawless
condition which accompanies the entry of a new tenant. The house was entirely of stone, and formed an
example of dignity without great size. It was not altogether aristocratic, still less consequential, yet the
old-fashioned stranger instinctively said, "Blood built it, and Wealth enjoys it," however vague his
opinions of those accessories might be.
Yet as regards the enjoying it the stranger would have been wrong, for until this very evening, when the
new lady had arrived, the house had been empty for a year or two, while before that interval its
occupancy had been irregular. The reason of its unpopularity was soon made manifest. Some of its rooms
overlooked the market-place; and such a prospect from such a house was not considered desirable or
seemly by its would-be occupiers.
Elizabeth's eyes sought the upper rooms, and saw lights there. The lady had obviously arrived. The
impression that this woman of comparatively practised manner had made upon the studious girl's mind
was so deep that she enjoyed standing under an opposite archway merely to think that the charming lady
was inside the confronting walls, and to wonder what she was doing. Her admiration for the architecture
of that front was entirely on account of the inmate it screened. Though for that matter the architecture
deserved admiration, or at least study, on its own account. It was Palladian, and like most architecture
erected since the Gothic age was a compilation rather than a design. But its reasonableness made it
impressive. It was not rich, but rich enough. A timely consciousness of the ultimate vanity of human
architecture, no less than of other human things, had prevented artistic superfluity.
Men had till quite recently been going in and out with parcels and packing-cases, rendering the door and


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hall within like a public thoroughfare. Elizabeth trotted through the open door in the dusk, but becoming
alarmed at her own temerity she went quickly out again by another which stood open in the lofty wall of
the back court. To her surprise she found herself in one of the little-used alleys of the town. Looking
round at the door which had given her egress, by the light of the solitary lamp fixed in the alley, she saw
that it was arched and old - older even than the house itself. The door was studded, and the keystone of
the arch was a mask. Originally the mask had exhibited a comic leer, as could still be discerned; but
generations of Casterbridge boys had thrown stones at the mask, aiming at its open mouth; and the blows
thereon had chipped off the lips and jaws as if they had been eaten away by disease. The appearance was
so ghastly by the weakly lamp-glimmer that she could not bear to look at it - the first unpleasant feature
of her visit.
The position of the queer old door and the odd presence of the leering mask suggested one thing above
all others as appertaining to the mansion's past history - intrigue. By the alley it had been possible to
come unseen from all sorts of quarters in the town - the old play-house, the old bull-stake, the old
cock-pit, the pool wherein nameless infants had been used to disappear. High-Place Hall could boast of
its conveniences undoubtedly.
She turned to come away in the nearest direction homeward, which was down the alley, but hearing
footsteps approaching in that quarter, and having no great wish to be found in such a place at such a time
she quickly retreated. There being no other way out she stood behind a brick pier till the intruder should
have gone his ways.
Had she watched she would have been surprised. She would have seen that the pedestrian on coming up
made straight for the arched doorway: that as he paused with his hand upon the latch the lamplight fell
upon the face of Henchard.
But Elizabeth-Jane clung so closely to her nook that she discerned nothing of this. Henchard passed in, as
ignorant of her presence as she was ignorant of his identity, and disappeared in the darkness. Elizabeth
came out a second time into the alley, and made the best of her way home.
Henchard's chiding, by begetting in her a nervous fear of doing anything definable as unlady-like, had
operated thus curiously in keeping them unknown to each other at a critical moment. Much might have
resulted from recognition - at the least a query on either side in one and the self-same form: What could
he or she possibly be doing there?
Henchard, whatever his business at the lady's house, reached his own home only a few minutes later than
Elizabeth-Jane. Her plan was to broach the question of leaving his roof this evening; the events of the
day had urged her to the course. But its execution depended upon his mood, and she anxiously awaited
his manner towards her. She found that it had changed. He showed no further tendency to be angry; he
showed something worse. Absolute indifference had taken the place of irritability; and his coldness was
such that it encouraged her to departure, even more than hot temper could have done.
"Father, have you any objection to my going away?" she asked.
"Going away! No - none whatever. Where are you going?"
She thought it undesirable and unnecessary to say anything at present about her destination to one who
took so little interest in her. He would know that soon enough. "I have heard of an opportunity of getting
more cultivated and finished, and being less idle," she answered, with hesitation. "A chance of a place in

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a household where I can have advantages of study, and seeing refined life."
"Then make the best of it, in Heaven's name - if you can't get cultivated where you are."
"You don't object?"
"Object - I? Ho - no! Not at all." After a pause he said, "But you won't have enough money for this lively
scheme without help, you know? If you like I should be willing to make you an allowance, so that you be
not bound to live upon the starvation wages refined folk are likely to pay 'ee."
She thanked him for this offer.
"It had better be done properly," he added after a pause. "A small annuity is what I should like you to
have - so as to be independent of me - and so that I may be independent of you. Would that please ye?"
"Certainly."
"Then I'll see about it this very day." He seemed relieved to get her off his hands by this arrangement,
and as far as they were concerned the matter was settled. She now simply waited to see the lady again.
The day and the hour came; but a drizzling rain fell. Elizabeth-Jane, having now changed her orbit from
one of gay independence to laborious self-help, thought the weather good enough for such declined glory
as hers, if her friend would only face it - a matter of doubt. She went to the boot-room where her pattens
had hung ever since her apotheosis, took them down, had their mildewed leathers blacked, and put them
on as she had done in old times. Thus mounted, and with cloak and umbrella, she went off to the place of
appointment - intending, if the lady were not there, to call at the house.
One side of the churchyard - the side towards the weather - was sheltered by an ancient thatched mud
wall whose eaves overhung as much as one or two feet. At the back of the wall was a corn-yard with its
granary and barns - the place wherein she had met Farfrae many months earlier. Under the projection of
the thatch she saw a figure. The young lady had come.
Her presence so exceptionally substantiated the girl's utmost hopes that the almost feared her good
fortune. Fancies find room in the strongest minds. Here, in a churchyard old as civilization, in the worst
of weathers, was a strange woman of curious fascinations never seen elsewhere: there might be some
devilry about her presence. However, Elizabeth went on to the church tower, on whose summit the rope
of a flag-staff rattled in the wind; and thus she came to the wall.
The lady had such a cheerful aspect in the drizzle that Elizabeth forgot her fancy. "Well," said the lady, a
little of the whiteness of her teeth appearing with the word through the black fleece that protected her
face, "have you decided?"
"Yes, quite," said the other eagerly.
"Your father is willing?"
"Yes."
"Then come along."
"When?"


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"Now - as soon as you like. I had a good mind to send to you to come to my house, thinking you might
not venture up here in the wind. But as I like getting out of doors, I thought I would come and see first."
"It was my own thought."
"That shows we shall agree. Then can you come today? My house is so hollow and dismal that I want
some living thing there."
"I think I might be able to," said the girl, reflecting.
Voices were borne over to them at that instant on the wind and raindrops from the other side of the wall.
There came such words as "sacks", "quarters", "threshing", "tailing", "next Saturday's market", each
sentence being disorganized by the gusts like a face a cracked mirror. Both the women listened.
"Who are those?" said the lady.
"One is my father. He rents that yard and barn."
The lady seemed to forget the immediate business in listening to the technicalities of the corn trade. At
last she said suddenly, "Did you tell him where you were going to?"
"No."
"O - how was that?"
"I thought it safer to get away first - as he is so uncertain in his temper."
"Perhaps you are right... Besides, I have never told you my name. It is Miss Templeman... Are they gone
- on the other side?"
"No. They are only gone up into the granary."
"Well, it is getting damp here. I shall expect you today - this evening, say, at six."
"Which way shall I come, ma'am?"
"The front way - round by the gate. There is no other that I have noticed."
Elizabeth-Jane had been thinking of the door in the alley.
"Perhaps, as you have not mentioned your destination, you may as well keep silent upon it till you are
clear off. Who knows but that he may alter his mind?"
Elizabeth-Jane shook her head. "On consideration I don't fear it," she said sadly. "He has grown quite
cold to me."
"Very well. Six o'clock then."
When they had emerged upon the open road and parted, they found enough to do in holding their bowed
umbrellas to the wind. Nevertheless the lady looked in at the corn-yard gates as she passed them, and
paused on one foot for a moment. But nothing was visible there save the ricks, and the humpbacked barn
cushioned with moss, and the granary rising against the church-tower behind, where the smacking of the
rope against the flag-staff still went on.


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Now Henchard had not the slightest suspicion that Elizabeth-Jane's movement was to be so prompt.
Hence when, just before six, he reached home and saw a fly at the door from the King's Arms, and his
stepdaughter, with all her little bags and boxes, getting into it, he was taken by surprise.
"But you said I might go, father?" she explained through the carriage window.
"Said! - yes. But I thought you meant next month, or next year. 'Od, seize it - you take time by the
forelock! This, then, is how you be going to treat me for all my trouble about ye?"
"O father! how can you speak like that? It is unjust of you!" she said with spirit.
"Well, well, have your own way," he replied. He entered the house, and, seeing that all her things had not
yet been brought down, went up to her room to look on. Her had never been there since she had occupied
it. Evidences of her care, of her endeavours for improvement, were visible all around, in the form of
books, sketches, maps, and little arrangements for tasteful effects. Henchard had known nothing of these
efforts. He gazed at them, turned suddenly about, and came down to the door.
"Look here," he said, in an altered voice - he never called her by name now - "don't 'ee go away from me.
It may be I've spoke roughly to you - but I've been grieved beyond everything by you - there's something
that caused it."
"By me?" she said, with deep concern. "What have I done?"
"I can't tell you now. But if you'll stop, and go on living as my daughter. I'll tell you all in time."
But the proposal had come ten minutes too late. She was in the fly - was already, in imagination, at the
house of the lady whose manner had such charms for her. "Father," she said, as considerately as she
could. "I think it best for us that I go on now. I need not stay long; I shall not be far away; and if you
want me badly I can soon come back again."
He nodded ever so slightly, as a receipt of her decision and no more. "You are not going far, you say.
What will be your address, in case I wish to write to you? Or am I not to know?"
"Oh yes - certainly. It is only in the town - High-Place Hall."
"Where?" said Henchard, his face stilling.
She repeated the words. He neither moved nor spoke, and waving her hand to him in utmost friendliness
she signified to the flyman to drive up the street.




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* XXII *
WE go back for a moment to the preceding night, to account for Henchard's attitude.
At the hour when Elizabeth-Jane was contemplating her stealthy reconnoitring excursion to the abode of
the lady of her fancy, he had been not a little amazed at receiving a letter by hand in Lucetta's
well-known characters. The selfrepression, the resignation of her previous communication had vanished
from her mood; she wrote with some of the natural lightness which had marked her in their early
acquaintance.
HIGH-PLACE HALL
MY DEAR MY HENCHARD, - Don't be surprised. It is for your good and mine, as I hope, that I have
come to live at Casterbridge - for how long I cannot tell. That depends upon another; and he is a man,
and a merchant, and a Mayor, and one who has the first right to my affections.
Seriously, mon ami, I am not so light-hearted as I may seem to be from this. I have come here in
consequence of hearing of the death of your wife - whom you used to think of as dead so many years
before! Poor woman, she seems to have been a sufferer, though uncomplaining, and though weak in
intellect not an imbecile. I am glad you acted fairly by her. As soon as I knew she was no more, it was
brought home to me very forcibly by my conscience that I ought to endeavour to disperse the shade
which my étourderie flung over my name, by asking you to carry out your promise to me. I hope you are
of the same mind, and that you will take steps to this end. As, however, I did not know how you were
situated, or what had happened since our separation, I decided to come and establish myself here before
communicating with you.
You probably feel as I do about this. I shall be able to see you in a day or two. Till then, farewell. -
Yours,
LUCETTA
P.S. - I was unable to keep my appointment to meet you for a moment or two in passing through
Casterbridge the other day. My plans were altered by a family event, which it will surprise you to hear of.
Henchard had already heard that High-Place Hall was being prepared for a tenant. He said with a puzzled
air to the first person he encountered, "Who is coming to live at the Hall?"
"A lady of the name of Templeman, I believe, sir," said his informant.
Henchard thought it over. "Lucetta is related to her, I suppose," he said to himself. "Yes, I must put her in
her proper position, undoubtedly."
It was by no means with the oppression that would once have accompanied the thought that he regarded
the moral necessity now; it was, indeed, with interest, if not warmth. His bitter disappointment at finding
Elizabeth-Jane to be none of his, and himself a childless man, had left an emotional void in Henchard
that he unconsciously craved to fill. In this frame of mind, though without strong feeling, he had strolled
up the alley and into High-Place Hall by the postern at which Elizabeth had so nearly encountered him.
He had gone on thence into the court, and inquired of a man whom he saw unpacking china from a crate
if Miss Le Sueur was living there. Miss Le Sueur had been the name under which he had known Lucetta

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- or "Lucette", as she had called herself at that time.
The man replied in the negative; that Miss Templeman only had come. Henchard went away, concluding
that Lucetta had not as yet settled in.
He was in this interested stage of the inquiry when he witnessed Elizabeth-Jane's departure the next day.
On hearing her announce the address there suddenly took possession of him the strange thought that
Lucetta and Miss Templeman were one and the same person, for he could recall that in her season of
intimacy with him the name of the rich relative whom he had deemed somewhat a mythical personage
had been given as Templeman. Though he was not a fortune-hunter, the possibility that Lucetta had been
sublimed into a lady of means by some munificent testament on the part of this relative lent a charm to
her image which it might not otherwise have acquired. He was getting on towards the dead level of
middle age, when material things increasingly possess the mind.
But Henchard was not left long in suspense. Lucetta was rather addicted to scribbling, as had been shown
by the torrent of letters after the fiasco in their marriage arrangements, and hardly had Elizabeth gone
away when another note came to the Mayor's house from High-Place Hall.
"I am in residence," she said, "and comfortable, though getting here has been a wearisome undertaking.
You probably know what I am going to tell you, or do you not? My good Aunt Templeman, the banker's
widow, whose very existence you used to doubt, much more her affluence, has lately died, and
bequeathed some of her property to me. I will not enter into details except to say that I have taken her
name - as a means of escape from mine, and its wrongs.
"I am now my own mistress, and have chosen to reside in Casterbridge - to be tenant of High-Place Hall,
that at least you may be put to no trouble if you wish to see me. My first intention was to keep you in
ignorance of the changes in my life till you should meet me in the street; but I have thought better of this.
"You probably are aware of my arrangement with your daughter, and have doubtless laughed at the -
what shall I call it? - practical joke (in all affection) of my getting her to live with me. But my first
meeting with her was purely an accident. Do you see, Michael, partly why I have done it? - why, to give
you an excuse for coming here as if to visit her, and thus to form my acquaintance naturally. She is a
dear, good girl, and she thinks you have treated her with undue severity. You may have done so in your
haste, but not deliberately, I am sure. As the result has been to bring her to me I am not disposed to
upbraid you. - In haste, yours always,
LUCETTA"
The excitement which these announcements produced in Henchard's gloomy soul was to him most
pleasurable. He sat over his dining-table long and dreamily, and by an almost mechanical transfer the
sentiments which had run to waste since his estrangement from Elizabeth-Jane and Donald Farfrae
gathered around Lucetta before they had grown dry. She was plainly in a very coming-on disposition for
marriage. But what else could a poor woman be who had given her time and heart to him so
thoughtlessly, at that former time, as to lose her credit by it? Probably conscience no less than affection
had brought her here. On the whole he did not blame her.
"The artful little woman!" he said, smiling (with reference to Lucetta's adroit and pleasant manoeuvre
with Elizabeth-Jane).



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To feel that he would like to see Lucetta was with Henchard to start for her house. He put on his hat and
went. It was between eight and nine o'clock when he reached her door. The answer brought him was that
Miss Templeman was engaged for that evening; but that she would be happy to see him the next day.
"That's rather like giving herself airs!" he thought. "And considering what we - " But after all, she plainly
had not expected him, and he took the refusal quietly. Nevertheless he resolved not to go next day.
"These cursed woman - there's not an inch of straight grain in 'em!" he said.
Let us follow the track of Mr Henchard's thought as if it were a clue line, and view the interior of
High-Place Hall on this particular evening.
On Elizabeth-Jane's arrival she had been phlegmatically asked by an elderly woman to go upstairs and
take off her things. She had replied with great earnestness that she would not think of giving that trouble,
and on the instant divested herself of her bonnet and cloak in the passage. She was then conducted to the
first door on the landing, and left to find her way further alone.
The room disclosed was prettily furnished as a boudoir or small drawing-room, and on a sofa with two
cylindrical pillows reclined a dark-haired, large-eyed, pretty woman, of unmistakably French extraction
on one side or the other. She was probably some years older than Elizabeth, and had a sparkling light in
her eye. In front of the sofa was a small table, with a pack of cards scattered upon it faces upward.
The attitude had been so full of abandonment that she bounded up like a spring on hearing the door open.
Perceiving that it was Elizabeth she lapsed into ease, and came across to her with a reckless skip that
innate grace only prevented from being boisterous.
"Why, you are late," she said, taking hold of ElizabethJane's hands.
"There were so many little things to put up."
"And you seem dead-alive and tired. Let me try to enliven you by some wonderful tricks I have learnt, to
kill time. Sit there and don't move." She gathered up the pack of cards, pulled the table in front of her,
and began to deal them rapidly, telling Elizabeth to choose some.
"Well, have you chosen?" she asked, flinging down the last card.
"No," stammered Elizabeth, arousing herself from a reverie. "I quite forgot, I was thinking of - you, and
me - and how strange it is that I am here."
Miss Templeman looked at Elizabeth-Jane with interest, and laid down the cards. "Ah! never mind," she
said. "I'll lie here while you sit by me; and we'll talk."
Elizabeth drew up silently to the head of the sofa, but with obvious pleasure. It could be seen that though
in years she was younger than her entertainer in manner and general vision she seemed more of the sage.
Miss Templeman deposited herself on the sofa in her former flexuous position, and throwing her arm
above her brow - somewhat in the pose of a wellknown conception of Titian's - talked up at
Elizabeth-Jane invertedly across her forehead and arm.
"I must tell you something," she said. "I wonder if you have suspected it. I have only been mistress of a
large house and a fortune a little while."


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"Oh - only a little while?" murmured Elizabeth-Jane, her countenance slightly falling.
"As a girl I lived about in garrison towns and elsewhere with my father, till I was quite flighty and
unsettled. He was an officer in the army. I should not have mentioned this had I not thought it best you
should know the truth."
"Yes, yes." She looked thoughtfully round the room - at the little square piano with brass inlayings, at the
window-curtains, at the lamp, at the fair and dark kings and queens on the cardtable, and finally at the
inverted face of Lucetta Templeman whose large lustrous eyes had such an odd effect upside down.
Elizabeth's mind ran on acquirements to an almost morbid degree. "You speak French and Italian
fluently, no doubt," she said. "I have not been able to get beyond a wretched bit of Latin yet."
"Well, for that matter, in my native isle speaking French does not go for much. It is rather the other way."
"Where is your native isle?"
It was with rather more reluctance that Miss Templeman said, "Jersey. There they speak French on one
side of the street and English on the other, and a mixed tongue in the middle of the road. But it is a long
time since I was there. Bath is where my people really belong to, though my ancestors in Jersey were as
good as anybody in England. They were the Le Sueurs, an old family who have done great things in their
time. I went back and lived there after my father's death. But I don't value such past matters, and am quite
an English person in my feelings and tastes."
Lucetta's tongue had for a moment outrun her discretion. She had arrived at Casterbridge as a Bath lady,
and there were obvious reasons why Jersey should drop out of her life. But Elizabeth had tempted her to
make free, and a deliberately formed resolve had been broken.
It could not, however, have been broken in safer company. Lucetta's words went no further, and after this
day she was so much upon her guard that there appeared no chance of her identification with the young
Jersey woman who had been Henchard's dear comrade at a critical time. Not the least amusing of her
safeguards was her resolute avoidance of a French word if one by accident came to her tongue more
readily than its English equivalent. She shirked it with the suddenness of the weak Apostle at the
accusation, "Thy speech betrayeth thee!"
Expectancy sat visibly upon Lucetta the next morning. She dressed herself for Mr Henchard, and
restlessly awaited his call before mid-day; as he did not come she waited on through the afternoon. But
she did not tell Elizabeth that the person expected was the girl's stepfather.
They sat in adjoining windows of the same room in Lucetta's great stone mansion, netting, and looking
out upon the market, which formed an animated scene. Elizabeth could see the crown of her stepfather's
hat among the rest beneath, and was not aware that Lucetta watched the same object with yet intenser
interest. He moved about amid the throng, at this point lively as an ant-hill; elsewhere more reposeful,
and broken up by stalls of fruit and vegetables. The farmers as a rule preferred the open carrefour for
their transactions, despite its inconvenient jostlings and the danger from crossing vehicles, to the gloomy
sheltered market-room provided for them. Here they surged on this one day of the week, forming a little
world of leggings, switches, and sample-bags; men of extensive stomachs, sloping like mountain sides;
men whose heads in walking swayed as the trees in November gales; who in conversing varied their
attitudes much, lowering themselves by spreading their knees, and thrusting their hands into the pockets


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of remote inner jackets. Their faces radiated tropical warmth; for though when at home their
countenances varied with the seasons, their market-faces all the year round were glowing little fires.
All over-clothes here were worn as if they were an inconvenience, a hampering necessity. Some men
were well-dressed; but the majority were careless in that respect, appearing in suits which were historical
records of their wearer's deeds, sun-scorchings, and daily struggles for many years past. Yet many carried
ruffled cheque-books in their pockets which regulated at the bank hard by a balance of never less than
four figures. In fact, what these gibbous human shapes specially represented was ready money - money
insistently ready - not ready next year like a nobleman's - often not merely ready at the bank like a
professional man's, but ready in their large plump hands.
It happened that today there rose in the midst of them all two or three tall apple-trees standing as if they
grew on the spot; till it was perceived that they were held by men from the cider districts who came here
to sell them, bringing the clay of their county on their boots. Elizabeth-Jane, who had often observed
them, said, "I wonder if the same trees come every week?"
"What trees?" said Lucetta, absorbed in watching for Henchard.
Elizabeth replied vaguely, for an incident checked her. Behind one of the trees stood Farfrae, briskly
discussing a samplebag with a farmer. Henchard had come up, accidentally encountering the young man,
whose face seemed to inquire, "Do we speak to each other?"
She saw her stepfather throw a shine into his eye which answered "No!" Elizabeth-Jane sighed.
"Are you particularly interested in anybody out there?" said Lucetta.
"O no," said her companion, a quick red shooting over her face.
Luckily Farfrae's figure was immediately covered by the apple-tree.
Lucetta looked hard at her. "Quite sure?" she said.
"O yes," said Elizabeth-Jane.
Again Lucetta looked out. "They are all farmers, I suppose?" she said.
"No. There's Mr Bulge - he's a wine merchant; there's Benjamin Brownlet - a horse dealer; and Kitson,
the pig breeder; and Yopper, the auctioneer; besides maltsters, and millers - and so on." Farfrae stood out
quite distinctly now; but she did not mention him.
The Saturday afternoon slipped on thus desultorily. The market changed from the sample-showing hour
to the idle hour before starting homewards, when tales were told. Henchard had not called on Lucetta
though he had stood so near. He must have been too busy, she thought. He would come on Sunday or
Monday.
The days came but not the visitor, though Lucetta repeated her dressing with scrupulous care. She was
disheartened. It may at once be declared that Lucetta no longer bore towards Henchard all that warm
allegiance which had characterized her in their first acquaintance; the then unfortunate issue of things
had chilled pure love considerably. But there remained a conscientious wish to bring about her union
with him, now that there was nothing to hinder it - to right her position - which in itself was a happiness
to sigh for. With strong social reasons on her side why their marriage should take place there had ceased

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to be any worldly reason on his why it should be postponed, since she had succeeded to fortune.
Tuesday was the great Candlemas fair. At breakfast she said to Elizabeth-Jane quite coolly: "I imagine
your father may call to see you today. I suppose he stands close by in the market-place with the rest of
the corn-dealers?"
She shook her head. "He won't come."
"Why?"
"He has taken against me," she said in a husky voice.
"You have quarrelled more deeply than I know of."
Elizabeth, wishing to shield the man she believed to be her father from any charge of unnatural dislike,
said "Yes."
"Then where you are is, of all places, the one he will avoid?"
Elizabeth nodded sadly.
Lucetta looked blank, twitched up her lovely eyebrows and lips, and burst into hysterical sobs. Here was
a disaster - her ingenious scheme completely stultified.
"O, my dear Miss Templeman - what's the matter?" cried her companion.
"I like your company much!" said Lucetta, as soon as she could speak.
"Yes, yes - and so do I yours!" Elizabeth chimed in soothingly.
"But - but - " She could not finish the sentence, which was, naturally, that if Henchard had such a rooted
dislike for the girl as now seemed to be the case, Elizabeth-Jane would have to be got rid of - a
disagreeable necessity.
A provisional resource suggested itself. "Miss Henchard - will you go on an errand for me as soon as
breakfast is over? - Ah, that's very good of you. Will you go and order - " Here she enumerated several
commissions at sundry shops, which would occupy Elizabeth's time for the next hour or two, at least.
"And have you ever seen the Museum?"
Elizabeth-Jane had not.
"Then you should do so at once. You can finish the morning by going there. It is an old house in a back
street - I forget where - but you'll find out - and there are crowds of interesting things - skeletons, teeth,
old pots and pans, ancient boots and shoes, birds' eggs - all charmingly instructive. You'll be sure to stay
till you get quite hungry."
Elizabeth hastily put on her things and departed. "I wonder why she wants to get rid of me today!" she
said sorrowfully as she went. That her absence, rather than her services or instruction, was in request, had
been readily apparent to Elizabeth-Jane, simple as she seemed, and difficult as it was to attribute a
motive for the desire.
She had not been gone ten minutes when one of Lucetta's servants was sent to Henchard's with a note.

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The contents were briefly:--
DEAR MICHAEL, - You will be standing in view of my house today for two or three hours in the course
of your business, so do please call and see me. I am sadly disappointed that you have not come before,
for can I help anxiety about my own equivocal relation to you? - especially now my aunt's fortune has
brought me more prominently before society? Your daughter's presence here may be the cause of your
neglect; and I have therefore sent her away for the morning. Say you come on business - I shall be quite
alone.
LUCETTA
When the messenger returned her mistress gave directions that if a gentleman called he was to be
admitted at once, and sat down to await results.
Sentimentally she did not much care to see him - his delays had wearied her; but it was necessary; and
with a sigh she arranged herself picturesquely in the chair; first this way, then that; next so that the light
fell over her head. Next she flung herself on the couch in the cyma-recta curve which so became her, and
with her arm over her brow looked towards the door. This, she decided, was the best position after all;
and thus she remained till a man's step was heard on the stairs. Whereupon Lucetta, forgetting her curve
(for Nature was too strong for Art as yet), jumped up and ran and hid herself behind one of the
window-curtains in a freak of timidity. In spite of the waning of passion the situation was an agitating
one - she had not seen Henchard since his (supposed) temporary parting from her in Jersey.
She could hear the servant showing the visitor into the room, shutting the door upon him, and leaving as
if to go and look for her mistress. Lucetta flung back the curtain with a nervous greeting. The man before
her was not Henchard.




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* XXIII *
A CONJECTURE that her visitor might be some other person had, indeed, flashed through Lucetta's
mind when she was on the point of bursting out; but it was just too late to recede.
He was years younger than the Mayor of Casterbridge; fair, fresh, and slenderly handsome. He wore
genteel cloth leggings with white buttons, polished boots with infinite lace holes, light cord breeches
under a black velveteen coat and waistcoat; and he had a silver-topped switch in his hand. Lucetta
blushed, and said with a curious mixture of pout and laugh on her face - "O, I've made a mistake!"
The visitor, on the contrary, did not laugh half a wrinkle.
"But I'm very sorry!" he said, in deprecating tones. "I came and I inquired for Miss Henchard, and they
showed me up heere, and in no case would I have caught ye so unmannerly if I had known!"
"I was the unmannerly one," said she.
"But is it that I have come to the wrong house, madam?" said Mr Farfrae, blinking a little in his
bewilderment and nervously tapping his legging with his switch.
"O no, sir, - sit down. You must come and sit down now you are here," replied Lucetta kindly, to relieve
his embarrassment. "Miss Henchard will be here directly."
Now this was not strictly true; but that something about the young man - that hyperborean crispness,
stringency, and charm, as of a well-braced musical instrument, which had awakened the interest of
Henchard, and of Elizabeth-Jane, and of the Three Mariners' jovial crew, at sight, made his unexpected
presence here attractive to Lucetta. He hesitated, looked at the chair, thought there was no danger in it
(though there was), and sat down.
Farfrae's sudden entry was simply the result of Henchard's permission to him to see Elizabeth if he were
minded to woo her. At first he had taken no notice of Henchard's brusque letter; but an exceptionally
fortunate business transaction put him on good terms with everybody, and revealed to him that he could
undeniably marry if he chose. Then who so pleasing, thrifty, and satisfactory in every way as
Elizabeth-Jane? Apart from her personal recommendations a reconciliation with his former friend
Henchard would, in the natural course of things, flow from such a union. He therefore forgave the Mayor
his curtness; and this morning on his way to the fair he had called at her house, where he learnt that she
was staying at Miss Templeman's. A little stimulated at not finding her ready and waiting - so fanciful
are men! - he hastened on to HighPlace Hall to encounter not Elizabeth but its mistress herself.
"The fair today seems a large one," she said when, by a natural deviation, their eyes sought the busy
scene without. "Your numerous fairs and markets keep me interested. How many things I think of while I
watch from here!"
He seemed in doubt how to answer, and the babble without reached them as they sat - voices as of
wavelets on a lopping sea, one ever and anon rising above the rest. "Do you look out often?" he asked.
"Yes - very often."
"Do you look for any one you know?"

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Why should she have answered as she did?
"I look as at a picture merely. But," she went on, turning pleasantly to him, "I may do so now - I may
look for you. You are always there, are you not? Ah - I don't mean it seriously!But it is amusing to look
for somebody one knows in a crowd, even if one does not want him. It takes off the terrible
oppressiveness of being surrounded by a throng, and having no point of junction with it through a single
individual."
"Ah! Maybe you'll be very lonely, ma'am?"
"Nobody knows how lonely."
"But you are rich, they say?"
"If so, I don't know how to enjoy my riches. I came to Casterbridge thinking I should like to live here.
But I wonder if I shall."
"Where did ye come from, ma'am?"
"The neighbourhood of Bath."
"And I from near Edinboro'," he murmured. "It's better to stay at home, and that's true; but a man must
live where his money is made. It is a great pity, but it's always so! Yet I've done very well this year. O
yes," he went on with ingenuous enthusiasm. "You see that man with the drab kerseymere coat? I bought
largely of him in the autumn when wheat was down, and then afterwards when it rose a little I sold off all
I had! It brought only a small profit to me; while the farmers kept theirs, expecting higher figures - yes,
though the rats were gnawing the ricks hollow. Just when I sold the markets went lower, and I bought up
the corn of those who had been holding back at less price than my first purchases. And then," cried
Farfrae impetuously, his face alight, "I sold it a few weeks after, when it happened to go up again! And
so, by contenting mysel' with small profits frequently repeated, I soon made five hundred pounds - yes!"
- (bringing down his hand upon the table, and quite forgetting where he was) - "while the others by
keeping theirs in hand made nothing at all!"
Lucetta regarded him with a critical interest. He was quite a new type of person to her. At last his eye fell
upon the lady's and their glances met.
"Ay, now, I'm wearying you!" he exclaimed.
She said, "No, indeed," colouring a shade.
"What then?"
"Quite otherwise. You are most interesting."
It was now Farfrae who showed the modest pink.
"I mean all you Scotchmen," she added in hasty correction. "So free from Southern extremes. We
common people are all one way or the other - warm or cold, passionate or frigid. You have both
temperatures going on in you at the same time."
"But how do you mean that? Ye were best to explain clearly, ma'am."


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"You are animated - then you are thinking of getting on. You are sad the next moment - then you are
thinking of Scotland and friends."
"Yes. I think of home sometimes!" he said simply.
"So do I - as far as I can. But it was an old house where I was born, and they pulled it down for
improvements, so I seem hardly to have any home to think of now."
Lucetta did not add, as she might have done, that the house was in St Helier, and not in Bath.
"But the mountains, and the mists and the rocks, they are there! And don't they seem like home?"
She shook her head.
"They do to me - they do to me," he murmured. And his mind could be seen flying away northwards.
Whether its origin were national or personal, it was quite true what Lucetta had said, that the curious
double strands in Farfrae's thread of life - the commercial and the romantic - were very distinct at times.
Like the colours in a variegated cord those contrasts could be seen intertwisted, yet not mingling.
"You are wishing you were back again," said she.
"Ah, no, ma'am," said Farfrae, suddenly recalling himself.
The fair without the windows was now raging thick and loud. It was the chief hiring fair of the year, and
differed quite from the market of a few days earlier. In substance it was a whitey-brown crowed flecked
with white - this being the body of labourers waiting for places. The long bonnets of the women, like
waggon-tilts, their cotton gowns and checked shawls, mixed with the carter's smock-frocks; for they, too,
entered into the hiring. Among the rest, at the corner of the pavement, stood an old shepherd, who
attracted the eyes of Lucetta and Farfrae by his stillness. He was evidently a chastened man. The battle of
life had been a sharp one with him, for, to begin with, he was a man of small frame. He was now so
bowed by hard work and years that, approaching from behind, a person could hardly see his head. He had
planted the stem of his crook in the gutter and was resting upon the bow, which was polished to silver
brightness by the long friction of his hands. He had quite forgotten where he was, and what he had come
for, his eyes being bent on the ground. A little way off negotiations were proceeding which had reference
to him; but he did not hear them, and there seemed to be passing through his mind pleasant visions of the
hiring successes of his prime, when his skill laid open to him any farm for the asking.
The negotiations were between a farmer from a distant county and the old man's son. In these there was a
difficulty. The farmer would not take the crust without the crumb of the bargain, in other words, the old
man without the younger; and the son had a sweetheart on his present farm, who stood by, waiting the
issue with pale lips.
"I'm sorry to leave ye, Nelly," said the young man with emotion. "But, you see, I can't starve father, and
he's out o'work at Lady-day. 'Tis only thirty-five mile."
The girl's lips quivered. "Thirty-five mile!" she murmured. "Ah! 'tis enough! I shall never see 'ee again!"
It was, indeed, a hopeless length of traction for Dan Cupid's magnet; for young men were young men at
Casterbridge as elsewhere.
"O! no, no - I never shall," she insisted, when he pressed her hand; and she turned her face to Lucetta's


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wall to hide her weeping. The farmer said he would give the young man halfan-hour for his answer, and
went away, leaving the group sorrowing.
Lucetta's eyes, full of tears, met Farfrae's. His, too, to her surprise, were moist at the scene.
"It is very hard," she said with strong feelings. "Lovers ought not to be parted like that! O, if I had my
wish, I'd let people live and love at their pleasure!"
"Maybe I can manage that they'll not be parted," said Farfrae. "I want a young carter; and perhaps I'll
take the old man too - yes; he'll not be very expensive, and doubtless he will answer my pairrpose
somehow."
"O, you are so good!" she cried, delighted. "Go and tell them, and let me know if you have succeeded!"
Farfrae went out, and she saw him speak to the group. The eyes of all brightened; the bargain was soon
struck. Farfrae returned to her immediately it was concluded.
"It is kind-hearted of you, indeed," said Lucetta. "For my part, I have resolved that all my servants shall
have lovers if they want them! Do make the same resolve!"
Farfrae looked more serious, waving his head a half turn. "I must be a little stricter than that," he said.
"Why?"
"You are a - a thriving woman; and I am a struggling hayand-corn merchant."
"I am a very ambitious woman."
"Ah, well, I cannet explain. I don't know how to talk to ladies, ambitious or no; and that's true," said
Donald with grave regret. "I try to be civil to a' folk - no more!"
"I see you are as you say," replied she, sensibly getting the upper hand in these exchanges of sentiment.
Under this revelation of insight Farfrae again looked out of the window into the thick of the fair.
Two farmers met and shook hands, and being quite near the window their remarks could be heard as
others' had been.
"Have you seen young Mr Farfrae this morning?" asked one. "He promised to meet me here at the stroke
of twelve; but I've gone athwart and about the fair half-a-dozen times, and never a sign of him: though
he's mostly a man to his word."
"I quite forgot the engagement," murmured Farfrae.
"Now you must go," said she; "must you not?"
"Yes," he replied. But he still remained.
"You had better go," she urged. "You will lose a customer."
"Now, Miss Templeman, you will make me angry," exclaimed Farfrae.
"Then suppose you don't go; but stay a little longer?"



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He looked anxiously at the farmer who was seeking him, and who just then ominously walked across to
where Henchard was standing, and he looked into the room and at her. "I like staying; but I fear I must
go!" he said. "Business ought not to be neglected, ought it?"
"Not for a single minute."
"It's true. I'll come another time - if I may, ma'am?"
"Certainly," she said. "What has happened to us today is very curious."
"Something to think over when we are alone, it's like to be?"
"Oh, I don't know that. It is commonplace after all."
"No, I'll not say that. O no!"
"Well, whatever it has been, it is now over, and the market calls you to be gone."
"Yes, yes. Market - business! I wish there were no business in the warrld."
Lucetta almost laughed - she would quite have laughed - but that there was a little emotion going in her
at the time. "How you change!" she said. "You should not change like this."
"I have never wished such things before," said the Scotchman, with a simple, shamed, apologetic look for
his weakness. "It is only since coming heere and seeing you!"
"If that's the case, you had better not look at me any longer. Dear me, I feel I have demoralized you!"
"But look or look not, I will see you in my thoughts. Well, I'll go - thank you for the pleasure of this
visit."
"Thank you for staying."
"Maybe I'll get into my market-mind when I've been out a few minutes," he murmured. "But I don't know
- I don't know!"
As he went she said eagerly, "You may hear them speak of me in Casterbridge as time goes on. If they
tell you I'm a coquette, which some may, because of the incidents of my life, don't believe it, for I am
not."
"I swear I will not!" he said fervidly.
Thus the two. She had enkindled the young man's enthusiasm till he was quite brimming with sentiment;
while he, from merely affording her a new form of idleness, had gone on to wake her serious solicitude.
Why was this? They could not have told.
Lucetta as a young girl would hardly have looked at a tradesman. But her ups and downs, capped by her
indiscretions with Henchard, had made her uncritical as to station. In her poverty she had met with
repulse from the society to which she had belonged, and she had no great zest for renewing an attempt
upon it now. Her heart longed for some ark into which it could fly and be at rest. Rough or smooth she
did not care so long as it was warm.
Farfrae was shown out, it having entirely escaped him that he had called to see Elizabeth. Lucetta at the

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window watched him threading the maze of farmers and farmers' men. She could see by his gait that he
was conscious of her eyes, and her heart went out to him for his modesty - pleaded with her sense of his
unfitness that he might be allowed to come again. He entered the market-house, and she could see him no
more.
Three minutes later, when she had left the window, knocks, not of multitude but of strength, sounded
through the house, and the waiting-maid tripped up.
"The Mayor," she said.
Lucetta had reclined herself, and was looking dreamily through her fingers. She did not answer at once,
and the maid repeated the information with the addition, "And he's afraid he hasn't much time to spare,
he says."
"Oh! Then tell him that as I have a headache I won't detain him today."
The message was taken down, and she heard the door close.
Lucetta had come to Casterbridge to quicken Henchard's feelings with regard to her. She had quickened
them, and now she was indifferent to the achievement.
Her morning view of Elizabeth-Jane as a disturbing element changed, and she no longer felt strongly the
necessity of getting rid of the girl for her stepfather's sake. When the young woman came in, sweetly
unconscious of the turn in the tide, Lucetta went up to her, and said quite sincerely--
"I'm so glad you've come. You'll live with me a long time, won't you?"
Elizabeth as a watch-dog to keep her father off - what a new idea. Yet it was not unpleasing. Henchard
had neglected her all these days, after compromising her indescribably in the past. The least he could
have done when he found himself free, and herself affluent, would have been to respond heartily and
promptly to her invitation.
Her emotions rose, fell, undulated, filled her with wild surmise at their suddenness; and so passed
Lucetta's experiences of that day.




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* XXIV *
POOR Elizabeth-Jane, little thinking what her malignant star had done to blast the budding attentions she
had won from Donald Farfrae, was glad to hear Lucetta's words about remaining.
For in addition to Lucetta's house being a home, that raking view of the market-place which it afforded
had as much attraction for her as for Lucetta. The carrefour was like the regulation Open Place in
spectacular dramas, where the incidents that occur always happen to bear on the lives of the adjoining
residents. Farmers, merchants, dairymen, quacks, hawkers, appeared there from week to week, and
disappeared as the afternoon wasted away. It was the node of all orbits.
From Saturday to Saturday was as from day to day with the two young women now. In an emotional
sense they did not live at all during the intervals. Wherever they might go wandering on other days, on
market-day they were sure to be at home. Both stole sly glances out of the window at Farfrae's shoulders
and poll. His face they seldom saw, for, either through shyness, or not to disturb his mercantile mood, he
avoided looking towards their quarters.
Thus things went on, till a certain market-morning brought a new sensation. Elizabeth and Lucetta were
sitting at breakfast when a parcel containing two dresses arrived for the latter from London. She called
Elizabeth from her breakfast, and entering her friend's bedroom Elizabeth saw the gowns spread out on
the bed, one of a deep cherry colour, the other lighter - a glove lying at the end of each sleeve, a bonnet at
the top of each neck, and parasols across the gloves, Lucetta standing beside the suggested human figure
in an attitude of contemplation.
"I wouldn't think so hard about it," said Elizabeth, marking the intensity with which Lucetta was
alternating the question whether this or that would suit best.
"But settling upon new clothes is so trying," said Lucetta. "You are that person" (pointing to one of the
arrangements), "or you are that totally different person" (pointing to the other), "for the whole of the
coming spring: and one of the two, you don't know which, may turn out to be very objectionable."
It was finally decided by Miss Templeman that she would be the cherry-coloured person at all hazards.
The dress was pronounced to be a fit, and Lucetta walked with it into the front room, Elizabeth following
her.
The morning was exceptionally bright for the time of year. The sun fell so flat on the houses and
pavement opposite Lucetta's residence that they poured their brightness into her rooms. Suddenly, after a
rumbling of wheels, there were added to this steady light a fantastic series of circling irradiations upon
the ceiling, and the companions turned to the window. Immediately opposite a vehicle of strange
description had come to a standstill, as if it had been placed there for exhibition.
It was the new-fashioned agricultural implement called a horse-drill, till then unknown, in its modern
shape, in this part of the country, where the venerable seed-lip was still used for sowing as in the days of
the Heptarchy. Its arrival created about as much sensation in the corn-market as a flying machine would
create at Charing Cross. The farmers crowded round it, women drew near it, children crept under and
into it. The machine was painted in bright hues of green, yellow, and red, and it resembled as a whole a
compound of hornet, grass-hopper, and shrimp, magnified enormously. Or it might have been likened to


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an upright musical instrument with the front gone. That was how it struck Lucetta. "Why, it is a sort of
agricultural piano," she said.
"It has something to do with corn," said Elizabeth.
"I wonder who thought of introducing it here?"
Donald Farfrae was in the minds of both as the innovator, for though not a farmer he was closely leagued
with farming operations. And as if in response to their thought he came up at that moment, looked at the
machine, walked round it, and handled it as if he knew something about its make. The two watchers had
inwardly started at his coming, and Elizabeth left the window, went to the back of the room, and stood as
if absorbed in the panelling of the wall. She hardly knew that she had done this till Lucetta, animated by
the conjunction of her new attire with the sight of Farfrae, spoke out: "Let us go and look at the
instrument, whatever it is."
Elizabeth-Jane's bonnet and shawl were pitchforked on in a moment, and they went out. Among all the
agriculturists gathering round the only appropriate possessor of the new machine seemed to be Lucetta,
because she alone rivalled it in colour.
They examined it curiously; observing the rows of trumpet-shaped tubes one within the other, the little
scoops, like revolving salt-spoons, which tossed the seed into the upper ends of the tubes that conducted
it to the ground; till somebody said, "Good morning, Elizabeth-Jane." She looked up, and there was her
stepfather.
His greeting had been somewhat dry and thunderous, and Elizabeth-Jane, embarrassed out of her
equanimity, stammered at random, "This is the lady I live with, father - Miss Temple-man."
Henchard put his hand to his hat, which he brought down with a great wave till it met his body at the
knees. Miss Temple-man bowed. "I am happy to become acquainted with you, Mr Henchard," she said.
"This is a curious machine."
"Yes," Henchard replied; and he proceeded to explain it, and still more forcibly to ridicule it.
"Who brought it here?" said Lucetta.
"Oh, don't ask me, ma'am!" said Henchard. "The thing - why 'tis impossible it should act. 'Twas brought
here by one of our machinists on the recommendation of a jumped-up jackanapes of a fellow who thinks
- " His eye caught Elizabeth-Jane's imploring face, and he stopped, probably thinking that the suit might
be progressing.
He turned to go away. Then something seemed to occur which his stepdaughter fancied must really be a
hallucination of hers. A murmur apparently came from Henchard's lips in which she detected the words,
"You refused to see me!" reproachfully addressed to Lucetta. She could not believe that they had been
uttered by her stepfather; unless, indeed, they might have been spoken to one of the yellow-gaitered
farmers near them. Yet Lucetta seemed silent; and then all thought of the incident was dissipated by the
humming of a song, which sounded as though from the interior of the machine. Henchard had by this
time vanished into the market-house, and both the women glanced towards the corn-drill. They could see
behind it the bent back of a man who was pushing his head into the internal works to master their simple
secrets. The hummed song went on--


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       "'TW - s on a s - m - r aftern - n, A wee be - re the s - n w - nt d - n, When Kitty wi' a braw n
       - w g - wn C - me ow're the h - lls to Gowrie."
Elizabeth-Jane had apprehended the singer in a moment, and looked guilty of she did not know what.
Lucetta next recognized him, and more mistress of herself said archly, "The ""Lass of Gowrie"" from the
inside of a seed-drill - what a phenomenon!"
Satisfied at last with his investigation the young man stood upright, and met their eyes across the summit.
"We are looking at the wonderful new drill," Miss Temple-man said. "But practically it is a stupid thing -
is it not?" she added, on the strength of Henchard's information.
"Stupid? O no!" said Farfrae gravely. "It will revolutionize sowing heerabout! No more sowers flinging
their seed about broadcast, so that some falls by the wayside and some among thorns, and all that. Each
grain will go straight to its intended place, and nowhere else whatever!"
"Then the romance of the sower is gone for good," observed Elizabeth-Jane, who felt herself at one with
Farfrae in Bible-reading at least. """He that observeth the wind shall not sow,"" so the Preacher said; but
his words will not be to the point any more. How things change!"
"Ay; ay ... It must be so!" Donald admitted, his gaze fixing itself on a blank point far away. "But the
machines are already very common in the East and North of England," he added apologetically.
Lucetta seemed to be outside this train of sentiment, her acquaintance with the Scriptures being
somewhat limited. "Is the machine yours?" she asked of Farfrae.
"O no, madam," said he, becoming embarrassed and deferential at the sound of her voice, though with
Elizabeth-Jane he was quite at his ease. "No, no - I merely recommended that it should be got."
In the silence which followed Farfrae appeared only conscious of her; to have passed from perception of
Elizabeth into a brighter sphere of existence that she appertained to. Lucetta, discerning that he was much
mixed that day, partly in his mercantile mood and partly in his romantic one, said gaily to him--
"Well, don't forsake the machine for us," and went indoors with her companion.
The latter felt that she had been in the way, though why was unaccountable to her. Lucetta explained the
matter somewhat by saying when they were again in the sitting-room--
"I had occasion to speak to Mr Farfrae the other day, and so I knew him this morning."
Lucetta was very kind towards Elizabeth that day. Together they saw the market thicken, and in course of
time thin away with the slow decline of the sun towards the upper end of the town, its rays taking the
street endways and enfilading the long thoroughfare from top to bottom. The gigs and vans disappeared
one by one till there was not a vehicle in the street. The time of the riding world was over; the pedestrian
world held sway. Field labourers and their wives and children trooped in from the villages for their
weekly shopping, and instead of a rattle of wheels and a tramp of horses ruling the sounds as earlier,
there was nothing but the shuffle of many feet. All the implements were gone; all the farmers; all the
moneyed class. The character of the town's trading had changed from bulk to multiplicity, and pence
were handled now as pounds had been handled earlier in the day.
Lucetta and Elizabeth looked out upon this, for though it was night and the street lamps were lighted,

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they had kept their shutters unclosed. In the faint blink of the fire they spoke moru freely.
"Your father was distant with you," said Lucetta.
"Yes." And having forgotten the momentary mystery of Henchard's seeming speech to Lucetta she
continued, "It is because he does not think I am respectable. I have tried to be so more than you can
imagine, but in vain! My mother's separation from my father was unfortunate for me. You don't know
what it is to have shadows like that upon your life."
Lucetta seemed to wince. "I do not - of that kind precisely she said, "but you may feel a - sense of
disgrace - shame - in other ways."
"Have you ever had any such feeling?" said the younger innocently.
"O no," said Lucetta quickly. "I was thinking of - what happens sometimes when women get themselves
in strange positions in the eyes of the world from no fault of their own."
"It must make them very unhappy afterwards."
"It makes them anxious; for might not other women despise them?"
"Not altogether despise them. Yet not quite like or respect them."
Lucetta winced again. Her past was by no means secure from investigation, even in Casterbridge. For
one thing Henchard had never returned to her the cloud of letters she had written and sent him in her first
excitement. Possibly they were destroyed; but she could have wished that they had never been written.
The rencounter with Farfrae and his bearing towards Lucetta had made the reflective Elizabeth more
observant of her brilliant and amiable companion. A few days afterwards, when her eyes met Lucetta's as
the latter was going out, she somehow knew that Miss Templeman was nourishing a hope of seeing the
attractive Scotchman. The fact was printed large all over Lucetta's cheeks and eyes to any one who could
read her as Elizabeth-Jane was beginning to do. Lucetta passed on and closed the street door.
A seer's spirit took possession of Elizabeth, impelling her to sit down by the fire and divine events so
surely from data already her own that they could be held as witnessed. She followed Lucetta thus
mentally - saw her encounter Donald somewhere as if by chance - saw him were his special look when
meeting women, with an added intensity because this one was Lucetta. She depicted his impassioned
manner; beheld the indecision of both between their lothness to separate and their desire not to be
observed; depicted their shaking of hands; how they probably parted with frigidity in their general
contour and movements, only in the smaller features showing the spark of passion, thus invisible to all
but themselves. This discerning silent witch had not done thinking of these things when Lucetta came
noiselessly behind her and made her start.
It was all true as she had pictured - she could have sworn it. Lucetta had a heightened luminousness in
her eye over and above the advanced colour of her cheeks.
"You've seen Mr Farfrae," said Elizabeth demurely.
"Yes," said Lucetta. "How did you know?"
She knelt down on the hearth and took her friend's hands excitedly in her own. But after all she did not


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say when or how she had see him or what he had said.
That night she became restless; in the morning she was feverish; and at breakfast-time she told her
companion that she had something on her mind - something which concerned a person in whom she was
interested much. Elizabeth was earnest to listen and sympathize.
"This person - a lady - once admired a man much - very much," she said tentatively.
"Ah," said Elizabeth-Jane.
"They were intimate - rather. He did not think so deeply of her as she did of him. But in an impulsive
moment, purely out of reparation, he proposed to make her his wife. She agreed. But there was an
unexpected hitch in the proceedings; though she had been so far compromised with him that she felt she
could never belong to another man, as a pure matter of conscience, even if she should wish to. After that
they were much apart, heard nothing of each other for a long time, and she felt her life quite closed up for
her."
"Ah - poor girl!"
"She suffered much on account of him; though I should add that he could not altogether be blamed for
what had happened. At last the obstacle which separated them was providentially removed; and he came
to marry her."
"How delightful!"
"But in the interval she - my poor friend - had seen a man she liked better than him. Now comes the
point: Could she in honour dismiss the first?"
"A new man she liked better - that's bad!"
"Yes," said Lucetta, looking pained at a boy who was swinging the town pump-handle. "It is bad!
Though you must remember that she was forced into an equivocal position with the first man by an
accident - that he was not so well educated or refined as the second, and that she had discovered some
qualities in the first that rendered him less desirable as a husband than she had at first thought him to be."
"I cannot answer," said Elizabeth-Jane thoughtfully. "It is so difficult. It wants a Pope to settle that!"
"You prefer not to, perhaps?" Lucetta showed in her appealing tone how much she leant on Elizabeth's
judgement.
"Yes, Miss Templeman," admitted Elizabeth. "I would rather not say."
Nevertheless, Lucetta seemed relieved by the simple fact of having opened out the situation a little, and
was slowly convalescent of her headache. "Bring me a looking-glass. How do I appear to people?" she
said languidly.
"Well - a little worn," answered Elizabeth, eyeing her as a critic eyes a doubtful painting; fetching the
glass she enabled Lucetta to survey herself in it, which Lucetta anxiously did.
"I wonder if I wear well, as times go!" she observed after a while.
"Yes - fairly."

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"Where am I worst?"
"Under your eyes - I notice a little brownness there."
"Yes. That is my worst place, I know. How many years more do you think I shall last before before I get
hopelessly plain?"
There was something curious in the way in which Elizabeth, though the younger, had come to play the
part of experienced sage in these discussions. "It may be five years," she said judicially. "Or with a quiet
life, as many as ten. With no love you might calculate on ten."
Lucetta seemed to reflect on this as on an unalterable, impartial verdict. She told Elizabeth-Jane no more
of the past attachment she had roughly adumbrated as the experiences of a third person; and Elizabeth,
who in spite of her philosophy was very tender-hearted, sighed that night in bed at the thought that her
pretty, rich Lucetta did not treat her to the full confidence of names and dates in her confessions. For by
the "she" of Lucetta's story Elizabeth had not been beguiled.




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* XXV *
THE next phase of the supersession of Henchard in Lucetta's heart was an experiment in calling on her
performed by Farfrae with some apparent trepidation. Conventionally speaking he conversed with both
Miss Templeman and her companion; but in fact it was rather the Elizabeth sat invisible in the room.
Donald appeared not to see her at all, and answered her wise little remarks with curtly indifferent
monosyllables, his looks and faculties hanging on the woman who could boast of a more Protean variety
in her phases, moods, opinions, and also principles, than could Elizabeth. Lucetta had persisted in
dragging her into the circle; but she had remained like an awkward third point which that circle would
not touch.
Susan Henchard's daughter bore up against the frosty ache of the treatment, as she had borne up under
worse things, and contrived as soon as possible to get out of the inharmonious room without being
missed. The Scotchman seemed hardly the same Farfrae who had danced with her and walked with her in
a delicate poise between love and friendship - that period in the history of a love when alone it can be
said to be unalloyed with pain.
She stoically looked from her bedroom window, and contemplated her fate as if it were written on the top
of the church-tower hard by. "Yes," she said at last, bringing down her palm upon the sill with a pat: "He
is the second man of that story she told me!"
All this time Henchard's smouldering sentiments towards Lucetta had been fanned into higher and higher
inflammation by the circumstances of the case. He was discovering that the young woman for whom he
once felt a pitying warmth which had been almost chilled out of him by reflection, was, when now
qualified with a slight inaccessibility and a more matured beauty, the very being to make him satisfied
with life. Day after day proved to him, by her silence, that it was no use to think of bringing her round by
holding aloof; so he gave in, and called upon her again, Elizabeth-Jane being absent.
He crossed the room to her with a heavy tread of some awkwardness, his strong, warm gaze upon her -
like the sun beside the moon in comparison with Farfrae's modest look - and with something of a
hail-fellow bearing, as, indeed, was not unnatural. But she seemed so transubstantiated by her change of
position, and held out her hand to him in such cool friendship, that he became deferential, and sat down
with a perceptible loss of power. He understood but little of fashion in dress, yet enough to feel himself
inadequate in appearance beside her whom he had hitherto been dreaming of as almost his property. She
said something very polite about his being good enough to call. This caused him to recover balance. He
looked her oddly in the face, losing his awe.
"Why, of course I have called, Lucetta," he said. "What does that nonsense mean? You know I couldn't
have helped myself if I had wished - that is, if I had any kindness at all. I've called to say that I am ready,
as soon as custom will permit, to give you my name in return for your devotion, and what you lost by it
in thinking too little of yourself and too much of me; to say that you can fix the day or month, with my
full consent, whenever in your opinion it would be seemly: you know more of these things than I."
"It is full early yet," she said evasively.
"Yes, yes; I suppose it is. But you know, Lucetta, I felt directly my poor ill-used Susan died, and when I
could not bear the idea of marrying again, that after what had happened between us it was my duty not to


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let any unnecessary delay occur before putting things to rights. Still, I wouldn't call in a hurry, because -
well, you can guess how this money you've come into made me feel." His voice slowly fell; he was
conscious that in this room his accents and manner wore a roughness not observable in the street. He
looked about the room at the novel hangings and ingenious furniture with which she had surrounded
herself.
"Upon my life I didn't know such furniture as this could be bought in Casterbridge," he said.
"Nor can it be," said she. "Nor will it till fifty years more of civilization have passed over the town. It
took a waggon and four horses to get it here."
"H'm. It looks as if you were living on capital."
"O no, I am not."
"So much the better. But the fact is, your setting up like this makes my bearing towards you rather
awkward."
"Why?"
An answer was not really needed, and he did not furnish one. "Well," he went on, "there's nobody in the
world I would have wished to see enter into this wealth before you, Lucetta, and nobody, I am sure, who
will become it more." He turned to her with congratulatory admiration so fervid that she shrank
somewhat, notwithstanding that she knew him so well.
"I am greatly obliged to you for all that," said she, rather with an air of speaking ritual. The stint of
reciprocal feeling was perceived, and Henchard showed chagrin at once - nobody was more quick to
show that than he.
"You may be obliged or not for't. Though the things I say may not have the polish of what you've lately
learnt to expect for the first time in your life, they are real, my lady Lucetta."
"That's rather a rude way of speaking to me," pouted Lucetta, with stormy eyes.
"Not at all!" replied Henchard hotly. "But there, there, I don't wish to quarrel with 'ee. I come with an
honest proposal for silencing your Jersey enemies, and you ought to be thankful."
"How can you speak so!" she answered, firing quickly. "Knowing that my only crime was the indulging
in a foolish girl's passion for you with too little regard for correctness, and that I was what I call innocent
all the time they called me guilty, you ought not to be so cutting! I suffered enough at that worrying time,
when you wrote to tell me of your wife's return and my consequent dismissal, and if I am a little
independent now, surely the privilege is due me!"
"Yes, it is," he said. "But it is not by what is, in this life, but by what appears, that you are judged; and I
therefore thing you ought to accept me - for your own good name's sake. What is known in your native
Jersey may get known here."
"How you keep on about Jersey! I am English!"
"Yes, yes. Well, what do you say to my proposal?"
For the first time in their acquaintance Lucetta had the move; and yet she was backward. "For the present

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let things be," she said with some embarrassment. "Treat me as an acquaintance; and I'll treat you as one.
Time will - " she stopped; and he said nothing to fill the gap for awhile, there being no pressure of half
acquaintance to drive them into speech if they were not minded for it.
"That's the way the wind blows, is it?" he said at last grimly, nodding an affirmative to his own thoughts.
A yellow flood of reflected sunlight filled the room for a few instants. It was produced by the passing of
a load of newly trussed hay from the country, in a waggon marked with Farfrae's name. Beside it rode
Farfrae himself on horseback. Lucetta's face became - as a woman's face becomes when the man she
loves rises upon her gaze like an apparition.
A turn of the eye by Henchard, a glance from the window, and the secret of her inaccessibility would
have been revealed. But Henchard in estimating her tone was looking down so plumb-straight that he did
not note the warm consciousness upon Lucetta's face.
"I shouldn't have thought it - I shouldn't have thought it of women!" he said emphatically by-and-by,
rising and shaking himself into activity; while Lucetta was so anxious to divert him from any suspicion
of the truth that she asked him to be in no hurry. Bringing him some apples she insisted upon paring one
for him.
He would not take it. "No, no; such is not for me," he said drily, and moved to the door. At going out he
turned his eye upon her.
"You came to live in Casterbridge entirely on my account," he said. "Yet now you are here you won't
have anything to say to my offer!"
He had hardly gone down the staircase when she dropped upon the sofa and jumped up again in a fit of
desperation. "I will love him!" she cried passionately; "as for him - he's hottempered and stern, and it
would be madness to bind myself to him knowing that. I won't be a slave to the past - I'll love where I
choose!"
Yet having decided to break away from Henchard one might have supposed her capable of aiming higher
than Farfrae. But Lucetta reasoned nothing: she feared hard words from the people with whom she had
been earlier associated; she had no relatives left; and with native lightness of heart took kindly to what
fate offered.
Elizabeth-Jane, surveying the position of Lucetta between her two lovers from the crystalline sphere of a
straightforward mind, did not fail to perceive that her father, as she called him, and Donald Farfrae
became more desperately enamoured of her friend every day. On Farfrae's side it was the unforced
passion of youth. On Henchard's the artificially stimulated coveting of maturer age.
The pain she experienced from the almost absolute obliviousness to her existence that was shown by the
pair of them became at times half dissipated by her sense of its humourousness. When Lucetta had
pricked her finger they were as deeply concerned as if she were dying; when she herself had been
seriously sick or in danger they uttered a conventional word of sympathy at the news, and forgot all
about it immediately. But, as regarded Henchard, this perception of hers also caused her some filial grief;
she could not help asking what she had done to be neglected so, after the professions of solicitude he had
made. As regarded Farfrae, she thought, after honest reflection, that it was quite natural. What was she
beside Lucetta? - as one of the "meaner beauties of the night", when the moon had risen in the skies.


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She had learnt the lesson of renunciation, and was as familiar with the wreck of each day's wishes as with
the diurnal setting of the sun. If her earthly career had taught her few book philosophies it had at least
well practised her in this. Yet her experience had consisted less in a series of pure disappointments than
in a series of substitutions. Continually it had happened that what she had desired had not been granted
her, and that what had been granted her she had not desired. So she viewed with an approach to
equanimity the now cancelled days when Donald had been her undeclared lover, and wondered what
unwished-for thing Heaven might send her in place of him.




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* XXVI *
IT chanced that on a fine spring morning Henchard and Farfrae met in the chestnut-walk which ran along
the south wall of the town. Each had just come out from his early breakfast, and there was not another
soul near. Henchard was reading a letter from Lucetta, sent in answer to a note from him, in which she
made some excuse for not immediately granting him a second interview that he had desired.
Donald had no wish to enter into conversation with his former friend on their present constrained terms;
neither would he pass him in scowling silence. He nodded, and Henchard did the same. They had receded
from each other several paces when a voice cried "Farfrae!" It was Henchard's, who stood regarding him.
"Do you remember," said Henchard, as if it were the presence of the thought and not of the man which
made him speak, "do you remember my story of that second woman - who suffered for her thoughtless
intimacy with me?"
"I do," said Farfrae.
"Do you remember my telling 'ee how it all began and how it ended?"
"Yes."
"Well, I have offered to marry her now that I can; but she won't marry me. Now what would you think of
her - I put it to you?"
"Well, ye owe her nothing more now," said Farfrae heartily.
"It is true," said Henchard, and went on.
That he had looked up from a letter to ask his question completely shut out from Farfrae's mind all vision
of Lucetta as the culprit. Indeed, her present position was so different from that of the young woman of
Henchard's story as of itself to be sufficient to blind him absolutely to her identity. As for Henchard, he
was reassured by Farfrae's words and manner against a suspicion which had crossed his mind. They were
not those of a conscious rival.
Yet that there was rivalry by some one he was firmly persuaded. He could feel it in the air around
Lucetta, see it in the turn of her pen. There was an antagonistic force in exercise, so that when he had
tried to hang near her he seemed standing in a refluent current. That it was not innate caprice he was
more and more certain. Her windows gleamed as if they did not want him; her curtains seemed to hang
slily, as if they screened an ousting presence. To discover whose presence that was - whether really
Farfrae's after all, or another's - he exerted himself to the utmost to see her again; and at length
succeeded.
At the interview, when she offered him tea, he made it a point to launch a cautious inquiry if she knew
Mr Farfrae.
O yes, she knew him, she declared; she could not help knowing almost everybody in Casterbridge, living
in such a gazebo over the centre and arena of the town.
"Pleasant young fellow," said Henchard.


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"Yes," said Lucetta.
"We both know him," said kind Elizabeth-Jane, to relieve her companion's divined embarrassment.
There was a knock at the door; literally, three full knocks and a little one at the end.
"That kind of knock means half-and-half - somebody between gentle and simple," said the corn-merchant
to himself. "I shouldn't wonder therefore if it is he." In a few seconds surely enough Donald walked in.
Lucetta was full of little fidgets and flutters, which increased Henchard's suspicions without affording
any special proof of their correctness. He was well-nigh ferocious at the sense of the queer situation in
which he stood towards this woman. One who had reproached him for deserting her when calumniated,
who had urged claims upon his consideration on that account, who had lived waiting for him, who at the
first decent moment had come to ask him to rectify, by making her his, the false position into which she
had placed herself for his sake; such she had been. And now he sat at her tea-table eager to gain her
attention, and in his amatory rage feeling the other man present to be a villain, just as any young fool of a
lover might feel.
They sat stiffly side by side at the darkening table, like some Tuscan painting of the two disciples
supping at Emmaus. Lucetta, forming the third and haloed figure, was opposite them; Elizabeth-Jane,
being out of the game, and out of the group, could observe all from afar, like the evangelist who had to
write it down: that there were long spaces of taciturnity, when all exterior circumstance was subdued to
the touch of spoons and china, the click of a heel on a pavement under the window, the passing of a
wheel-barrow or cart, the whistling of the carter, the gush of water into householders'buckets at the
town-pump opposite; the exchange of greetings among their neighbours, and the rattle of the yokes by
which they carried off their evening supply.
"More bread-and-butter?" said Lucetta to Henchard and Farfrae equally, holding out between them a
plateful of long slices. Henchard took a slice by one end and Donald by the other; each feeling certain he
was the man meant; neither let go, and the slice came in two.
"Oh - I am so sorry!" cried Lucetta, with a nervous titter. Farfrae tried to laugh; but he was too much in
love to see the incident in any but a tragic light.
"How ridiculous of all three of them!" said Elizabeth to herself.
Henchard left the house with a ton of conjecture, though without a grain of proof, that the
counter-attraction was Farfrae; and therefore he would not make up his mind. Yet to Elizabeth-Jane it
was plain as the town-pump that Donald and Lucetta were incipient lovers. More than once, in spite of
her care, Lucetta had been unable to restrain her glance from flitting across into Farfrae's eyes like a bird
to its nest. But Henchard was constructed upon too large a scale to discern such minutiae as these by any
evening light, which to him were as the notes of an insect that lie above the compass of the human ear.
But he was disturbed. And the sense of occult rivalry in suitorship was so much superadded to the
palpable rivalry of their business lives. To the coarse materiality of that rivalry it added an inflaming
soul.
The thus vitalized antagonism took the form of action by Henchard sending for Jopp, the manager
originally displaced by Farfrae's arrival. Henchard had frequently met this man about the streets,
observed that his clothing spoke of neediness, heard that he lived in Mixen Lane - a back slum of the

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town, the pis aller of Casterbridge domiciliation - itself almost a proof that a man had reached a stage
when he would not stick at trifles.
Jopp came after dark, by the gates of the store-yard, and felt his way through the hay and straw to the
office where Henchard sat in solitude awaiting him.
"I am again out of a foreman," said the corn-factor. "Are you in a place?"
"Not so much as a beggar's, sir."
"How much do you ask?"
Jopp named his price, which was very moderate.
"When can you come?"
"At this hour and moment, sir," said Jopp, who standing hands-pocketed at the street corner till the sun
had faded the shoulders of his coat to scarecrow green, had regularly watched Henchard in the
market-place, measured him, and learnt him, by virtue of the power which the still man has in his
stillness of knowing the busy one better than he known himself. Jopp, too, had had a convenient
experience; he was the only one in Casterbridge besides Henchard and the close-lipped Elizabeth who
knew that Lucetta came truly from Jersey, and but proximately from Bath. "I know Jersey, too, sir," he
said. "Was living there when you used to do business that way. O yes - have often seen ye there."
"Indeed! Very good. Then the thing is settled. The testimonials you showed me when you first tried for't
are sufficient."
That characters deteriorate in time of need possibly did not occur to Henchard. Jopp said, "Thank you,"
and stood more firmly, in the consciousness that at last he officially belonged to that spot.
"Now," said Henchard, digging his strong eyes into Jopp's face, "one thing is necessary to me, as the
biggest corn-and-hay-dealer in these parts. The Scotchman, who's taking the town trade so bold into his
hands, must be cut out. D'ye hear? We two can't live side by side - that's clear and certain."
"I've seen it all," said Jopp.
"By fair competition I mean, of course," Henchard continued. "But as hard, keen, and unflinching as fair
- rather more so. By such a desperate bid against him for the farmers' custom as will grind him into the
ground - starve him out. I've capital, mind ye, and I can do it."
"I'm all that way of thinking," said the new foreman. Jopp's dislike of Farfrae as the man who had once
usurped his place, while it made him a willing tool, made him, at the same time, commercially as unsafe
a colleague as Henchard could have chosen.
"I sometimes think," he added, "that he must have some glass that he sees next year in. He has such a
knack of making everything bring him fortune."
"He's deep beyond all honest men's discerning; but we must make him shallower. We'll under-sell him,
and over-buy him, and so snuff him out."
They then entered into specific details of the process by which this would be accomplished, and parted at
a late hour.

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Elizabeth-Jane heard by accident that Jopp had been engaged by her stepfather. She was so fully
convinced that he was not the right man for the place that, at the risk of making Henchard angry, she
expressed her apprehension to him when they met. But it was done to no purpose. Henchard shut up her
argument with a sharp rebuff.
The season's weather seemed to favour their scheme. The time was in the years immediately before
foreign competition had revolutionized the trade in grain; when still as from the earliest ages, the wheat
quotations from month to month depended entirely upon the home harvest. A bad harvest, or the prospect
of one, would double the price of corn in a few weeks; and the promise of a good yield would lower it as
rapidly. Prices were like the roads of the period, steep in gradient, reflecting in their phases the local
conditions, without engineering, levellings, or averages.
The farmer's income was ruled by the wheat-crop within his own horizon, and the wheat-crop by the
weather. Thus, in person, he became a sort of flesh-barometer, with feelers always directed to the sky and
wind around him. The local atmosphere was everything to him; the atmospheres of other countries a
matter of indifference. The people, too, who were not farmers, the rural multitude, saw in the god of the
weather a more important personage than they do now. Indeed, the feeling of the peasantry in this matter
was so intense as to be almost unrealizable in these equable days. Their impulse was well-nigh to
prostrate themselves in lamentation before untimely rains and tempests, which came as the Alastor of
those households whose crime it was to be poor.
After midsummer they watched the weather-cocks as men waiting in antechambers watch the lackey.
Sun elated them; quiet rain sobered them; weeks of watery tempest stupefied them. That aspect of the sky
which they now regarded as disagreeable they then beheld as maleficent.
It was June, and the weather was very unfavourable. Casterbridge, being as it were the bell-board on
which all the adjacent hamlets and villages sounded their notes, was decidedly dull. Instead of new
articles in the shop-windows those that had been rejected in the foregoing summer were brought out
again; superseded reap-hooks, badly-shaped rakes, shop-worn leggings, and time-stiffened water-tights
reappeared, furbished up as near to new as possible.
Henchard, backed by Jopp, read a disastrous garnering, and resolved to base his strategy against Farfrae
upon that reading. But before acting he wished - what so many have wished - that he could know for
certain what was at present only strong probability. He was superstitious - as such headstrong natures
often are - and he nourished in his mind an idea bearing on the matter; an idea he shrank from disclosing
even to Jopp.
In a lonely hamlet a few miles from the town - so lonely that what are called lonely villages were
teeming by comparison - there lived a man of curious repute as a forecaster or weather-prophet. The way
to his house was crooked and miry - even difficult in the present unpropitious season. One evening when
it was raining so heavily that ivy and laurel resounded like distant musketry, and an out-door man could
be excused for shrouding himself to his ears and eyes, such a shrouded figure on foot might have been
perceived travelling in the direction of the hazel-copse which dripped over the prophet's cot. The
turnpike-road became a lane, the lane a cart-track, the cart-track a bridle-path, the bridle-path a footway,
the foot-way overgrown. The solitary walker slipped here and there, and stumbled over the natural
springes formed by the brambles, till at length he reached the house, which, with its garden, was
surrounded with a high, dense hedge. The cottage, comparatively a large one, had been built of mud by
the occupier's own hands, and thatched also by himself. Here he had always lived, and here it was

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assumed he would die.
He existed on unseen supplies; for it was an anomalous thing that while there was hardly a soul in the
neighbourhood but affected to laugh at this man's assertions, uttering the formula, "There's nothing in
'em", with full assurance on the surface of their faces, very few of them were unbelievers in their secret
hearts. Whenever they consulted him they did it "for a fancy". When they paid him they said, "Just a
trifle for Christmas", of "Candlemas", as the case might be.
He would have preferred more honesty in his clients, and less sham ridicule; but fundamental belief
consoled him for superficial irony. As stated, he was enabled to live; people supported him with their
backs turned. He was sometimes astonished that men could profess so little and believe so much at his
house, when at church they professed so much and believed so little.
Behind his back he was called "Wide-oh", on account of his reputation; to his face "Mr" Fall.
The hedge of his garden formed an arch over the entrance, and a door was inserted as in a wall. Outside
the door the tall traveller stopped, bandaged his face with a handkerchief as if he were suffering from
toothache, and went up the path. The windows shutters were not closed, and he could see the prophet
within, preparing his supper.
In answer to the knock Fall came to the door, candle in hand. The visitor stepped back a little from the
light, and said, "Can I speak to 'ee?" in significant tones. The other's invitation to come in was responded
to by the country formula, "This will do, thank 'ee", after which the householder has no alternative but to
come out. He placed the candle on the corner of the dresser, took his hat from a nail, and joined the
stranger in the porch, shutting the door behind him.
"I've long heard that you can - do things of a sort?" began the other, repressing his individuality as much
as he could.
"Maybe so, Mr Henchard," said the weather-caster.
"Ah - why do you call me that?" asked the visitor with a start.
"Because it's your name. Feeling you'd come I've waited for 'ee; and thinking you might be leery from
your walk I laid two supper plates - look ye here." He threw open the door and disclosed the
supper-table, at which appeared a second chair, knife and fork, plate and mugs, as he had declared.
Henchard felt like Saul at his reception by Samuel; he remained in silence for a few moments, then
throwing off the disguise of frigidity which he had hitherto preserved, he said, "Then I have not come in
vain... Now, for instance, can ye charm away warts?"
"Without trouble."
"Cure the evil?"
"That I've done - with consideration - if they will wear the toad-bag by night as well as by day."
"Forecast the weather?"
"With labour and time."
"Then take this," said Henchard. "'Tis a crown-piece. Now, what is the harvest fortnight to be? When can

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I know?"
"I've worked it out already, and you can know at once." (The fact was that five farmers had already been
there on the same errand from different parts of the country.) "By the sun, moon, and stars, by the clouds,
the winds, the trees, and grass, the candleflame and swallows, the smell of the herbs; likewise by the cats'
eyes, the ravens, the leeches, the spiders, and the dungmixen, the last fortnight in August will be - rain
and tempest."
"You are not certain, of course?"
"As one can be in a world where all's unsure. 'Twill be more like living in Revelations this autumn than
in England. Shall I sketch it out for 'ee in a scheme?"
"O no, no," said Henchard. "I don't altogether believe in forecasts, come to second thoughts on such. But
I-"
"You don't - you don't--'tis quite understood," said Wideoh, without a sound of scorn. "You have given
me a crown because you've one too many. But won't you join me at supper, now 'tis waiting and all?"
Henchard would gladly have joined; for the savour of the stew had floated from the cottage into the
porch with such appetizing distinctness that the meat, the onions, the pepper, and the herbs could be
severally recognized by his nose. But as sitting down to hob-and-nob there would have seemed to mark
him too implicitly as the weather-caster's apostle, he declined, and went his way.
The next Saturday Henchard bought grain to such an enormous extent that there was quite a talk about
his purchases among his neighbours the lawyer, the wine merchant, and the doctor; also on the next, and
on all available days. When his granaries were full to choking, all the weathercocks of Casterbridge
creaked and set their faces in another direction, as if tired of the south-west. The weather changed; the
sunlight, which had been like tin for weeks, assumed the hues of topaz. The temperament of the welkin
passed from the phlegmatic to the sanguine; an excellent harvest was almost a certainty; and as a
consequence prices rushed down.
All these transformations, lovely to the outsider, to the wrong-headed corn-dealer were terrible. He was
reminded of what he had well known before, that a man might gamble upon the square green areas of
fields as readily as upon those of a card-room.
Henchard had backed bad weather, and apparently lost. He had mistaken the turn of the flood for the turn
of the ebb. His dealings had been so extensive that settlement could not long be postponed, and to settle
he was obliged to sell off corn that he had bought only a few weeks before at figures higher by many
shillings a quarter. Much of the corn he had never seen; it had not even been moved from the ricks in
which it lay stacked miles away. Thus he lost heavily.
In the blaze of a early August day he met Farfrae in the market-place. Farfrae knew of his dealings
(though he did not guess their intended bearing on himself) and commiserated with him; for since their
exchange of words in the South Walk they had been on stiffly speaking terms. Henchard for the moment
appeared to resent the sympathy; but he suddenly took a careless turn.
"Ho, no no! - nothing serious, man!" he cried with fierce gaiety. "These things always happen, don't
they? I know it has been said that figures have touched me tight lately; but is that anything rare? The case
is not so bad as folk make out perhaps. And dammy, a man must be a fool to mind the common hazards

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of trade!"
But he had to enter the Casterbridge Bank that day for reason which had never before sent him there -
and to sit a long time in the partners' room with a constrained bearing. It was rumoured soon after that
much real property as well as vast stores of produce, which had stood in Henchard's name in the town
neighbourhood, was actually they possession of his bankers.
Coming down the steps of the bank he encountered Jopp. The gloomy transactions just completed within
had added fever to the original sting of Farfrae's sympathy that morning, which Henchard fancied might
be satire disguised, so that Jopp met with anything but a bland reception. The latter was in the act of
taking off his hat to wipe his forehead, and saying, "A fine hot day," to an acquaintance.
"You can wipe and wipe, an say, ""A fine hot day,"" can ye!" cried Henchard in a savage undertone,
imprisoning Jopp between himself and the bank wall. "If it hadn't been for your blasted advice it might
have been a fine day enough! Why did ye let me go on, hey? - when a word of doubt form you or
anybody would have made me think twice! For you can never be sure of weather till 'tis past."
"My advice, sir, was to do what you thought best."
"A useful fellow! And the sooner you help somebody else in that way the better!" Henchard continued
his address to Jopp in similar terms till it ended in Jopp's dismissal there and then, Henchard turning
upon his heel and leaving him.
"You shall be sorry for this, sir; sorry as a man can be!" said Jopp, standing pale, and looking after the
corn-merchant as he disappeared in the crowd of market-men hard by.




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* XXVII *
IT was the eve of harvest. Prices being low Farfrae was buying. As was usual, after reckoning too surely
on famine weather the local farmers had flown to the other extreme, and (in Farfrae's opinion) were
selling off too recklessly - calculating with just a trifle too much certainly upon an abundant yield. So he
went on buying old corn at its comparatively ridiculous price: for the produce of the previous year,
though not large, had been of excellent quality.
When Henchard had squared his affairs in a disastrous way, and got rid of his burdensome purchases at a
monstrous loss, the harvest began. There were three days of excellent weather, and then - "What if that
curst conjuror should be right after all!" said Henchard.
The fact was, that no sooner had the sickles begun to play than the atmosphere suddenly felt as if cress
would grow in it without other nourishment. It rubbed people's cheeks like damp flannel when they
walked abroad. There was a gusty, high, warm wind; isolated raindrops starred the window-panes at
remote distances: the sunlight would flap out like a quickly opened fan, throw the pattern of the window
upon the floor of the room in a milky, colourless shine, and withdraw as suddenly as it had appeared.
From that day and hour it was clear that there was not to be so successful an ingathering after all. If
Henchard had only waited long enough he might at least have avoided loss though he had not made a
profit. But the momentum of his character knew no patience. At this turn of the scales he remained silent.
The movements of his mind seemed to tend to the thought that some power was working against him.
"I wonder," he asked himself with eerie misgiving; "I wonder if it can be that somebody has been
roasting a waxen image of me, or stirring an unholy brew to confound me! I don't believe in such power;
and yet - what if they should ha' been doing it!" Even he could not admit that the perpetrator, if any,
might be Farfrae. These isolated hours of superstition came to Henchard in time of moody depression,
when all his practical largeness of view had oozed out of him.
Meanwhile Donald Farfrae prospered. He had purchased in so depressed a market that the present
moderate stiffness of prices was sufficient to pile for him a large heap of gold where a little one had
been.
"Why, he'll soon be Mayor!" said Henchard. It was indeed hard that the speaker should, of all others,
have to follow the triumphal chariot of this man to the Capitol.
The rivalry of the masters was taken up by the men.
September-night shades had fallen upon Casterbridge; the clocks had struck half-past eight, and the
moon had risen. The streets of the town were curiously silent for such comparatively early hour. A sound
of jangling horse-bells and heavy wheels passed up the street. These were followed by angry voices
outside Lucetta's house, which led her and Elizabeth-Jane to run to the windows, and pull up the blinds.
The neighbouring Market House and Town Hall abutted against its next neighbour the Church except in
the lower storey, where an arched thoroughfare gave admittance to a large square called Bull Stake. A
stone post rose in the midst, to which the oxen had formerly been tied for baiting with dogs to make them
tender before they were killed in the adjoining shambles. In a corner stood the stocks.


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The thoroughfare leading to this spot was now blocked by two four-horse waggons and horses, one laden
with haytrusses, the leaders having already passed each other, and become entangled head to tail. The
passage of the vehicles might have been practicable if empty; but built up with hay to the bedroom
windows as one was, it was impossible.
"You must have done it a' purpose!" said Farfrae's waggoner. "You can hear my horses' bells half-a-mile
such a night as this!"
"If ye'd been minding your business instead of zwailing along in such a gawk-hammer way, you would
have zeed me!" retorted the wroth representative of Henchard.
However, according to the strict rule of the road it appeared that Henchard's man was most in the wrong;
he therefore attempted to back into the High Street. In doing this the near hind-wheel rose against the
chruchyard wall, and the whole mountainous load went over, two of the four wheels rising in the air, and
the legs of the thill horse.
Instead of considering how to gather up the load the two men closed in a fight with their fists. Before the
first round was quite over Henchard came upon the spot, somebody having run for him.
Henchard sent the two men staggering in contrary directions by collaring one with each hand, turned to
the horse that was down, and extricated him after some trouble. He then inquired into the circumstances;
and seeing the state of his waggon and its load began hotly rating Farfrae's man.
Lucetta and Elizabeth-Jane had by this time run down to the street corner, whence they watched the
bright heap of new hay lying in the moon's rays, and passed and re-passed by the forms of Henchard and
the waggoners. The women had witnessed what nobody else had seen - the origin of the mishap; and
Lucetta spoke.
"I saw it all, Mr Henchard," she cried; "and your man was most in the wrong!"
Henchard paused in his harangue and turned. "Oh, I didn't notice you, Miss Templeman," said he. "My
man in the wrong? Ah, to be sure; to be sure! But I beg your pardon notwithstanding. The other's is the
empty waggon, and he must have been most to blame for coming on."
"No; I saw it, too," said Elizabeth-Jane. "And I can assure you he couldn't help it."
"You can't trust their senses!" murmured Henchard's man.
"Why not?" asked Henchard sharply.
"Why, you see, sir, all the women side with farfrae - being a damn young dand - or the sort that he is -
one that creeps into a maid's heart like the giddying worm into a sheep's brain - making crooked seem
straight to their eyes!"
"But do you know who that lady is you talk about in such a fashion? Do you know that I pay my
attentions to her, and have for some time? Just be careful!"
"Not I. I know nothing, sir, outside eight shillings a week."
"And that Mr Farfrae is well aware of it? He's sharp in trade, but he wouldn't do anything so underhand
as what you hint at."


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Whether because Lucetta heard this low dialogue, or not, her white figure disappeared from her doorway
inward, and the door was shut before Henchard could reach it to converse with her further. This
disappointed him, for he had been sufficiently disturbed by what the man had said to wish to speak to her
more closely. While pausing the old constable came up.
"Just see that nobody drives against that hay and waggon tonight, Stubberd," said the corn-merchant. "It
must bide till the morning, for all hands are in the fields still. And if any coach or road-waggon wants to
come along, tell 'em they must go round by the back street, and he hanged to 'em... Any case tomorrow
up in Hall?"
"Yes, sir. One in number, sir."
"Oh, what's that?"
"An old flagrant female, sir, swearing and committing a nuisance in a horrible profane manner against
the church wall, sir, as if 'twere no more than a pot-house! That's all, sir."
"Oh. The Mayor's out o' town, isn't he?"
"He is, sir."
"Very well, then I'll be there. Don't forget to keep an eye on that hay. Good night t' 'ee."
During those moments Henchard had determined to follow up Lucetta notwithstanding her elusiveness,
and he knocked for admission.
The answer he received was an expression of Miss Temple-man's sorrow at being unable to see him
again that evening because she had an engagement to go out.
Henchard walked away from the door to the opposite side of the street, and stood by his hay in lonely
reverie, the constable having strolled elsewhere, and the horses being removed. Though the moon was
not bright as yet there were no lamps lighted, and he entered the shadow of one of the projecting jambs
which formed the thoroughfare to Bull Stake; here he watched Lucetta's door.
Candle-lights were flitting in and out of her bedroom, and it was obvious that she was dressing for the
appointment, whatever the nature of that might be at such an hour. The lights disappeared, the clock
struck nine, and almost at the moment Farfrae came round the opposite corner and knocked. That she had
been waiting just inside for him was certain, for she instantly opened the door herself. They went
together by the way of a back lane westward, avoiding the front street; guessing where they were going
he determined to follow.
The harvest had been so delayed by the capricious weather that whenever a fine day occurred all sinews
were strained to save what could be saved of the damaged crops. On account of the rapid shortening of
the days the harvesters worked by moonlight. Hence tonight the wheat-fields abutting on the two sides of
the square formed by Casterbridge town were animated by the gathering hands. Their shouts and laughter
had reached Henchard at the Market House, while he stood there waiting, and he had little doubt from the
turn which Farfrae and Lucetta had taken that they were bound for the spot.
Nearly the whole town had gone into the fields. The Casterbridge populace still retained the primitive
habit of helping one another in time of need; and thus, though the corn belonged to the farming section of


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the little community - that inhabiting the Durnover quarter - the remainder was no less interested in the
labour of getting it home.
Reaching the top of the lane Henchard crossed the shaded avenue on the walls, slid down the green
rampart, and stood amongst the stubble. The "stitches" or shocks rose like tents about the yellow
expanse, those in the distance becoming lost in the moonlight hazes.
He had entered at a point removed from the scene of immediate operations; but two others had entered at
that place, and he could see them winding among the shocks. They were paying no regard to the direction
of their walk, whose vague serpentining soon began to bear down towards Henchard. A meeting
promised to be awkward, and he therefore stepped into the hollow of the nearest shock, and sat down.
"You have my leave," Lucetta was saying gaily. "Speak what you like."
"Well, then," replied Farfrae, with the unmistakable inflection of the lover pure, which Henchard had
never heard in full resonance on his lips before, "you are sure to be much sought after for your position,
wealth, talents, and beauty. But will ye resist the temptation to be one of those ladies with lots of
admirers - ay - and be content to have only a homely one?"
"And he the speaker?" said she, laughing. "Very well, sir, what next?"
"Ah! I'm afraid that what I feel will make me forget my manners!"
"Then I hope you'll never have any, if you lack them only for that cause." After some broken words
which Henchard lost she added, "Are you sure you won't be jealous?"
Farfrae seemed to assure her that he would not, by taking her hand.
"You are convinced, Donald, that I love nobody else," she presently said. "But I should wish to have my
own way in some things."
"In everything! What special thing did you mean?"
"If I wished not to live always in Casterbridge, for instance, upon finding that I should not be happy
here?"
Henchard did not hear the reply; he might have done so and much more, but he did not care to play the
eavesdropper. They went on towards the scene of activity, where the sheaves were being handed, a dozen
a minute, upon the carts and waggons which carried them away.
Lucetta insisted on parting from Farfrae when they drew near the workpeople. He had some business
with them and, though he entreated her to wait a few minutes, she was inexorable, and tripped off
homeward alone.
Henchard thereupon left the field and followed her. His state of mind was such that on reaching Lucetta's
door he did not knock but opened it, and walked straight up to her sitting-room, expecting to find her
there. But the room was empty, and he perceived that in his haste he had somehow passed her on the way
hither. He had not to wait many minutes, however, for he soon heard her dress rustling in the hall,
followed by a soft closing of the door. In a moment she appeared.
The light was so low that she did not notice Henchard at first. As soon as she saw him she uttered a little


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cry, almost of terror.
"How can you frighten me so?" she exclaimed, with a flushed face. "It is past ten o'clock, and you have
no right to surprise me here at such a time."
"I don't know that I've not the right. At any rate I have the excuse. Is it so necessary that I should stop to
think of manners and customs?"
"It is too late for propriety, and might injure me."
"I called an hour ago, and you would not see me, and I thought you were in when I called now. It is you,
Lucetta, who are doing wrong. It is not proper in 'ee to throw me over like this. I have a little matter to
remind you of, which you seem to forget."
She sank into a chair, and turned pale.
"I don't want to hear it - I don't want to hear it!" she said through her hands, as he, standing close to the
edge of her gown, began to allude to the Jersey days.
"But you ought to hear it," said he.
"It came to nothing; and through you. Then why not leave me the freedom that I gained with such
sorrow! Had I found that you proposed to marry me for pure love I might have felt bound now. But I
soon learnt that you had planned it out of mere charity - almost as an unpleasant duty - because I had
nursed you, and compromised myself, and you thought you must repay me. After that I did not care for
you so deeply as before."
"Why did you come here to find me, then?"
"I thought I ought to marry you for conscience' sake, since you were free, even though I - did not like you
so well."
"And why then don't you think so now?"
She was silent. It was only too obvious that conscience had ruled well enough till new love had
intervened and usurped that rule. In feeling this she herself forgot the moment her partially justifying
argument - that having discovered Henchard's infirmities of temper, she had some excuse for not risking
her happiness in his hands after once escaping them. The only thing she could say was, "I was a poor girl
then; and now my circumstances have altered, so I am hardly the same person."
"That's true. And it makes the case awkward for me. But I don't want to touch your money. I am quite
willing that every penny of your property shall remain to your personal use. Besides, that argument has
nothing in it. The man you are thinking of is no better than I."
"If you were as good as he you would leave me!" she cried passionately.
This unluckily aroused Henchard. "You cannot in honour refuse me," he said. "And unless you give me
your promise this very night to be my wife, before a witness, I'll reveal our intimacy - in common
fairness to other men!"
A look of resignation settled upon her. Henchard saw its bitterness; and had Lucetta's heart been given to
any other man in the world than Farfrae he would probably have had pity upon her at that moment. But

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the supplanter was the upstart (as Henchard called him) who had mounted into prominence upon his
shoulders, and he could bring himself to show no mercy.
Without another word she rang the bell, and directed that Elizabeth-Jane should be fetched from her
room. The latter appeared, surprised in the midst of her lucubrations. As soon as she saw Henchard she
went across to him dutifully.
"Elizabeth-Jane," he said, taking her hand, "I want you to hear this." And turning to Lucetta: "Will you,
or will you not, marry me?"
"If you - wish it, I must agree!"
"You say yes?"
"I do."
No sooner had she given the promise than she fell back in a fainting state.
"What dreadful thing drives her to say this, father, when it is such a pain to her?" asked Elizabeth,
kneeling down by Lucetta. "Don't compel her to do anything against her will!I have lived with her, and
know that she cannot bear much."
"Don't be a no'thern simpleton!" said Henchard drily. "This promise will leave him free for you, if you
want him, won't it?"
At this Lucetta seemed to wake from her swoon with a start.
"Him? Who are you talking about?" she said wildly.
"Nobody, as far as I am concerned," said Elizabeth firmly.
"Oh - well. Then it is my mistake," said Henchard. "But the business is between me and Miss
Templeman. She agrees to be my wife."
"But don't dwell on it just now," entreated Elizabeth, holding Lucetta's hand.
"I don't wish to, if she promises," said Henchard.
"I have, I have," groaned Lucetta, her limbs hanging like flails, from very misery and faintness.
"Michael, please don't argue it any more!"
"I will not," he said. And taking up his hat he went away.
Elizabeth-Jane continued to kneel by Lucetta. "What is this?" she said. "You called my father
""Michael"" as if you knew him well? And how is it he has this power over you, that you promise to
marry him against you will? Ah - you have many many secrets from me!"
"Perhaps you have some from me," Lucetta murmured with closed eyes, little thinking, however, so
unsuspicious was she, that the secret of Elizabeth's heart concerned the young man who had caused this
damage to her own.
"I would not - do anything against you at all!" stammered Elizabeth, keeping in all signs of emotion till
she was ready to burst. "I cannot understand how my father can command you so; I don't sympathize

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with him in it at all. I'll go to him and ask him to release you."
"No, no," said Lucetta. "Let it all be."




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* XXVIII *
THE next morning Henchard went to the Town Hall below Lucetta's house, to attend Petty Sessions,
being still a magistrate for the year by virtue of his late position as Mayor. In passing he looked up at her
windows, but nothing of her was to be seen.
Henchard as a Justice of the Peace may at first seem to be an even greater incongruity than Shallow and
Silence themselves. But his rough and ready perceptions, his sledge-hammer directness, had often served
him better than nice legal knowledge in despatching such simple business as fell to his hands in this
Court. Today Dr Chalkfield, the Mayor for the year, being absent, the corn-merchant took the big chair,
his eyes still abstractedly stretching out of the window to the ashlar front of High-Place Hall.
There was one case only, and the offender stood before him. She was an old woman of mottled
countenance, attired in a shawl of that nameless tertiary hue which comes, but cannot be made - a hue
neither tawny, russet, hazel, nor ash; a sticky black bonnet that seemed to have been worn in the country
of the Psalmist where the clouds drop fatness: and an apron that had been white in times so
comparatively recent as still to contrast visibly with the rest of her clothes. The steeped aspect of the
woman as a whole showed her to be no native of the country-side or even of a country-town.
She looked cursorily at Henchard and the second magistrate, and Henchard looked at her, with a
momentary pause, as if she had reminded him indistinctly of somebody or something which passed from
his mind as quickly as it had come. "Well, and what has she been doing?" he said, looking down at the
charge-sheet.
"She is charged, sir, with the offence of disorderly female and nuisance," whispered Stubberd.
"Where did she do that?" said the other magistrate.
"By the church, sir, of all the horrible places in the world! - I caught her in the act, your worship."
"Stand back then," said Henchard, "and let's hear what you've got to say."
Stubberd was sworn, the magistrate's clerk dipped his pen, Henchard being no note-taker himself, and the
constable began--
"Hearing a' illegal noise I went down the street at twenty-five minutes past eleven p.m. on the night of
the fifth instinct, Hannah Dominy. When I had - "
"Don't go on so fast, Stubberd," said the clerk.
The constable waited, with his eyes on the clerk's pen, till the latter stopped scratching, and said, "yes."
Stubberd continued: "What I had proceeded to the spot I saw defendant at another spot, namely, the
gutter." He paused, watching the point of the clerk's pen again.
"Gutter, yes, Stubberd."
"Spot measuring twelve feet nine inches or thereabouts, from where I - " Still careful not to outrun the
clerk's penmanship Stubberd pulled up again; for having got his evidence by heart it was immaterial to
him whereabouts he broke off.


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"I object to that," spoke up the old woman, """spot measuring twelve feet nine or thereabouts from where
I,"" is not sound testimony!"
The magistrates consulted, and the second one said that the bench was of opinion that twelve feet nine
inches from a man on his oath was admissible.
Stubberd, with a suppressed gaze of victorious rectitude at the old woman, continued: "Was standing
myself. She was wambling about quite dangerous to the thoroughfare, and when I approached to draw
near she committed the nuisance, and insulted me."
"""Insulted me.""... Yes, what did she say?"
"She said, ""Put away that dee lantern,"" she says."
"Yes."
"Says she, ""Dost hear, old turmit-head? Put away that dee lantern. I have floored fellows a dee sight
finer-looking than a dee fool like thee, you son of a bee, dee me if I haint,"" she says."
"I object to that conversation!" interposed the old woman. "I was not capable enough to hear what I said,
and what is said out of my own hearing is not evidence."
There was another stoppage for consultation, a book was referred to, and finally Stubberd was allowed to
go on again. The truth was that the old woman had appeared in court so many more times than the
magistrates themselves, that they were obliged to keep a sharp look-out upon their procedure. However,
when Stubberd had rambled on a little further Henchard broke out impatiently, "Come - we don't want to
hear any more of them cust dees and bees! Say the words out like a man, and don't be so modest,
Stubberd; or else leave it alone!" Turning to the woman, "Now then, have you any questions to ask him,
or anything to say?"
"Yes," she replied with a twinkle in her eye; and the clerk dipped his pen.
"Twenty years ago or thereabout I was selling of furmity in a tent at Weydon Fair - "
"""Twenty years ago"" - well, that's beginning at the beginning; suppose you go back to the Creation!"
said the clerk, not without satire.
But Henchard stared, and quite forgot what was evidence and what was not.
"A man and a woman with a little child came into my tent," the woman continued. "They sat down and
had a basin apiece. Ah, Lord's my life! I was of a more respectable station in the world then than I am
now, being a land smuggler in a large way of business; and I used to season my furmity with rum for
them who asked fo't. I did it for the man; and then he had more and more; till at last he quarrelled with
his wife, and offered to sell her to the highest bidder. A sailor came in and bid five guineas, and paid the
money, and led her away. And the man who sold his wife in that fashion is the man sitting there in the
great big chair." The speaker concluded by nodding her head at Henchard and folding her arms.
Everybody looked at Henchard. His face seemed strange, and in tint as if it had been powdered over with
ashes. "We don't want to hear your life and adventures," said the second magistrate sharply, filling the
pause which followed. "You've been asked if you've anything to say bearing on the case."


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"That bears on the case. It proves that he's no better than I, and has no right to sit there in judgement
upon me."
"'Tis a concocted story," said the clerk. "So hold your tongue!"
"No--'tis true." The words came from Henchard. "'Tis as true as the light," he said slowly. "And upon my
soul it does prove that I'm no better than she! And to keep out of any temptation to treat her hard for
revenge, I'll leave her to you."
The sensation in the court was indescribably great. Henchard left the chair, and came out, passing
through a group of people on the steps and outside that was much larger than usual; for it seemed that the
old furmity dealer had mysteriously hinted to the denizens of the lane in which she had been lodging
since her arrival, that she knew a queer thing or two about their great local man Mr Henchard, if she
chose to tell it. This had brought them hither.
"Why are there so many idlers round the Town Hall today?" said Lucetta to her servant when the case
was over. She had risen late, and had just looked out of the window.
"Oh, please, ma'am, 'tis this larry about Mr Henchard. A woman has proved that before he became a
gentleman he sold his wife for five guineas in a booth at a fair."
In all the accounts which Henchard had given her of the separation from his wife Susan for so many
years, of his belief in her death, and so on, he had never clearly explained the actual and immediate cause
of that separation. The story she now heard for the first time.
A gradual misery overspread Lucetta's face as she dwelt upon the promise wrung from her the night
before. At bottom, then, Henchard was this. How terrible a contingency for a woman who should commit
herself to his care.
During the day she went out to the Ring and to other places, not coming in till nearly dusk. As soon as
she saw Elizabeth-Jane after her return indoors she told her that she had resolved to go away from home
to the seaside for a few days - to Port-Bredy; Casterbridge was so gloomy.
Elizabeth, seeing that she looked wan and disturbed, encouraged her in the idea, thinking a change would
afford her relief. She could not help suspecting that the gloom which seemed to have come over
Casterbridge in Lucetta's eyes might be partially owing to the fact that Farfrae was away from home.
Elizabeth saw her friend depart for Port-Bredy, and took charge of High-Place Hall till her return. After
two or three days of solitude and incessant rain Henchard called at the house. He seemed disappointed to
hear of Lucetta's absence, and though he nodded with outward indifference he went away handling his
beard with a nettled mien.
The next day he called again. "Is she come now?" he asked.
"Yes. She returned this morning," replied his stepdaughter. "But she is not indoors. She has gone for a
walk along the turnpike-road to Port-Bredy. She will be home by dusk."
After a few words, which only served to reveal his restless impatience, he left the house again.




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* XXIX *
AT this hour Lucetta was bounding along the road to Port-Bredy just as Elizabeth had announced. That
she had chosen for her afternoon walk the road along which she had returned to Casterbridge three hours
earlier in a carriage was curious - if anything should be called curious in concatenations of phenomena
wherein each is known to have its accounting cause. It was the day of the chief market - Saturday - and
Farfrae for once had been missed from his corn-stand in the dealers' room. Nevertheless, it was known
that he would be home that night - "for Sunday", as Casterbridge expressed it.
Lucetta, in continuing her walk, had at length reached the end of the ranked trees which bordered the
highway in this and other directions out of the town. This end marked a mile; and here she stopped.
The spot was a vale between two gentle acclivities, and the road, still adhering to its Roman foundation,
stretched onward straight as a surveyor's line till lost to sight on the most distant ridge. There was neither
hedge nor tree in the prospect now, the road clinging to the stubbly expanse of corn-land like a stripe to
an undulating garment. Near her was a barn - the single building of any kind within her horizon.
She strained her eyes up the lessening road, but nothing appeared thereon - not so much as a speck. She
sighed one word - "Donald!" and turned her face to the town for retreat.
Here the case was different. A single figure was approaching her - Elizabeth-Jane's.
Lucetta, in spite of her loneliness, seemed a little vexed. Elizabeth's face, as soon as she recognized her
friend, shaped itself into affectionate lines while yet beyond speaking distance. "I suddenly thought I
would come and meet you," she said, smiling.
Lucetta's reply was taken from her lips by an unexpected diversion. A by-road on her right hand
descended from the fields into the highway at the point where she stood, and down the track a bull was
rambling uncertainly towards her and Elizabeth, who, facing the other way, did not observe him.
In the latter quarter of each year cattle were at once the mainstay and the terror of families about
Casterbridge and its neighbourhood, where breeding was carried on with Abrahamic success. The head
of stock driven into and out of the town at this season to be sold by the local auctioneer was very large;
and all these horned beasts, in travelling to and fro, sent women and children to shelter as nothing else
could do. In the main the animals would have walked along quietly enough; but the Casterbridge
tradition was that to drive stock it was indispensable that hideous cries, coupled with Yahoo antics and
gestures, should be used, large sticks flourished, stray dogs called in, and in general everything done that
was likely to infuriate the viciously disposed and terrify the mild. Nothing was commoner than for a
householder on going out of his parlour to find his hall or passage full of little children, nurse-maids,
aged women, or a ladies' school, who apologized for their presence by saying, "A bull passing down
street from the sale."
Lucetta and Elizabeth regarded the animal in doubt, he meanwhile drawing vaguely towards them. It was
a large specimen of the breed, in colour rich dun, though disfigured at present by splotches of mud about
his seamy sides. His horns were thick and tipped with brass; his two nostrils like the Thames Tunnel as
seen in the perspective toys of yore. Between them, through the gristle of his nose, was a stout copper
ring, welded on, and irremovable as Gurth's collar of brass. To the ring was attached an ash staff about a


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yard long, which the bull with the motions of his head flung about like a flail.
It was not till they observed this dangling stick that the young women were really alarmed; for it revealed
to them that the bull was an old one, too savage to be driven, which had in some way escaped, the staff
being the means by which the drover controlled him and kept his horns at arms' length.
They looked round for some shelter or hiding-place, and thought of the barn hard by. As long as they had
kept their eyes on the bull he had shown some deference in his manner of approach; but no sooner did
they turn their backs to seek the barn than he tossed his head and decided to thoroughly terrify them. This
caused the two helpless girls to run wildly, whereupon the bull advanced in a deliberate charge.
The barn stood behind a green slimy pond, and it was closed save as to one of the usual pair of doors
facing them, which had been propped open by a hurdle-stake, and for this opening they made. The
interior had been cleared by a recent bout of threshing except at one end, where there was a stack of dry
clover. Elizabeth-Jane took in the situation. "We must climb up there," she said.
But before they had even approached it they heard the bull scampering through the pond without, and in
a second he dashed into the barn, knocking down the hurdle-stake in passing; the heavy door slammed
behind him; and all three were imprisoned in the barn together. The mistaken creature saw them, and
stalked towards the end of the barn into which they had fled. The girls doubled so adroitly that their
pursuer was against the wall when the fugitives were already half way to the other end. By the time that
his length would allow him to turn and follow them thither they had crossed over; thus the pursuit went
on, the hot air from his nostrils blowing over them like a sirocco, and not a moment being attainable by
Elizabeth or Lucetta in which to open the door. What might have happened had their situation continued
cannot be said; but in a few moments a rattling of the door distracted their adversary's attention, and a
man appeared. He ran forward towards the leading-staff, seized it, and wrenched the animal's head as if
he would snap it off. The wrench was in reality so violent that the thick neck seemed to have lost its
stiffness and to become half-paralysed, whilst the nose dropped blood. The premeditated human
contrivance of the nose-ring was too cunning for impulsive brute force, and the creature flinched.
The man was seen in the partial gloom to be large-framed and unhesitating. He led the bull to the door,
and the light revealed Henchard. He made the bull fast without, and reentered to the succour of Lucetta;
for he had not perceived Elizabeth, who had climbed onto the clover-heap. Lucetta was hysterical, and
Henchard took her in his arms and carried her to the door.
"You - have saved me!" she cried, as soon as she could speak.
"I have returned your kindness," he responded tenderly. "You once saved me."
"How - comes it to be you - you?" she asked, not heeding his reply.
"I came out here to look for you. I have been wanting to tell you something these two or three days; but
you have been away, and I could not. Perhaps you cannot talk now?"
"Oh - no! Where is Elizabeth?"
"Here am I!" cried the missing one cheerfully; and without waiting for the ladder to be placed she slid
down the face of the clover-stack to the floor.
Henchard supporting Lucetta on one side, and Elizabeth-Jane on the other, they went slowly along the


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rising road. They had reached the top and were descending again when Lucetta, now much recovered,
recollected that she had dropped her muff in the barn.
"I'll run back," said Elizabeth-Jane. "I don't mind it at all, as I am not tired as you are." She thereupon
hastened down again to the barn, the others pursuing their way.
Elizabeth soon found the muff, such an article being by no means small at that time. Coming out she
paused to look for a moment at the bull, now rather to be pitied with his bleeding nose, having perhaps
rather intended a practical joke than a murder. Henchard had secured him by jamming the staff into the
hinge of the barn-door, and wedging it there with a stake. At length she turned to hasten onward after her
contemplation, when she saw a green-and-black gig approaching from the contrary direction, the vehicle
being driven by Farfrae.
His presence here seemed to explain Lucetta's walk that way. Donald saw her, drew up, and was hastily
made acquainted with what had occurred. At Elizabeth-Jane mentioning how greatly Lucetta had been
jeopardized, he exhibited an agitation different in kind no less than in intensity from any she had seen in
him before. He became so absorbed in the circumstances that he scarcely had sufficient knowledge of
what he was doing to think of helping her up beside him.
"She has gone on with Mr Henchard, you say?" he inquired at last.
"Yes. He is taking her home. They are almost there by this time."
"And you are sure she can get home?"
Elizabeth-Jane was quite sure.
"Your stepfather saved her?"
"Entirely."
Farfrae checked his horse's pace; she guessed why. He was thinking that it would be best not to intrude
on the other two just now. Henchard had saved Lucetta, and to provoke a possible exhibition of her
deeper affection for himself was as ungenerous as it was unwise.
The immediate subject of their talk being exhausted she felt more embarrassed at sitting thus beside her
past lover; but soon the two figures of the others were visible at the entrance to the town. The face of the
woman was frequently turned back, but Farfrae did not whip on the horse. When these reached the town
walls Henchard and his companion had disappeared down the street; Farfrae set down Elizabeth-Jane on
her expressing a particular wish to alight there, and drove round to the stables at the back of his lodgings.
On this account he entered the house through his garden, and going up to his apartments found them in a
particularly disturbed state, his boxes being hauled out upon the landing, and his bookcase standing in
three pieces. These phenomena, however, seemed to cause him not the least surprise. "When will
everything be sent up?" he said to the mistress of the house, who was superintending.
"I am afraid not before eight, sir," said she. "You see we wasn't aware till this morning that you were
going to move, or we could have been forwarder."
"A - well, never mind, never mind!" said Farfrae cheerily. "Eight o'clock will do well enough if it be not
later. Now, don't ye be standing here talking, or it will be twelve, I doubt." Thus speaking he went out by

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the front door and up the street.
During this interval Henchard and Lucetta had had experiences of a different kind. After Elizabeth's
departure for the muff the corn-merchant opened himself frankly, holding her hand within his arm,
though she would fain have withdrawn it. "Dear Lucetta, I have been very, very anxious to see you these
two or three days," he said; "ever since I saw you last!I have thought over the way I got your promise
that night. You said to me, ""If I were a man I should not insist."" That cut me deep. I felt that there was
some truth in it. I don't want to make you wretched; and to marry me just now would do that as nothing
else could - it is but too plain. Therefore I agree to an indefinite engagement - to put off all thought of
marriage for a year or two."
"But - but - can I do nothing of a different kind?" said Lucetta. "I am full of gratitude to you - you have
saved my life. And your care of me is like coals of fire on my head! I am a monied person now. Surely I
can do something in return for your goodness - something practical?"
Henchard remained in thought. He had evidently not expected this. "There is one thing you might do,
Lucetta," he said. "But not exactly of that kind."
"Then of what kind is it?" she asked with renewed misgiving.
"I must tell you a secret to ask it. - You may have heard that I have been unlucky this Year? I did what I
have never done before - speculated rashly; and I lost. That's just put me in a strait."
"And you would wish me to advance some money?"
"No, no!" said Henchard, almost in anger. "I'm not the man to sponge on a woman, even though she may
be so nearly my own as you. No, Lucetta; what you can do is this; and it would save me. My great
creditor is Grower, and it is at his hands I shall suffer if at anybody's; while a fortnight's forbearance on
his part would be enough to allow me to pull through. This may be got out of him in one way - that you
would let it be known to him that you are my intended - that we are to be quietly married in the next
fortnight. - Now stop, you haven't heard all! Let him have this story, without, of course, any prejudice to
the fact that the actual engagement between us is to be a long one. Nobody else need know: you could go
with me to Mr Grower and just let me speak to 'ee before him as if we were on such terms. We'll ask him
to keep it secret. He will willingly wait then. At the fortnight's end I shall be able to face him; and I can
coolly tell him all is postponed between us for a year or two. Not a soul in the town need know how
you've helped me. Since you wish to be of use, there's your way."
It being now what the people called the "pinking in" of the day, that is the quarter-hour just before dusk,
he did not at first observe the result of his own words upon her.
"If it were anything else," she began, and the dryness of her lips was represented in her voice.
"But it is such a little thing!" he said, with a deep reproach. "Less than you have offered - just the
beginning of what you have so lately promised! I could have told him as much myself, but he would not
have believed me."
"It is not because I won't - it is because I absolutely can't," she said, with rising distress.
"You are provoking!" he burst out. "It is enough to make me force you to carry out at once what you
have promised."


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"I cannot!" she insisted desperately.
"Why? When I have only within these few minutes released you from your promise to do the thing
off-hand."
"Because - he was a witness!"
"Witness? Of what?"
"If I must tell you - . Don't, don't upbraid me!"
"Well! Let's hear what you mean?"
"Witness of my marriage - Mr Grower was!"
"Marriage?"
"Yes. With Mr Farfrae. O Michael! I am already his wife. We were married this week at Port-Bredy.
There were reasons against our doing it here. Mr Grower was a witness because he happened to be at
Port-Bredy at the time."
Henchard stood as if idiotized. She was so alarmed at his silence that she murmured something about
lending him sufficient money to tide over the perilous fortnight.
"Married him?" said Henchard at length. "My good - what, married him whilst - bound to marry me?"
"It was like this," she explained, with tears in her eyes and quavers in her voice; "don't - don't be cruel! I
loved him so much, and I thought you might tell him of the past - and that grieved me! And then, when I
had promised you, I learnt of the rumour that you had - sold your first wife at a fair like a horse or cow!
How could I keep my promise after hearing that? I could not risk myself in your hands; it would have
been letting myself down to take your name after such a scandal. But I knew I should lose Donald if I did
not secure him at once - for you would carry out your threat of telling him of our former acquaintance, as
long as there was a chance of keeping me for yourself by doing so. But you will not do so now, will you,
Michael? for it is too late to separate us."
The notes of St Peter's bells in full peal had been wafted to them while she spoke; and now the genial
thumping of the town band, renowned for its unstinted use of the drum-stick, throbbed down the street.
"Then this racket they are making is on account of it, I suppose?" said he.
"Yes - I think he has told them, or else Mr Grower has... May I leave you now? My - he was detained at
Port-Bredy today, and sent me on a few hours before him."
"Then it is his wife's life I have saved this afternoon."
"Yes - and he will be for ever grateful to you."
"I am much obliged to him... O you false woman!" burst from Henchard. "You promised me!"
"Yes, yes! But it was under compulsion, and I did not know all your past - "
"And now I've a mind to punish you as you deserve! One word to this bran-new husband of how you


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courted me, and your precious happiness is blown to atoms!"
"Michael - pity me, and be generous!"
"You don't deserve pity! You did; but you don't now."
"I'll help you to pay off your debt."
"A pensioner of Farfrae's wife - not I! Don't stay with me longer - I shall say something worse. Go
home!"
She disappeared under the trees of the south walk as the band came round the corner, awaking the echoes
of every stock and stone in celebration of her happiness. Lucetta took no heed, but ran up the back street
and reached her own home unperceived.




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* XXX *
FARFRAE'S words to his landlady had referred to the removal of his boxes and other effects from his
late lodgings to Lucetta's house. The work was not heavy, but it had been much hindered on account of
the frequent pauses necessitated by exclamations of surprise at the event, of which the good woman had
been briefly informed by letter a few hours earlier.
At the last moment of leaving Port-Bredy, Farfrae, like John Gilpin, had been detained by important
customers, whom, even in the exceptional circumstances, he was not the man to neglect. Moreover, there
was a convenience in Lucetta arriving first at her house. Nobody there as yet knew what had happened;
and she was best in a position to break the news to the inmates, and give directions for her husband's
accommodation. He had, therefore, sent on his two-days' bride in a hired brougham, whilst he went
across the country to a certain group of wheat and barley ricks a few miles off, telling her the hour at
which he might be expected the same evening. This accounted for her trotting out to meet him after their
separation of four hours.
By a strenuous effort, after leaving Henchard she calmed herself in readiness to receive Donald at
High-Place Hall when he came on from his lodgings. One supreme fact empowered her to this, the sense
that, come what would, she had secured him. Half-an-hour after her arrival he walked in, and she met
him with a relieved gladness, which a month's perilous absence could not have intensified.
"There is one thing I have not done; and yet it is important," she said earnestly, when she had finished
talking about the adventure with the bull. "That is, broken the news of our marriage to my dear
Elizabeth-Jane."
"Ah, and you have not?" he said thoughtfully. "I gave her a lift from the barn homewards; but I did not
tell her either; for I thought she might have heard of it in the town, and was keeping back her
congratulations from shyness, and all that."
"She can hardly have heard of it. But I'll find out; I'll go to her now. And, Donald, you don't mind her
living on with me just the same as before? She is so quiet and unassuming."
"O no, indeed I don't," Farfrae answered with, perhaps, a faint awkwardness. "But I wonder if she would
care to?"
"O yes!" said Lucetta eagerly. "I am sure she would like to. Besides, poor thing, she has no other home."
Farfrae looked at her and saw that she did not suspect the secret of her more reserved friend. He liked her
all the better for the blindness. "Arrange as you like with her by all means," he said. "It is I who have
come to your house, not you to mine."
"I'll run and speak to her," said Lucetta.
When she got upstairs to Elizabeth-Jane's room the latter had taken off her out-door things, and was
resting over a book. Lucetta found in a moment that she had not yet learnt the news.
"I did not come down to you, Miss Templeman," she said simply. "I was coming to ask if you had quite
recovered from your fright, but I found you had a visitor. What are the bells ringing for, I wonder? And
the band, too, is playing. Somebody must be married; or else they are practising for Christmas."

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Lucetta uttered a vague "Yes", and seating herself by the other young woman looked musingly at her.
"What a lonely creature you are," she presently said; "never knowing what's going on, or what people are
talking about everywhere with keen interest. You should get out, and gossip about as other women do,
and then you wouldn't be obliged to ask me a question of that kind. Well, now, I have something to tell
you."
Elizabeth-Jane said she was so glad, and made herself receptive.
"I must go rather a long way back," said Lucetta, the difficulty of explaining herself satisfactorily to the
pondering one beside her growing more apparent at each syllable. "You remember that trying case of
conscience I told you of some time ago - about the first lover and the second lover?" She let out in jerky
phrases a leading word or two of the story she had told.
"O yes - I remember; the story of your friend," said Elizabeth drily, regarding the irises of Lucetta's eyes
as though to catch their exact shade. "The two lovers - the old and the new: how she wanted to marry the
second, but felt she ought to marry the first; so that she neglected the better course to follow the evil, like
the poet Ovid I've just been construing: ""Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor."""
"Oh no; she didn't follow evil exactly!" said Lucetta hastily.
"But you said that she - or as I may say you" - answered Elizabeth, dropping the mask, "were in honour
and conscience bound to marry the first?"
Lucetta's blush at being seen through came and went again before she replied anxiously, "You will never
breathe this, will you, Elizabeth-Jane?"
"Certainly not, if you say not."
"Then I will tell you that the case is more complicated - worse, in fact - than it seemed in my story. I and
the first man were thrown together in a strange way, and felt that we ought to be united, as the world had
talked of us. He was a widower, as he supposed. He had not heard of his first wife for many years. But
the wife returned, and we parted. She is now dead; and the husband comes paying me addresses again,
saying, ""Now we'll complete our purpose. ""But, Elizabeth-Jane, all this amounts to a new courtship of
me by him; I was absolved from all vows by the return of the other woman."
"Have you not lately renewed your promise?" said the younger with quiet surmise. She had divined Man
Number One.
"That was wrung from me by a threat."
"Yes, it was. But I think when any one gets coupled up with a man in the past so unfortunately as you
have done, she ought to become his wife if she can, even if she were not the sinning party."
Lucetta's countenance lost its sparkle. "He turned out to be a man I should be afraid to marry," she
pleaded. "Really afraid!And it was not till after my renewed promise that I knew it."
"Then there is only one course left to honesty. You must remain a single woman."
"But think again! Do consider - "
"I am certain," interrupted her companion hardily. "I have guessed very well who the man is. My father;


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and I say it is him or nobody for you."
Any suspicion of impropriety was to Elizabeth-Jane like a red rag to a bull. Her craving for correctness
of procedure was, indeed, almost vicious. Owing to her early troubles with regard to her mother a
semblance of irregularity had terrors for her which those whose names are safeguarded from suspicion
know nothing of. "You ought to marry Mr Henchard or nobody - certainly not another man!" she went on
with a quivering lip in whose movement two passions shared.
"I don't admit that!" said Lucetta passionately.
"Admit it or not, it is true!"
Lucetta covered her eyes with her right hand, as if she could plead no more, holding out her left to
Elizabeth-Jane.
"Why, you have married him!" cried the latter, jumping up with pleasure after a glance at Lucetta's
fingers. "When did you do it? Why did you not tell me, instead of teasing me like this? How very
honourable of you! He did treat my mother badly once, it seems, in a moment of intoxication. And it is
true that he is stern sometimes. But you will rule him entirely, I am sure, with your beauty and wealth
and accomplishments. You are the woman he will adore, and we shall all three be happy together now!"
"O, my Elizabeth-Jane!" cried Lucetta distressfully. "'Tis somebody else that I have married! I was so
desperate - so afraid of being forced to anything else - so afraid of revelations that would quench his love
for me, that I resolved to do it off-hand, come what might, and purchase a week of happiness at any
cost!"
"You - have - married Mr Farfrae!" cried Elizabeth-Jane, in Nathan tones.
Lucetta bowed. She had recovered herself.
"The bells are ringing on that account," she said. "My husband is downstairs. He will live here till a more
suitable house is ready for us; and I have told him that I want you to stay with me just as before."
"Let me think of it alone," the girl quickly replied, corking up the turmoil of her feeling with grand
control.
"You shall. I am sure we shall be happy together."
Lucetta departed to join Donald below, a vague uneasiness floating over her joy at seeing him quite at
home there. Not on account of her friend Elizabeth did she feel it: for of the bearings of Elizabeth-Jane's
emotions she had not the least suspicion; but on Henchard's alone.
Now the instant decision of Susan Henchard's daughter was to dwell in that house no more. Apart from
her estimate of the propriety of Lucetta's conduct, Farfrae had been so nearly her avowed lover that she
felt she could not abide there.
It was still early in the evening when she hastily put on her things and went out. In a few minutes,
knowing the ground, she had found a suitable lodging, and arranged to enter it that night. Returning and
entering noiselessly she took off her pretty dress and arrayed herself in a plain one, packing up the other
to keep as her best; for she would have to be very economical now. She wrote a note to leave for Lucetta,
who was closely shut up in the drawing-room with Farfrae; and then Elizabeth-Jane called a man with a

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wheelbarrow; and seeing her boxes put into it she trotted off down the street to her rooms. They were in
the street in which Henchard lived, and almost opposite his door.
Here she sat down and considered the means of subsistence. The little annual sum settled on her by her
stepfather would keep body and soul together. A wonderful skill in netting of all sorts - acquired in
childhood by making seines in Newson's home - might serve her in good stead; and her studies, which
were pursued unremittingly, might serve her in still better.
By this time the marriage that had taken place was known throughout Casterbridge; had been discussed
noisily on kerbstones, confidentially behind counters, and jovially at the Three Mariners. Whether
Farfrae would sell his business and set up for a gentleman on his wife's money, or whether he would
show independence enough to stick to his trade in spite of his brilliant alliance, was a great point of
interest.




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* XXXI *
THE retort of the furmity-woman before the magistrates had spread; and in four-and-twenty hours there
was not a person in Casterbridge who remained unacquainted with the story of Henchard's mad freak at
Weydon-Priors Fair, long years before. The amends he had made in after life were lost sight of in the
dramatic glare of the original act. Had the incident been well known of old and always, it might by this
time have grown to be lightly regarded as the rather tall wild oat, but well-nigh the single one, of a young
man with whom the steady and mature (if somewhat head-strong) burgher of today had scarcely a point
in common. But the act having lain as dead and buried ever since, the interspace of years was
unperceived; and the black spot of his youth wore the aspect of a recent crime.
Small as the police-court incident had been in itself, it formed the edge or turn in the incline of
Henchard's fortunes. On that day - almost at that minute - he passed the ridge of prosperity and honour,
and began to descend rapidly on the other side. It was strange how soon he sank in esteem. Socially he
had received a startling fillip downwards; and, having already lost commercial buoyancy from rash
transactions, the velocity of his descent in both aspects became accelerated every hour.
He now gazed more at the pavements and less at the house-fronts when he walked about; more at the feet
and leggings of men, and less into the pupils of their eyes with the blazing regard which formerly had
made them blink.
New events combined to undo him. It had been a bad year for others besides himself, and the heavy
failure of a debtor whom he had trusted generously completed the overthrow of his tottering credit. And
now, in his desperation, he failed to preserve that strict correspondence between bulk and sample which
is the soul of commerce in grain. For this, one of his men was mainly to blame; that worthy, in his great
unwisdom, having picked over the sample of an enormous quantity of second-rate corn which Henchard
had in hand, and removed the pinched, blasted, and smutted grains in great numbers. The produce if
honestly offered would have created no scandal; but the blunder of misrepresentation, coming at such a
moment, dragged Henchard's name into the ditch.
The details of his failure were of the ordinary kind. One day Elizabeth-Jane was passing the King's Arms,
when she saw people bustling in and out more than usual when there was no market. A bystander
informed her, with some surprise at her ignorance, that it was a meeting of the Commissioners under Mr
Henchard's bankruptcy. She felt quite tearful, and when she heard that he was present in the hotel she
wished to go in and see him, but was advised not to intrude that day.
The room in which debtor and creditors had assembled was a front one, and Henchard, looking out of the
window, had caught sight of Elizabeth-Jane through the wire blind. His examination had closed, and the
creditors were leaving. The appearance of Elizabeth threw him into a reverie; till turning his face from
the window, and towering above all the rest, he called their attention for a moment more. His
countenance had somewhat changed from its flush of prosperity; the black hair and whiskers were the
same as ever, but a film of ash was over the rest.
"Gentlemen," he said, "over and above the assets that we've been talking about, and that appear on the
balance-sheet, there be these. It all belongs to ye, as much as everything else I've got, and I don't wish to
keep it from you, not I." Saying this, he took his gold watch from his pocket and laid it on the table; then
his purse - the yellow canvas money-bag, such as was carried by all farmers and dealers - untying it, and

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shaking the money out upon the table beside the watch. The latter he drew back quickly for an instant, to
remove the hair-guard made and given him by Lucetta. "There, now you have all I've got in the world,"
he said. "And I wish for your sakes 'twas more."
The creditors, farmers almost to a man, looked at the watch, and at the money, and into the street; when
Farmer James Everdene of Weatherbury spoke.
"No, no, Henchard," he said warmly. "We don't want that. 'Tis honourable in ye; but keep it. What do
you say, neighbours - do ye agree?"
"Ay, sure: we don't wish it at all," said Grower, another creditor.
"Let him keep it, of course," murmured another in the background - a silent, reserved young man named
Boldwood; and the rest responded unanimously.
"Well," said the senior Commissioner, addressing Henchard, "though the case is a desperate one, I am
bound to admit that I have never met a debtor who behaved more fairly. I've proved the balance-sheet to
be as honestly made out as it could possibly be; we have had no trouble; there have been no evasions and
no concealments. The rashness of dealing which led to this unhappy situation is obvious enough; but as
far as I can see every attempt has been made to avoid wronging anybody."
Henchard was more affected by this than he cared to let them perceive, and he turned aside to the
window again. A general murmur of agreement followed the Commissioner's words; and the meeting
dispersed. When they were gone Henchard regarded the watch they had returned to him. "'Tisn't mine by
rights," he said to himself. "Why the devil didn't they take it? - I don't want what don't belong to me!"
Moved by a recollection he took the watch to the maker's just opposite, sold it there and then for what the
tradesman offered, and went with the proceeds to one among the smaller of his creditors, a cottager of
Durnover in straitened circumstances, to whom he handed the money.
When everything was ticketed that Henchard had owned, and the auctions were in progress, there was
quite a sympathetic reaction in the town, which till then for some time past had done nothing but
condemn him. Now that Henchard's whole career was pictured distinctly to his neighbours, and they
could see how admirably he had used his one talent of energy to create a position of affluence out of
absolutely nothing - which was really all he could show when he came to the town as journeyman
hay-trusser, with his wimble and knife in his basket - they wondered and regretted his fall.
Try as she might, Elizabeth could never meet with him. She believed in him still, though nobody else
did; and she wanted to be allowed to forgive him for his roughness to her, and to help him in his trouble.
She wrote to him; he did not reply. She then went to his house - the great house she had lived in so
happily for a time - with its front of dun brick, vitrified here and there, and its heavy sash-bars - but
Henchard was to be found there no more. The ex-Mayor had left the house of his prosperity, and gone
into Jopp's cottage by the Priory Mill - the sad purlieu to which he had wandered on the night of his
discovery that she was not his daughter. Thither she went.
Elizabeth thought it odd that he had fixed on this spot to retire to, but assumed that necessity had no
choice. Trees which seemed old enough to have been planted by the friars still stood around, and the
back hatch of the original mill yet formed a cascade which had raised its terrific roar for centuries. The
cottage itself was built of old stones from the long dismantled Priory, scraps of tracery, moulded


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window-jambs, and arch-labels, being mixed in with the rubble of the walls.
In this cottage he occupied a couple of rooms, Jopp, whom Henchard had employed, abused, cajoled, and
dismissed by turns, being the householder. But even here her stepfather could not be seen.
"Not by his daughter?" pleaded Elizabeth.
"By nobody - at present: that's his order," she was informed.
Afterwards she was passing by the corn-stores and hay-barns which had been the headquarters of his
business. She knew that he ruled there no longer; but it was with amazement that she regarded the
familiar gateway. A smear of decisive lead-coloured paint had been laid on to obliterate Henchard's
name, though its letters dimly loomed through like ships in a fog. Over these, in fresh white, spread the
name of Farfrae.
Abel Whittle was edging his skeleton in at the wicket, and she said, "Mr Farfrae is master here?"
"Yaas, Miss Henchet," he said, "Mr Farfrae have bought the concern and all of we work-folk with it; and
'tis better for us than 'twas - though I shouldn't say that to you as a daughter-law. We work harder, but we
bain't made afeard now. It was fear made my few poor hairs so thin! No busting out, no slamming of
doors, no meddling with yer eternal soul and all that; and though 'tis a shilling a week less I'm the richer
man; for what's all the world if yer mind is always in a larry, Miss Henchet?"
The intelligence was in a general sense true; and Henchard's stores, which had remained in a paralysed
condition during the settlement of his bankruptcy, were stirred into activity again when the new tenant
had possession. Thence-forward the full sacks, looped with the shining chain, went scurrying up and
down under the cathead, hairy arms were thrust out from the different door-ways, and the grain was
hauled in; trusses of hay were tossed anew in and out of the barns, and the wimbles creaked; while the
scales and steel-yards began to be busy where guess-work had formerly been the rule.




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* XXXII *
TWO bridges stood near the lower part of Casterbridge town. The first, of weather-stained brick, was
immediately at the end of High Street, where a diverging branch from that thoroughfare ran round to the
low-lying Durnover lanes; so that the precincts of the bridge formed the merging point of respectability
and indigence. The second bridge, of stone, was further out on the highway - in fact, fairly in the
meadows, though still within the town boundary.
These bridges had speaking countenances. Every projection in each was worn down to obtuseness partly
by weather, more by friction from generations of loungers, whose toes and heels had from year to year
made restless movements against these parapets, as they had stood there meditating on the aspect of
affairs. In the case of the more friable bricks and stones even the flat faces were worn into hollows by the
same mixed mechanism. The masonry of the top was clamped with iron at each joint; since it had been
no uncommon thing for desperate men to wrench the coping off and throw it down the river, in reckless
defiance of the magistrates.
For to this pair of bridges gravitated all the failures of the town; those who had failed in business, in love,
in sobriety, in crime. Why the unhappy hereabout usually chose the bridges for their meditations in
preference to a railing, a gate, or a stile, was not so clear.
There was a marked difference of quality between the personages who haunted the near bridge of brick
and the personages who haunted the far one of stone. Those of lowest character preferred the former,
adjoining the town; they did not mind the glare of the public eye. They had been of comparatively no
account during their successes; and, though they might feel dispirited, they had no particular sense of
shame in their ruin. Their hands were mostly kept in their pockets; they wore a leather strap round their
hips or knees, and boots that required a great deal of lacing, but seemed never to get any. Instead of
sighing at their adversities they spat, and instead of saying the iron had entered into their souls they said
they were down on their luck. Jopp in his times of distress had often stood here; so had Mother Cuxsom,
Christopher Coney, and poor Abel Whittle.
The misérables who would pause on the remoter bridge were of a politer stamp. They included
bankrupts, hypochondriacs, persons who were what is called "out of a situation" from fault or
lucklessness, the inefficient of the professional class - shabby-genteel men, who did not know how to get
rid of the weary time between breakfast and dinner, and the yet more weary time between dinner and
dark. The eyes of this species were mostly directed over the parapet upon the running water below. A
man seen there looking thus fixedly into the river was pretty sure to be one whom the world did not treat
kindly for some reason or other. While one in straits on the townward bridge did not mind who saw him
so, and kept his back to the parapet to survey the passersby, one in straits on this never faced the road,
never turned his head at coming footsteps, but, sensitive to his own condition, watched the current
whenever a stranger approached, as if some strange fish interested him, though every finned thing had
been poached out of the river years before.
There and thus they would muse; if their grief were the grief of oppression they would wish themselves
kings; if their grief were poverty, wish themselves millionaires; if sin, they would wish they were saints
or angels; if despised love, that they were some much-courted Adonis of county fame. Some had been
known to stand and think so long with this fixed gaze downward that eventually they had allowed their


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poor carcases to follow that gaze; and they were discovered the next morning out of reach of their
troubles, either here or in the deep pool called Blackwater, a little higher up the river.
To this bridge came Henchard, as other unfortunates had come before him, his way thither being by the
riverside path on the chilly edge of the town. Here he was standing one windy afternoon when Durnover
church clock struck five. While the gusts were bringing the notes to his ears across the damp intervening
flat a man passed behind him and greeted Henchard by name. Henchard turned slightly and saw that the
comer was Jopp, his old foreman, now employed elsewhere, to whom, though he hated him, he had gone
for lodgings because Jopp was the one man in Casterbridge whose observation and opinion the fallen
corn-merchant despised to the point of indifference.
Henchard returned him a scarcely perceptible nod, and Jopp stopped.
"He and she are gone into their new house today," said Jopp.
"Oh," said Henchard absently. "Which house is that?"
"Your old one."
"Gone into my house?" And starting up Henchard added, "My house of all others in the town!"
"Well, as somebody was sure to live there, and you couldn't, it can do 'ee no harm that he's the man."
It was quite true: he felt that it was doing him no harm. Farfrae, who had already taken the yards and
stores, had acquired possession of the house for the obvious convenience of its contiguity. And yet this
act of his taking up residence within those roomy chambers while he, their former tenant, lived in a
cottage, galled Henchard indescribably.
Jopp continued: "And you heard of that fellow who bought all the best furniture at your sale? He was
bidding for no other than Farfrae all the while! It has never been moved out of the house, as he'd already
got the lease."
"My furniture too! Surely he'll buy my body and soul likewise!"
"There's no saying he won't, if you be willing to sell." And having planted these wounds in the heart of
his once imperious master Jopp went on his way; while Henchard stared and stared into the racing river
till the bridge seemed moving backward with him.
The low land grew blacker, and the sky a deeper grey. When the landscape looked like a picture blotted
in with ink, another traveller approached the great stone bridge. He was driving a gig, his direction being
also townwards. On the round of the middle of the arch the gig stopped. "Mr Henchard?" came from it in
the voice of Farfrae. Henchard turned his face.
Finding that he had guessed rightly Farfrae told the man who accompanied him to drive home; while he
alighted and went up to his former friend.
"I have heard that you think of emigrating, Mr Henchard," he said. "Is it ture? I have a real reason for
asking."
Henchard withheld his answer for several instants, and then said, "Yes; it is true. I am going where you
were going to a few years ago, when I prevented you and got you to bide here. 'Tis turn and turn about,


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insn't it! Do ye mind how we stood like this in the Chalk Walk when I persuaded 'ee to stay? You then
stood without a chattel to your name, and I was the master of the house in Corn Street. But now I stand
without a stick or a rag, and the master of that house is you."
"Yes, yes; that's so! It's the way o' the warrld," said Farfrae.
"Ha, ha, true!" cried Henchard, throwing himself into a mood of jocularity. "Up and down! I'm used to it.
What's the odds after all!"
"Now listen to me, if it's no taking up your time," said Farfrae, "just as I listened to you. Don't go. Stay at
home."
"But I can do nothing else, man!" said Henchard scornfully. "The little money I have will just keep body
and soul together for a few weeks, and no more. I have not felt inclined to go back to journeywork yet;
but I can't stay doing nothing, and my best chance is elsewhere."
"No; but what I propose is this - if ye will listen. Come and live in your old house. We can spare some
rooms very well - I am sure my wife would not mind it at all - until there's an opening for ye."
Henchard started, Probably the picture drawn by the unsuspecting Donald of himself under the same roof
with Lucetta was too striking to be received with equanimity. "No, no," he said gruffly; "we should
quarrel."
"You should hae a part to yourself," said Farfrae; "and nobody to interfere wi" you. It will be a deal
healthier than down there by the river where you live now."
Still Henchard refused. "You don't know what you ask," he said. "However, I can do no less than thank
'ee."
They walked into the town together side by side, as they had done when Henchard persuaded the young
Scotchman to remain. "Will you come in and have some supper?" said Farfrae when they reached the
middle of the town, where their paths diverged right and left.
"No, no."
"Bye-the-bye, I had nearly forgot. I bought a good deal of your furniture."
"So I have heard."
"Well, it was no that I wanted it so very much for myself; but I wish ye to pick out all that you care to
have - such things as may be endeared to ye by associations, or particularly suited to your use. And take
them to your own house - it will not be depriving me; we can do with less very well, and I will have
plenty of opportunities of getting more."
"What - give it to me for nothing?" said Henchard. "But you paid the creditors for it!"
"Ah, yes; but maybe it's worth more to you than it is to me."
Henchard was a little moved. "I - sometimes think I've wronged 'ee!" he said, in tones which showed the
disquietude that the night shades hid in his face. He shook Farfrae abruptly by the hand, and hastened
away as if unwilling to betray himself further. Farfrae saw him turn through the thorough-fare into Bull
Stake and vanish down towards the Priory Mill.

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Meanwhile Elizabeth-Jane, in an upper room no larger than the prophet's chamber, and with the silk attire
of her palmy days packed away in a box, was netting with great industry between the hours which she
devoted to studying such books as she could get hold of.
Her lodgings being nearly opposite her stepfather's former residence, now Farfrae's, she could see
Donald and Lucetta speeding in and out of their door with all the bounding enthusiasm of their situation.
She avoided looking that way as much as possible, but it was hardly in human nature to keep the eyes
averted when the door slammed.
While living on thus quietly she heard the news that Henchard had caught cold and was confined to his
room - possibly a result of standing about the meads in damp weather. She went off to his house at once.
This time she was determined not to be denied admittance, and made her way upstairs. He was sitting up
in the bed with a greatcoat round him, and at first resented her intrusion. "Go away - go away," he said.
"I don't like to see 'ee!"
"But, father - "
"I don't like to see 'ee," he repeated.
However, the ice was broken, and she remained. She made the room more comfortable, gave directions
to the people below, and by the time she went away had reconciled her stepfather to her visiting him.
The effect, either of her ministrations or of her mere presence, was a rapid recovery. He soon was well
enough to go out; and now things seemed to wear a new colour in his eyes. He no longer thought of
emigration, and thought more of Elizabeth. The having nothing to do made him more dreary than any
other circumstance; and one day, with better views of Farfrae than he had held for some time, and a sense
that honest work was not a thing to be ashamed of, he stoically went down to Farfrae's yard and asked to
be taken on as a journeyman hay-trusser. He was engaged at once. This hiring of Henchard was done
through a foreman, Farfrae feeling that it was undesirable to come personally in contact with the
ex-corn-factor more than was absolutely necessary. While anxious to help him he was well aware by this
time of his uncertain temper, and thought reserved relations best. For the same reason his orders to
Henchard to proceed to this and that country farm trussing in the usual way were always given through a
third person.
For a time these arrangements worked well, it being the custom to truss in the respective stack-yards,
before bringing it away, the hay bought at the different farms about the neighbourhood; so that Henchard
was often absent at such places the whole week long. When this was all done, and Henchard had become
in a measure broken in, he came to work daily on the home premises like the rest. And thus the once
flourishing merchant and Mayor and what not stood as a day-labourer in the barns and granaries he
formerly had owned.
"I have worked as a journeyman before now, ha'n't I?" he would say in his defiant way; "and why
shouldn't I do it again?" But he looked a far different journeyman from the one he had been in his earlier
days. Then he had worn clean, suitable clothes, light and cheerful in hue; leggings yellow as marigolds,
corduroys immaculate as new flax, and a neckerchief like a flower-garden. Now he wore the remains of
an old blue cloth suit of his gentlemanly times, a rusty silk hat, and a once black satin stock, soiled and
shabby. Clad thus he went to and fro, still comparatively an active man - for he was not much over forty -
and saw with the other men in the yard Donald Farfrae going in and out of the green door that led to the
garden, and the big house, and Lucetta.

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At the beginning of the winter it was rumoured about Casterbridge that Mr Farfrae, already in the Town
Council, was to be proposed for Mayor in a year or two.
"Yes; she was wise, she was wise in her generation!" said Henchard to himself when he heard of this one
day on his way to Farfrae's hay-barn. He thought it over as he wimbled his bonds, and the piece of news
acted as a reviviscent breath to that old view of his - of Donald Farfrae as his triumphant rival who rode
rough-shod over him.
"A fellow of his age going to be mayor, indeed!" he murmured with a corner-drawn smile on his mouth.
"But 'tis her money that floats en upward. Ha-ha - how cust odd it is! Here be I, his former master,
working for him as man, and he the man standing as master, with my house and my furniture and my
what-you-may-call wife all his own."
He repeated these things a hundred times a day. During the whole period of his acquaintance with
Lucetta he had never wished to claim her as his own so desperately as he now regretted her loss. It was
no mercenary hankering after her fortune that moved him; though that fortune had been the means of
making her so much the more desired by giving her the air of independence and sauciness which attracts
men of his composition. It had given her servants, house, and fine clothing - a setting that invested
Lucetta with a startling novelty in the eyes of him who had known her in her narrow days.
He accordingly lapsed into moodiness, and at every allusion to the possibility of Farfrae's near election to
the municipal chair his former hatred of the Scotchman returned. Concurrently with this he underwent a
moral change. It resulted in his significantly saying every now and then, in tones of recklessness, "Only a
fortnight more!" - "Only a dozen days!" and so forth, lessening his figures day by day.
"Why d'ye say only a dozen days?" asked Solomon Longways as he worked beside Henchard in the
granary weighing oats.
"Because in twelve days I shall be released from my oath."
"What oath?"
"The oath to drink no spirituous liquid. In twelve days it will be twenty-one years since I swore it, and
then I mean to enjoy myself, please God!"
Elizabeth-Jane sat at her window one Sunday, and while there she heard in the street below a
conversation which introduced Henchard's name. She was wondering what was the matter, when a third
person who was passing by asked the question in her mind.
"Michael Henchard have busted out drinking after taking nothing for twenty-one years!"
Elizabeth-Jane jumped up, put on her things, and went out.




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* XXXIII *
AT this date there prevailed in Casterbridge a convivial custom - scarcely recognized as such, yet none
the less established. On the afternoon of every Sunday a large contingent of the Casterbridge journeymen
- steady church-goers and sedate characters - having attended service, filed from the church doors across
the way to the Three Mariners inn. The rear was usually brought up by the choir, with their bass-viols,
fiddles, and flutes under their arms.
The great point, the point of honour, on these sacred occasions was for each man to strictly limit himself
to half-a-pint of liquor. This scrupulosity was so well understood by the landlord that the whole company
was served in cups of that measure. They were all exactly alike - straight-sided, with two leafless
lime-trees done in eel-brown on the sides - one towards the drinker's lips, the other confronting his
comrade. To wonder how many of these cups the landlord possessed altogether was a favourite exercise
of children in the marvellous. Forty at least might have been seen at these times in the large room,
forming a ring round the margin of the great sixteen-legged oak table, like the monolithic circle at
Stonehenge in its pristine days. Outside and above the forty cups came a circle of forty smoke-jets from
forty clay pipes; outside the pipes the countenances of the forty church-goers, supported at the back by a
circle of forty chairs.
The conversation was not the conversation of weekdays, but a thing altogether finer in point and higher
in tone. They invariably discussed the sermon, dissecting it, weighing it, as above or below the average -
the general tendency being to regard it as a scientific feat or performance which had no relation to their
own lives, except as between critics and the thing criticized. The bass-viol player and the clerk usually
spoke with more authority than the rest on account of their official connection with the preacher.
Now the Three Mariners was the inn chosen by Henchard as the place for closing his long term of
dramless years. He had so timed his entry as to be well established in the large room by the time the forty
church-goers entered to their customary cups. The flush upon his face proclaimed at once that the vow of
twenty-one years had lapsed, and the era of recklessness begun anew. He was seated on a small table,
drawn up to the side of the massive oak reserved for the churchmen, a few of whom nodded to him as
they took their places and said, "How be ye, Mr Henchard? Quite a stranger here."
Henchard did not take the trouble to reply for a few moments, and his eyes rested on his stretched-out
legs and boots. "Yes," he said at length; "that's true. I've been down in spirit for weeks; some of ye know
the cause. I am better now; but not quite serene. I want you fellows of the choir to strike up a tune; and
what with that and this brew of Stannidge's, I am in hopes of getting altogether out of my minor key."
"With all my heart," said the first fiddle. "We've let back our strings, that's true; but we can soon pull 'em
up again. Sound A, neighbours, and give the man a stave."
"I don't care a curse what the words be," said Henchard. "Hymns, ballets, or rantipole rubbish; the
Rogue's March or the cherubim's warble --'tis all the same to me if 'tis good harmony, and well put out."
"Well - heh, heh - it may be we can do that, and not a man among us that have sat in the gallery less than
twenty year," said the leader of the band. "As 'tis sunday, neighbours, suppose we raise the Fourth
Psa'am, to Samuel Wakely's tune, as improved by me?"



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"Hang Samuel Wakely's tune, as improved by thee!" said Henchard. "Chuck across one of yours psalters
- old Wiltshire is the only tune worth singing - the psalm-tune that would make my blood ebb and flow
like the sea when I was a steady chap. I'll find some words to fit en." He took one of the psalters and
began turning over the leaves.
Chancing to look out of the window at that moment he saw a flock of people passing by, and perceived
them to be the congregation of the upper church, now just dismissed, their sermon having been a longer
one than that the lower parish was favoured with. Among the rest of the leading inhabitants walked Mr
Councillor Farfrae with Lucetta upon his arm, the observed and imitated of all the smaller tradesmen's
woman-kind. Henchard's mouth changed a little, and he continued to turn over the leaves.
"Now then," he said, "Psalm the Hundred-and-Ninth, to the tune of Wiltshire: verses ten to fifteen. I gi'e
ye the words:
       "His seed shall orphans be, his wife A widow plunged in grief; His vagrant children beg
       their bread Where none can give relief.
       "His ill-got riches shall be made To usurers a prey; The fruit of all his toil shall be By
       strangers borne away.
       "None shall be found that to his wants Their mercy will extend, Or to his helpless orphan
       seed The least assistance lend.
       "A swift destruction soon shall seize On his unhappy race; And the next age his hated name
       Shall utterly deface."
"I know the Psa'am - I know the Psa'am!" said the leader hastily; "but I would as lief not sing it. 'Twasn't
made for singing. We chose it once when the gipsy stole the pa'son's mare, thinking to please him, but
pa'son was quite upset. Whatever Servant David were thinking about when he made a Psalm that nobody
can sing without disgracing himself, I can't fathom! Now then, the Fourth Psalm, to Samuel Wakely's
tune, as improved by me."
"Od seize your sauce - I tell ye to sing the Hundred-and-Ninth to Wiltshire, and sing it you shall!" roared
Henchard. "Not a single one of all the droning crew of ye goes out of this room till that Psalm is sung!"
He slipped off the table, seized the poker, and going to the door placed his back against it. "Now then, go
ahead, if you don't wish to have your cust pates broke!"
"Don't 'ee, don't 'ee take on so! - As 'tis the Sabbath-day, and 'tis Servant David's words and not ours,
perhaps we don't mind for once, hey?" said one of the terrified choir, looking round upon the rest. So the
instruments were turned and the comminatory verses sung.
"Thank ye, thank ye," said Henchard in a softened voice, his eyes growing downcast, and his manner that
of a man much moved by the strains. "Don't you blame David," he went on in low tones, shaking his
head without raising his eyes. "He knew what he was about when he wrote that!... If I could afford it, be
hanged if I wouldn't keep a church choir at my own expense to play and sing to me at these low, dark
times of my life. But the bitter thing is, that when I was rich I didn't need what I could have, and now I be
poor I can't have what I need!"
While they paused, Lucetta and Farfrae passed again, this time homeward, it being their custom to take,
like others, a short walk out on the highway and back, between church and tea-time. "There's the man


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we've been singing about," said Henchard.
The players and singers turned their heads and saw his meaning. "Heaven forbid!" said the bass-player.
"'Tis the man," repeated Henchard doggedly.
"Then if I'd known," said the performer on the clarionet solemnly, "that 'twas meant for a living man,
nothing should have drawn out of my wynd-pipe the breath for that Psalm, so help me!"
"Nor from mine," said the first singer. "But, thought I, as it was made so long ago perhaps there isn't
much in it, so I'll oblige a neighbour; for there's nothing to be said against the tune."
"Ah, my boys, you've sung it," said Henchard triumphantly. "As for him, it was partly by his songs that
he got over me, and heaved me out... I could double him up like that - and yet I don't." He laid the poker
across his knee, bent it as if it were a twig, flung it down, and came away from the door.
It was at this time that Elizabeth-Jane, having heard where her stepfather was, entered the room with a
pale and agonized countenance. The choir and the rest of the company moved off, in accordance with
their half-pint regulation. Elizabeth-Jane went up to Henchard, and entreated him to accompany her
home.
By this hour the volcanic fires of his nature had burnt down, and having drunk no great quantity as yet he
was inclined to acquiesce. She took his arm, and together they went on. Henchard walked blankly, like a
blind man, repeating to himself the last words of the singers--
      "And the next age his hated name Shall utterly deface."
At length he said to her, "I am a man to my word. I have kept my oath for twenty-one years; and now I
can drink with a good conscience... If I don't do for him - well, I am a fearful practical joker when I
choose! He has taken away everything from me, and by heavens, if I meet him I won't answer for my
deeds!"
These half-uttered words alarmed Elizabeth - all the more by reason of the still determination of
Henchard's mien.
"What will you do?" she asked cautiously, while trembling with disquietude, and guessing Henchard's
allusion only too well.
Henchard did not answer, and they went on till they had reached his cottage. "May I come in?" she said.
"No, no; not today," said Henchard; and she went away; feeling that to caution Farfrae was almost her
duty, as it was certainly her strong desire.
As on the Sunday, so on the week-days, Farfrae and Lucetta might have been seen flitting about the town
like two butterflies - or rather like a bee and a butterfly in league for life. She seemed to take no pleasure
in going anywhere except in her husband's company; and hence when business would not permit him to
waste an afternoon she remained indoors waiting for the time to pass till his return, her face being visible
to Elizabeth-Jane from her window aloft. The latter, however, did not say to herself that Farfrae should
be thankful for such devotion, but, full of her reading, she cited Rosalind's exclamation: "Mistress, know
yourself; down on your knees and thank Heaven fasting for a good man's love."
She kept her eye upon Henchard also. One day he answered her inquiry for his health by saying that he

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could not endure Abel Whittle's pitying eyes upon him while they worked together in the yard. "He is
such a fool," said Henchard, "that he can never get out of his mind the time when I was master there."
"I'll come and wimble for you instead of him, if you will allow me," said she. Her motive on going to the
yard was to get an opportunity of observing the general position of affairs on Farfrae's premises now that
her stepfather was a workman there. Henchard's threats had alarmed her so much that she wished to see
his behaviour when the two were face to face.
For two or three days after her arrival Donald did not make any appearance. Then one afternoon the
green door opened, and through came, first Farfrae, and at his heels Lucetta. Donald brought his wife
forward without hesitation, it being obvious that he had no suspicion whatever of any antecedents in
common between her and the now journeyman hay-trusser.
Henchard did not turn his eyes towards either of the pair, keeping them fixed on the bond he twisted, as if
that alone absorbed him. A feeling of delicacy, which ever prompted Farfrae to avoid anything that might
seem like triumphing over a fallen rival, led him to keep away from the hay-barn where Henchard and
his daughter were working, and to go on to the corn department. Meanwhile Lucetta, never having been
informed that Henchard had entered her husband's service, rambled straight on to the barn, where she
came suddenly upon Henchard, and gave vent to a little "Oh!" which the happy and busy Donald was too
far off to hear. Henchard, with withering humility of demeanour, touched the brim of his hat to her as
Whittle and the rest had done, to which she breathed a dead-alive "Good afternoon".
"I beg your pardon, ma'am?" said Henchard, as if he had not heard.
"I said good afternoon," she faltered.
"O yes, good afternoon, ma'am," he replied, touching his hat again. "I am glad to see you, ma'am."
Lucetta looked embarrassed, and Henchard continued: "For we humble workmen here feel it a great
honour that a lady should look in and take an interest in us."
She glanced at him entreatingly; the sarcasm was too bitter, too unendurable.
"Can you tell me the time, ma'am?" he asked.
"Yes," she said hastily; "half-past four."
"Thank 'ee. An hour and a half longer before we are released from work. Ah, ma'am, we of the lower
classes know nothing of the gay leisure that such as you enjoy!"
As soon as she could do so Lucetta left him, nodded and smiled to Elizabeth-Jane, and joined her
husband at the other end of the enclosure, where she could be seen leading him away by the outer gates,
so as to avoid passing Henchard again. That she had been taken by surprise was obvious. The result of
this casual rencounter was that the next morning a note was put into Henchard's hand by the postman.
"Will you," said Lucetta, with as much bitterness as she could put into a small communication, "will you
kindly undertake not to speak to me in the biting undertones you used today, if I walk through the yard at
any time? I bear you no ill-will, and I am only too glad that you should have employment of my dear
husband; but in common fairness treat me as his wife, and do not try to make me wretched by covert
sneers. I have committed no crime, and done you no injury."



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"Poor fool!" said Henchard with fond savagery, holding out the note. "To know no better than commit
herself in writing like this! Why, if I were to show that to her dear husband - pooh!" He threw the letter
into the fire.
Lucetta took care not to come again among the hay and corn. She would rather have died than run the
risk of encountering Henchard at such close quarters a second time. The gulf between them was growing
wider every day. Farfrae was always considerate to his fallen acquaintance; but it was impossible that he
should not, by degrees, cease to regard the ex-corn-merchant as more than one of his other workmen.
Henchard saw this, and concealed his feelings under a cover of stolidity, fortifying his heart by drinking
more freely at the Three Mariners every evening.
Often did Elizabeth-Jane, in her endeavours to prevent his taking other liquor, carry tea to him in a little
basket at five o'clock. Arriving one day on this errand she found her stepfather was measuring up
clover-seed and rape-seed in the corn-stores on the top floor, and she ascended to him. Each floor had a
door opening into the air under a cat-head, from which a chain dangled for hoisting the sacks.
When Elizabeth's head rose through the trap she perceived that the upper door was open, and that her
stepfather and Farfrae stood just within it in conversation, Farfrae being nearest the dizzy edge, and
Henchard a little way behind. Not to interrupt them she remained on the steps without raising her head
any higher. While waiting thus she saw - or fancied she saw, for she had a terror of feeling certain - her
stepfather slowly raise his hand to a level behind Farfrae's shoulders, a curious expression taking
possession of his face. The young man was quite unconscious of the action, which was so indirect that, if
Farfrae had observed it, he might almost have regarded it as an idle outstretching of the arm. But it would
have been possible, by a comparatively light touch, to push Farfrae off his balance, and send him head
over heels into the air.
Elizabeth felt quite sick at heart on thinking of what this might have meant. As soon as they turned she
mechanically took the tea to Henchard, left it, and went away. Reflecting, she endeavoured to assure
herself that the movement was an idle eccentricity, and no more. Yet, on the other hand, his subordinate
position in an establishment where he once had been master might be acting on him like an irritant
poison; and she finally resolved to caution Donald.




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* XXXIV *
NEXT morning, accordingly, she rose at five o'clock and went into the street. It was not yet light; a dense
fog prevailed, and the town was as silent as it was dark, except that from the rectangular avenues which
framed in the borough there came a chorus of tiny rappings, caused by the fall of water-drops condensed
on the boughs; now it was wafted from the West Walk, now from the South Walk; and then from both
quarters simultaneously. She moved on to the bottom of Corn Street, and, knowing his time well, waited
only a few minutes before she heard the familiar bang of his door, and then his quick walk towards her.
She met him at the point where the last tree of the engirding avenue flanked the last house in the street.
He could hardly discern her till, glancing inquiringly, he said, "What - Miss Henchard - and are ye up so
airly?"
She asked him to pardon her for waylaying him at such an unseemly time. "But I am anxious to mention
something," she said. "And I wished not to alarm Mrs Farfrae by calling."
"Yes?" said he, with the cheeriness of a superior. "And what may it be? It's very kind of ye, I'm sure."
She now felt the difficulty of conveying to his mind the exact aspect of possibilities in her own. But she
somehow began, and introduced Henchard's name, "I sometimes fear," she said with an effort, "that he
may be betrayed into some attempt to - insult you, sir."
"But we are the best of friends?"
"Or to play some practical joke upon you, sir. Remember that he has been hardly used."
"But we are quite friendly?"
"Or to do something - that would injure you - hurt you - wound you." Every word cost her twice its
length of pain. And she could see that Farfrae was still incredulous. Henchard, a poor man in his employ,
was not to Farfrae's view the Henchard who had ruled him. Yet he was not only the same man, but that
man with his sinister qualities, formerly latent, quickened into life by his buffetings.
Farfrae, happy, and thinking no evil, persisted in making light of her fears. Thus they parted, and she
went homeward, journeymen now being in the street, waggoners going to the harness-makers for articles
left to be repaired, farm-horses going to the shoeing-smiths, and the sons of labour showing themselves
generally on the move. Elizabeth entered her lodging unhappily, thinking she had done no good, and only
made herself appear foolish by her weak note of warning.
But Donald Farfrae was one of the those men upon whom an incident is never absolutely lost. He revised
impressions from a subsequent point of view, and the impulsive judgement of the moment was not
always his permanent one. The vision of Elizabeth's earnest face in the rimy dawn came back to him
several times during the day. Knowing the solidity of her character he did not treat her hints altogether as
idle sounds.
But he did not desist from a kindly scheme on Henchard's account that engaged him just then; and when
he met Lawyer Joyce, the town-clerk, later in the day, he spoke of it as if nothing had occurred to damp
it.


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"About that little seedsman's shop," he said; "the shop over-looking the churchyard, which is to let. It is
not for myself I want it, but for our unlucky fellow-townsman Henchard. It would be a new beginning for
him, if a small one; and I have told the Council that I would head a private subscription among them to
set him up in it - that I would be fifty pounds, if they would make up the other fifty among them."
"Yes, yes; so I've heard; and there's nothing to say against it for that matter," the town-clerk replied, in
his plain, frank way. "But, Farfrae, others see what you don't. Henchard hates 'ee - ay, hates 'ee; and 'tis
right that you should know it. To my knowledge he was at the Three Mariners last night, saying in public
that about you which a man ought not to say about another."
"Is that so - ah, is that so?" said Farfrae, looking down. "Why should he do it?" added the young man
bitterly; "what harm have I done him that he should try to wrong me?"
"God only knows," said Joyce, lifting his eyebrows. "It shows much long-suffering in you to put up with
him, and keep him in your employ."
"But I cannet discharge a man who was once a good friend to me? How can I forget that when I came
here 'twas he enabled me to make a footing for mysel'? No, no. As long as I've a day's wark to offer he
shall do it if he chooses. `Tis not I who will deny him such a little as that. But I'll drop the idea of
establishing him in a shop till I can think more about it."
It grieved Farfrae much to give up this scheme. But a damp having been thrown over it by these and
other voices in the air, he went and countermanded his orders. The then occupier of the shop was in it
when Farfrae spoke to him, and feeling it necessary to give some explanation of his withdrawal from the
negotiation Donald mentioned Henchard's name, and stated that the intentions of the Council had been
changed.
The occupier was much disappointed, and straightaway informed Henchard, as soon as he saw him, that
a scheme of the Council for setting him up in a shop had been knocked on the head by Farfrae. And thus
out of error enmity grew.
When Farfrae got indoors that evening that the tea-kettle was singing on the high hob of the
semi-egg-shaped grate. Lucetta, light as a sylph, ran forward and seized his hands, where-upon Farfrae
duly kissed her.
"Oh!" she cried playfully, turning to the window. "See - the blinds are not drawn down, and the people
can look in - what a scandal!"
When the candles were lighted, the curtains drawn, and the twain sat at tea, she noticed that he looked
serious. Without directly inquiring why she let her eyes linger solicitously on his face.
"Who has called?" he absently asked. "Any folk for me?"
"No," said Lucetta. "What's the matter, Donald?"
"Well - nothing worth talking of," he responded sadly.
"Then, never mind it. You will get through it. Scotchmen are always lucky."
"No - not always!" he said, shaking his head gloomily as he contemplated a crumb on the table. "I know
many who have not been so! There was Sandy Macfarlane, who started to America to try his fortune, and

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he was drowned; and Archibald Leith, he was murdered! And poor Willie Dunbleeze and Maitland
Macfreeze - they fell into bad courses, and went the way of all such!"
"Why - you old goosey - I was only speaking in a general sense, of course! You are always so literal.
Now when we have finished tea, sing me that funny song about high-heeled shoon and siller tags, and the
one-and-forty wooers."
"No, no. I couldna sing tonight! It's Henchard - he hates me; so that I may not be his friend if I would. I
would understand why there should be a wee bit envy; but I cannet see a reason for the whole intensity of
what he feels. Now, can you, Lucetta? It is more like old-fashioned rivalry in love than just a bit of
rivalry in trade."
Lucetta had grown somewhat wan. "No," she replied.
"I give him employment - I cannet refuse it. But neither can I blind myself to the fact that with a man of
passions such as his, there is no safeguard for conduct!"
"What have you heard - O Donald, dearest?" said Lucetta in alarm. The words on her lips were "anything
about me?" - but she did not utter them. She could not, however, suppress her agitation, and her eyes
filled with tears.
"No, no - it is not so serious as ye fancy," declared Farfrae soothingly; though he did not know its
seriousness so well as she.
"I wish you would do what we have talked of," mournfully remarked Lucetta. "Give up business, and go
away from here. We have plenty of money, and why should we stay?"
Farfrae seemed seriously disposed to discuss this move, and they talked thereon till a visitor was
announced. Their neighbour Alderman Vatt came in.
"You've heard, I suppose, of poor Doctor Chalkfield's death? Yes - died this afternoon at five," said Mr
Vatt. Chalkfield was the Councilman who had succeeded to the Mayoralty in the preceding November.
Farfrae was sorry at the intelligence, and Mr Vatt continued: "Well, we know he's been going some days,
and as his family is well provided for we must take it all as it is. Now I have called to ask 'ee this - quite
privately. If I should nominate 'ee to succeed him, and there should be no particular opposition, will 'ee
accept the chair?"
"But there are folk whose turn is before mine; and I'm over young, and may be thought pushing!" said
Farfrae after a pause.
"Not at all. I don't speak for myself only, several have named it. You won't refuse?"
"We thought of going away," interposed Lucetta, looking at Farfrae anxiously.
"It was only a fancy," Farfrae murmured. "I wouldna refuse if it is the wish of a respectable majority in
the Council."
"Very well, then, look upon yourself as elected. We have had older men long enough."
When he was gone Farfrae said musingly, "See now how it's ourselves that are ruled by the Powers
above us! We plan this, but we do that. If they want to make me Mayor I will stay, and Henchard must

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rave as he will."
From this evening onward Lucetta was very uneasy. If she had not been imprudence incarnate she would
not have acted as she did when she met Henchard by accident a day or two later. It was in the bustle of
the market, when no one could readily notice their discourse.
"Michael," said she, "I must again ask you what I asked you months ago - to return me any letters or
papers of mine that you may have - unless you have destroyed them? You must see how desirable it is
that the times at Jersey should be blotted out, for the good of all parties."
"Why, bless the woman! - I packed up every scrap of your handwriting to give you in the coach - but you
never appeared."
She explained how the death of her aunt had prevented her taking the journey on that day. "And what
became of the parcel then?" she asked.
He could not say - he would consider. When she was gone he recollected that he had left a heap of
useless papers in his former dining-room safe - built up in the wall of his old house - now occupied by
Farfrae. The letters might have been amongst them.
A grotesque grin shaped itself on Henchard's face. Had that safe been opened?
On the very evening which followed this there was a great ringing of bells in Casterbridge, and the
combined brass, wood, catgut, and leather bands played round the town with more prodigality of
percussion-notes than ever. Farfrae was Mayor - the two-hundredth odd of a series forming an elective
dynasty dating back to the days of Charles I - and the fair Lucetta was the courted of the town... But, ah!
that worm i' the bud - Henchard; what he could tell!
He, in the meantime, festering with indignation at some erroneous intelligence of Farfrae's opposition to
the scheme for installing him in the little seed-shop, was greeted with the news of the municipal election
(Which, by reason of Farfrae's comparative youth and his Scottish nativity - a thing unprecedented in the
case - had an interest far beyond the ordinary). The bell-ringing and the band-playing, loud as
Tamerlane's trumpet, goaded the downfallen Henchard indescribably: the ousting now seemed to him to
be complete.
The next morning he went to the corn-yard as usual, and about eleven o'clock Donald entered through the
green door, with no trace of the worshipful about him. The yet more emphatic change of places between
him and Henchard which this election had established renewed a slight embarrassment in the manner of
the modest younger man; but Henchard showed the front of one who had overlooked all this; and Farfrae
met his amenities half-way at once.
"I was going to ask you," said Henchard, "about a packet that I may possibly have left in my old safe in
the dining-room." He added particulars.
"If so, it is there now," said Farfrae. "I have never opened the safe at all as yet; for I keep ma papers at
the bank, to sleep easy o' nights."
"It was not of much consequence - to me," said Henchard. "But I'll call for it this evening, if you don't
mind?"



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It was quite late when he fulfilled his promise. He had primed himself with grog, as he did very
frequently now, and a curl of sardonic humour hung on his lip as he approached the house, as though he
were contemplating some terrible form of amusement. Whatever it was, the incident of his entry did not
diminish its force, this being his first visit to the house since he had lived there as owner. The ring of the
bell spoke to him like the voice of a familiar drudge who had been bribed to forsake him; the movements
of the doors were revivals of dead days.
Farfrae invited him into the dining-room, where he at once unlocked the iron safe built into the wall, his,
Henchard's safe, made by an ingenious locksmith under his direction. Farfrae drew thence the parcel, and
other papers, with apologies for not having returned them.
"Never mind," said Henchard drily. "The fact is they are letters mostly... Yes," he went on, sitting down
and unfolding Lucetta's passionate bundle, "here they be. That ever I should see 'em again! I hope Mrs
Farfrae is well after her exertions of yesterday?"
"She has felt a bit weary; and has gone to bed airly on that account."
Henchard returned to the letters, sorting them over with interest, Farfrae being seated at the other end of
the dining-table. "You don't forget, of course," he resumed, "that curious chapter in the history of my past
which I told you of, and that you gave me some assistance in? These letters are, in fact, related to that
unhappy business. Though, thank God, it is all over now."
"What became of the poor woman?" asked Farfrae.
"Luckily she married, and married well," said Henchard. "So that these reproaches she poured out on me
do not now cause me any twinges, as they might otherwise have done... Just listen to what an angry
woman will say!"
Farfrae, willing to humour Henchard, though quite uninterested, and bursting with yawns, gave well
mannered attention.
"""For me,""" Henchard read, """there is practically no future. A creature too unconventionally devoted
to you - who feels it impossible that she can be wife of any other man; and who is yet no more to you
than the first woman you meet in the street - such am I. I quite acquit you of any intention to wrong me,
yet you are the door through which wrong has come to me. That in the event of your present wife's death
you will place me in her position is a consolation so far as it goes - but how far does it go? Thus I sit
here, forsaken by my few acquaintance, and forsaken by you!"
"That's how she went on to me," said Henchard, "acres of words like that, when what had happened was
what I could not cure."
"Yes," said Farfrae absently, "it is the way wi' women." But the fact was that he knew very little of the
sex; yet detecting a sort of resemblance in style between the effusions of the woman he worshipped and
those of the supposed stranger, he concluded that Aphrodite ever spoke thus, whosoever the personality
she assumed.
Henchard unfolded another letter, and read it through likewise, stopping at the subscription as before.
"Her name I don't give," he said blandly. "As I didn't marry her, and another man did, I can scarcely do
that in fairness to her."


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"Tr-rue, tr-rue," said Farfrae. "But why didn't you marry her when your wife Susan died?" Farfrae asked
this and the other questions in the comfortably indifferent tone of one whom the matter very remotely
concerned.
"Ah - well you may ask that!" said Henchard, the new-moon-shaped grin adumbrating itself again upon
his mouth. "In spite of all her protestations, when I came forward to do so, as in generosity bound, she
was not the woman for me."
"She had already married another - maybe?"
Henchard seemed to think it would be sailing too near the wind to descend further into particulars, and he
answered "Yes."
"The young lady must have had a heart that bore transplanting very readily!"
"She had, she had," said Henchard emphatically.
He opened a third and fourth letter, and read. This time he approached the conclusion as if the signature
were indeed coming with the rest. But again he stopped short. The truth was that, as may be divined, he
had quite intended to effect a grand catastrophe at the end of this drama by reading out the name; he had
come to the house with no other thought. But sitting there in cold blood he could not do it. Such a
wrecking of hearts appalled even him. His quality was such that he could have annihilated them both in
the heat of action; but to accomplish the deed by oral poison was beyond the nerve of his enmity.




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* XXXV *
AS Donald stated, Lucetta had retired early to her room because of fatigue. She had, however, not gone
to rest, but sat in the bedside chair reading and thinking over the events of the day. At the ringing of the
door-bell by Henchard she wondered who it should be that would call at that comparatively late hour.
The dining-room was almost under her bedroom; she could hear that somebody was admitted there, and
presently the indistinct murmur of a person reading became audible.
The usual time for Donald's arrival upstairs came and passed, yet still the reading and conversation went
on. This was very singular. She could think of nothing but that some extraordinary crime had been
committed, and that the visitor, whoever he might be, was reading an account of it from a special edition
of the Casterbridge Chronicle. At last she left the room, and descended the stairs. The dining-room door
was ajar, and in the silence of the resting household the voice and words were recognizable before she
reached the lower flight. She stood transfixed. Her own words greeted her in Henchard's voice, like
spirits from the grave.
Lucetta leant upon the banister with her cheek against the smooth hand-rail, as if she would make a
friend of it in her misery. Rigid in this position, more and more words fell successively upon her ear. But
what amazed her most was the tone of her husband. He spoke merely in the accents of a man who made a
present of his time.
"One word," he was saying, as the crackling of paper denoted that Henchard was unfolding yet another
sheet. "Is it quite fair to this young woman's memory to read at such length to a stranger what was
intended for your eye alone?"
"Well, yes," said Henchard. "By not giving her name make it an example of all womankind, and not a
scandal to one."
"If I were you I would destroy them," said Farfrae, giving more thought to the letters than he had hitherto
done. "As another man's wife it would injure the woman if it were known."
"No, I shall not destroy them," murmured Henchard, putting the letters away. Then he arose, and Lucetta
heard no more.
She went back to her bedroom in a semi-paralysed state. For very fear she could not undress, but sat on
the edge of the bed, waiting. Would Henchard let out the secret in his parting words? Her suspense was
terrible. Had she confessed all to Donald in their early acquaintance he might possibly have got over it,
and married her just the same - unlikely as it had once seemed; but for her or any one else to tell him now
would be fatal.
The door slammed; she could hear her husband bolting it. After looking round in his customary way he
came leisurely up the stairs. The spark in her eyes well-nigh went out when he appeared round the
bedroom door. Her gaze hung doubtful for a moment, then to her joyous amazement she saw that he
looked at her with the rallying smile of one who had just been relieved of a scene that was irksome. She
could hold out no longer, and sobbed hysterically.
When he had restored her Farfrae naturally enough spoke of Henchard. "Of all men he was the least
desirable as a visitor," he said; "but it is my belief that he's just a bit crazed. He has been reading to me a

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long lot of letters relating to his past life; and I could do no less than indulge him by listening."
This was sufficient. Henchard, then, had not told. Henchard's last words to Farfrae, in short, as he stood
on the door-step, had been these: "Well - I'm obliged to 'ee for listening. I may tell more about her some
day."
Finding this, she was much perplexed as to Henchard's motives in opening the matter at all; for in such
cases we attribute to an enemy a power of consistent action which we never find in ourselves or in our
friends; and forget that abortive efforts from want of heart are as possible to revenge as to generosity.
Next morning Lucetta remained in bed, meditating how to parry this incipient attack. The bold stroke of
telling Donald the truth, dimly conceived, was yet too bold; for she dreaded lest in doing so he, like the
rest of the world, should believe that the episode was rather her fault than her misfortune. She decided to
employ persuasion - not with Donald, but with the enemy himself. It seemed the only practicable weapon
left her as a woman. Having laid her plan she rose, and wrote to him who kept her on these tenterhooks:-
"I overheard your interview with my husband last night, and saw the drift of your revenge. The very
thought of it crushes me! Have pity on a distressed woman! If you could see me you would relent. You
do not know how anxiety has told upon me lately. I will be at the Ring at the time you leave work - just
before the sun goes down. Please come that way. I cannot rest till I have seen you face to face, and heard
from your mouth that you will carry this horse-play no further."
To herself she said, on closing up this appeal: "If ever tears and pleadings have served the weak to fight
the strong, let them do so now!"
With this view she made a toilette which differed from all she had ever attempted before. To heighten her
natural attractions had hitherto been the unvarying endeavour of adult life, and one in which she was no
novice. But now she neglected this, and even proceeded to impair the natural presentation. Beyond a
natural reason for her slightly drawn look, she had not slept all the previous night, and this had produced
upon her pretty though slightly worn features the aspect of a countenance ageing prematurely from
extreme sorrow. She selected - as much from want of spirit as design - her poorest, plainest, and longest
discarded attire.
To avoid the contingency of being recognized she veiled herself, and slipped out of the house quickly.
The sun was resting on the hill like a drop of blood on an eyelid by the time she had got up the road
opposite the amphitheatre, which she speedily entered. The interior was shadowy, and emphatic of the
absence of every living thing.
She was not disappointed in the fearful hope with which she awaited him. Henchard came over the top,
descended, and Lucetta waited breathlessly. But having reached the arena she saw a change in his
bearing: he stood still at a little distance from her; she could not think why.
Nor could any one else have known. The truth was that in appointing this spot, and this hour, for the
rendezvous, Lucetta had unwittingly backed up her entreaty by the strongest argument she could have
used outside words, with this man of moods, glooms, and superstitions. Her figure in the midst of the
huge enclosure, the unusual plainness of her dress, her attitude of hope and appeal, so strongly revived in
his soul the memory of another ill-used woman who had stood there and thus in bygone days, and had
now passed away into her rest, that he was unmanned, and his heart smote him for having attempted
reprisals on one of a sex so weak. When he approached her, and before she had spoken a word, her point

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was half gained.
His manner as he had come down had been one of cynical carelessness; but he now put away his grim
half-smile, and said in a kindly subdued tone, "Good night t'ye. Of course I'm glad to come if you want
me."
"O, thank you," she said apprehensively.
"I am sorry to see 'ee looking so ill," he stammered with unconcealed compunction.
She shook her head. "How can you be sorry," she asked, "when you deliberately cause it?"
"What!" said Henchard uneasily. "Is it anything I have done that has pulled you down like that?"
"It is all your doing," said she. "I have no other grief. My happiness would be secure enough but for your
threats. O Michael! don't wreck me like this! You might think that you have done enough! When I came
here I was a young woman; now I am rapidly becoming an old one. Neither my husband nor any other
man will regard me with interest long."
Henchard was disarmed. His old feeling of supercilious pity for womankind in general was intensified by
this suppliant appearing here as the double of the first. Moreover, that thoughtless want of foresight
which had led to all her trouble remained with poor Lucetta still; she had come to meet him here in this
compromising way without perceiving the risk. Such a woman was very small deer to hunt; he felt
ashamed, lost all zest and desire to humiliate Lucetta there and then, and no longer envied Farfrae his
bargain. He had married money, but nothing more. Henchard was anxious to wash his hands of the game.
"Well, what do you want me to do?" he said gently. "I am sure I shall be very willing. My reading of
those letters was only a sort of practical joke, and I revealed nothing."
"To give me back the letters and any papers you may have that breathe of matrimony or worse."
"So be it. Every scrap shall be yours... But, between you and me, Lucetta, he is sure to find out
something of the matter, sooner or later."
"Ah!" she said with eager tremulousness; "but not till I have proved myself a faithful and deserving wife
to him, and then he may forgive me everything!"
Henchard silently looked at her: he almost envied Farfrae such love as that, even now. "H'm - I hope so,"
he said. "But you shall have the letters without fail. And your secret shall be kept. I swear it."
"How good you are! - how shall I get them?"
He reflected, and said he would send them the next morning. "Now don't doubt me," he added. "I can
keep my word."




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* XXXVI *
RETURNING from her appointment Lucetta saw a man waiting by the lamp nearest to her own door.
When she stopped to go in he came and spoke to her. It was Jopp.
He begged her pardon for addressing her. But he had heard that Mr Farfrae had been applied to by a
neighbouring corn-merchant to recommend a working partner; if so, he wished to offer himself. He could
give good security, and had stated as much to Mr Farfrae in a letter; but he would feel much obliged if
Lucetta would say a word in his favour to her husband.
"It is a thing I know nothing about," said Lucetta coldly.
"But you can testify to my trustworthiness better than anybody, ma'am," said Jopp. "I was in Jersey
several years, and knew you there by sight."
"Indeed," she replied. "But I knew nothing of you."
"I think, ma'am, that a word or two from you would secure for me what I covet very much," he persisted.
She steadily refused to have anything to do with the affair, and cutting him short, because of her anxiety
to get indoors before her husband should miss her, left him on the pavement.
He watched her till she had vanished, and then went home. When he got there he sat down in the fireless
chimney corner looking at the iron dogs, and the wood laid across them for heating the morning kettle. A
movement upstairs disturbed him, and Henchard came down from his bedroom, where he seemed to have
been rummaging boxes.
"I wish," said Henchard, "you would do me a service, Jopp, now - tonight, I mean, if you can. Leave this
at Mrs Farfrae's for her. I should take it myself, of course, but I don't wish to be seen there."
He handed a package in brown paper, sealed. Henchard had been as good as his word. Immediately on
coming indoors he had searched over his few belongings; and every scrap of Lucetta's writing that he
possessed was here. Jopp indifferently expressed his willingness.
"Well, how have ye got on today?" his lodger asked. "Any prospect of an opening?"
"I am afraid not," said Jopp, who had not told the other of his application to Farfrae.
"There never will be in Casterbridge," declared Henchard decisively. "You must roam further afield." He
said good night to Jopp, and returned to his own part of the house.
Jopp sat on till his eyes were attracted by the shadow of the candle-snuff on the wall, and looking at the
original he found that it had formed itself into a head like a red-hot cauli-flower. Henchard's packet next
met his gaze. He knew there had been something of the nature of wooing between Henchard and the now
Mrs Farfrae; and his vague ideas on the subject narrowed themselves down to these: Henchard had a
parcel belonging to Mrs Farfrae, and he had reasons for not returning that parcel to her in person. What
could be inside it? So he went on and on till, animated by resentment at Lucetta's haughtiness, as he
thought it, and curiosity to learn if there were any weak sides to this transaction with Henchard, he
examined the package. The pen and all its relations being awkward tools in Henchard's hands he had


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affixed the seals without an impression, it never occurring to him that the efficacy of such a fastening
depended on this. Jopp was far less a tyro; he lifted one of the seals with his penknife peeped in at the
end thus opened, saw that the bundle consisted of letters; and, having satisfied himself thus far, sealed up
the end again by simply softening the wax with the candle, and went off with the parcel as requested.
His path was by the river-side at the foot of the town. Coming into the light at the bridge which stood at
the end of High Street he beheld lounging thereon Mother Cuxsom and Nance Mockridge.
"We be just going down Mixen Lane way, to look into Peter's Finger afore creeping to bed," said Mrs
Cuxsom. "There's a fiddle and tambourine going on there. Lord, what's all the world - do ye come along
too, Jopp--'twon't hinder ye five minutes."
Jopp had mostly kept himself out of this company, but present circumstances made him somewhat more
reckless than usual, and without many words he decided to go to his destination that way.
Though the upper part of Durnover was mainly composed of a curious congeries of barns and
farmsteads, there was a less picturesque side to the parish. This was Mixen Lane, now in great part pulled
down.
Mixen Lane was the Adullam of all the surrounding villages. It was the hiding-place of those who were
in distress, and in debt, and trouble of every kind. Farm-labourers and other peasants, who combined a
little poaching with their farming, and a little brawling and bibbing with their poaching, found
themselves sooner or later in Mixen Lane. Rural mechanics too idle to mechanize, rural servants too
rebellious to serve, drifted or were forced into Mixen Lane.
The lane and its surrounding thicket of thatched cottages stretched out like a spit into the moist and misty
lowland. Much that was sad, much that was low, some things that were baneful, could be seen in Mixen
Lane. Vice ran freely in and out certain of the doors of the neighbourhood; recklessness dwelt under the
roof with the crooked chimney; shame in some bow-windows; theft (in times of privation) in the thatched
and mud-walled houses by the sallows. Even slaughter had not been altogether unknown here. In a block
of cottages up an alley there might have been erected an altar to disease in years gone by. Such was
Mixen Lane in the times when Henchard and Farfrae were Mayors.
Yet this mildewed leaf in the sturdy and flourishing Casterbridge plant lay close to the open country; not
a hundred yards from a row of noble elms, and commanding a view across the moor of airy uplands and
corn-fields, and mansions of the great. A brook divided the moor from the tenements, and to outward
view there was no way across it - no way to the houses but round about by the road. But under every
householder's stairs there was kept a mysterious plank nine inches wide; which was a secret bridge.
If you, as one of those refugee householders, came in from business after dark - and this was the business
time here - you stealthily crossed the moor, approached the border of the aforesaid brook, and whistled
opposite the house to which you belonged. A shape thereupon made its appearance on the other side
bearing the bridge on end against the sky; it was lowered; you crossed, and a hand helped you to land
yourself, together with the pheasants and hares gathered from neighbouring manors. You sold them slily
the next morning, and the day after you stood before the magistrates with the eye of all your
sympathizing neighbours concentrated on your back. You disappeared for a time; then you were again
found quietly living in Mixen Lane.
Walking along the lane at dusk the stranger was struck by two or three peculiar features therein. One was

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an intermittent rumbling from the back premises of the inn half-way up; this meant a skittle alley.
Another was the extensive prevalence of whistling in the various domiciles - a piped note of some kind
coming from nearly every open door. Another was the frequency of white aprons over dingy gowns
among the women around the doorways. A white apron is a suspicious vesture in situations where
spotlessness is difficult; moreover, the industry and cleanliness which the white apron expressed were
belied by the postures and gaits of the women who wore it - their knuckles being mostly on their hips (an
attitude which lent them the aspect of two-handled mugs), and their shoulders against door-posts; while
there was a curious alacrity in the turn of each honest woman's head upon her neck and in the twirl of her
honest eyes, at any noise resembling a masculine footfall along the lane.
Yet amid so much that was bad needy respectability also found a home. Under some of the roofs abode
pure and virtuous souls whose presence there was due to the iron hand of necessity, and to that alone.
Families from decayed villages - families of that once bulky, but now nearly extinct, section of village
society called "liviers", or lifeholders - copyholders and others, whose roof-trees had fallen for some
reason or other, compelling them to quit the rural spot that had been their home for generations - came
here, unless they chose to lie under a hedge by the wayside.
The inn called Peter's Finger was the church of Mixen Lane.
It was centrally situated, as such places should be, and bore about the same social relation to the Three
Mariners as the latter bore to the King's Arms. At first sight the inn was so respectable as to be puzzling.
The front door was kept shut, and the step was so clean that evidently but few persons entered over its
sanded surface. But at the corner of the public-house was an alley, a mere slit, dividing it from the next
building. Half-way up the alley was a narrow door shiny and paintless from the rub of infinite hands and
shoulders. This was the actual entrance to the inn.
A pedestrian would be seen abstractedly passing along Mixen Lane; and then, in a moment, he would
vanish, causing the gazer to blink like Ashton at the disappearance of Ravenswood. That abstracted
pedestrian had edged into the slit by the adroit fillip of his person sideways; from the slit he edged into
the tavern by a similar exercise of skill.
The company at the Three Mariners were persons of quality in comparison with the company which
gathered here; though it must be admitted that the lowest fringe of the Mariners'party touched the crest of
Peter's at points. Waifs and strays of all sorts loitered about here. The landlady was a virtuous woman
who years ago had been unjustly sent to gaol as an accessory to something or other after the fact. She
under-went her twelvemonth, and had worn a martyr's countenance ever since, except at times of meeting
the constable who apprehended her, when she winked her eye.
To this house Jopp and his acquaintances had arrived. The settles on which they sat down were thin and
tall, their tops being guyed by pieces of twine to hooks in the ceiling; for when the guests grew
boisterous the settles would rock and over-turn without some such security. The thunder of bowls echoed
from the backyard; swingels hung behind the blower of the chimney; and ex-poachers and
ex-gamekeepers, whom squires had persecuted without a cause, sat elbowing each other - men who in
past times had met in fights under the moon, till lapse of sentences on the one part, and loss of favour and
expulsion from service on the other, brought them here together to a common level, where they sat
calmly discussing old times.
"Dos't mind how you could jerk a trout ashore with a bramble, and not ruffle the stream, Charl?" a


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deposed keeper was saying. "'Twas at that I caught 'ee once, if you can mind?"
"That can I. But the worst larry for me was that pheasant business at Yalbury Wood. Your wife swore
false that time, Joe - O, by Gad, she did - there's no denying it."
"How was that?" asked Jopp.
"Why - Joe closed wi' me, and we rolled down together, close to his garden hedge. Hearing the noise, out
ran his wife with the oven pyle, and it being dark under the trees she couldn't see which was uppermost.
"Where beest thee, Joe, under or top?" she screeched. "O - under, by Gad!" says he. She then began to
rap down upon my skull, back, and ribs with the pyle till we'd roll over again. "Where beest now, dear
Joe, under or top?" she'd scream again. By George, 'twas through her I was took! And then when we got
up in hall she sware that the cock pheasant was one of her rearing, when 'twas not your bird at all, Joe;
'twas Squire Brown's bird - that's whose 'twas - one that we'd picked off as we passed his wood, an hour
afore. It did hurt my feelings to be so wronged!... Ah well--'tis over now."
"I might have had 'ee days afore that," said the keeper. "I was within a few yards of 'ee dozens of times,
with a sight more of birds than that poor one."
"Yes--'tis not our greatest doings that the world gets wind of," said the furmity-woman, who, lately
settled in this purlieu, sat among the rest. Having travelled a great deal in her time she spoke with
cosmopolitan largeness of idea. It was she who presently asked Jopp what was the parcel he kept so
snugly under his arm.
"Ah, therein lies a grand secret," said Jopp. "It is the passion of love. To think that a woman should love
one man so well, and hate another so unmercifully."
"Who's the object of your meditation, sir?"
"One that stands high in this town. I'd like to shame her! Upon my life, 'twould be as good as a play to
read her love-letters, the proud piece of silk and wax-work! For 'tis her love-letters that I've got here."
"Love-letters? then let's hear 'em, good soul," said Mother Cuxsom. "Lord, do ye mind, Richard, what
fools we used to be when we were younger? Getting a schoolboy to write ours for us; and giving him a
penny, do ye mind, not to tell other folks what he'd put inside, do ye mind?"
By this time Jopp had pushed his finger under the seals, and unfastened the letters, tumbling them over
and picking up one here and there at random, which he read aloud. These passages soon began to
uncover the secret which Lucetta had so earnestly hoped to keep buried, though the epistles, being
allusive only, did not make it altogether plain.
"Mrs Farfrae wrote that!" said Nance Mockridge. "'Tis a humbling thing for us, as respectable women,
that one of the same sex could do it. And now she's vowed herself to another man!"
"So much the better for her," said the aged furmity-woman. "Ah, I saved her from a real bad marriage,
and she's never been the one to thank me."
"I say, what a good foundation for a skimmity-ride," said Nance.
"True," said Mrs Cuxsom, reflecting. "'Tis as good a ground for a skimmity-ride as ever I knowed; and it
ought not to be wasted. The last one seen in Casterbridge must have been ten years ago, if a day."

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At this moment there was a shrill whistle, and the landlady said to the man who had been called Charl,
"'Tis Jim coming in. Would ye go and let down the bridge for me?"
Without replying Charl and his comrade Joe rose, and receiving a lantern from her went out at the back
door and down the garden-path, which ended abruptly at the edge of the stream already mentioned.
Beyond the stream was the open moor, from which a clammy breeze smote upon their faces as they
advanced. Taking up the board that had lain in readiness one of them lowered it across the water, and the
instant its further end touched the ground footsteps entered upon it, and there appeared from the shade a
stalwart man with straps round his knees, a double-barrelled gun under his arm and some birds slung up
behind him. They asked him if he had had much luck.
"Not much," he said indifferently. "All safe inside?"
Receiving a reply in the affirmative he went on inwards, the others withdrawing the bridge and beginning
to retreat in his rear. Before, however, they had entered the house a cry of "Ahoy" from the moor led
them to pause.
The cry was repeated. They pushed the lantern into an out-house, and went back to the brink of the
stream.
"Ahoy - is this the way to Casterbridge?" said some one from the other side.
"Not in particular," said Charl. "There's a river afore 'ee."
"I don't care - here's for through it!" said the man in the moor. "I've had travelling enough for today."
"Stop a minute, then," said Charl, finding that the man was no enemy. "Joe, bring the plank and lantern;
here's somebody that's lost his way. You should have kept along the turnpike road, friend, and not have
strook across here."
"I should - as I see now. But I saw a light here, and says I to myself, that's an outlying house, depend
on't."
The plank was now lowered; and the stranger's form shaped itself from the darkness. He was a
middle-aged man, with hair and whiskers prematurely grey, and a broad and genial face. He had crossed
on the plank without hesitation, and seemed to see nothing odd in the transit. He thanked them, and
walked between them up the garden. "What place is this?" he asked, when they reached the door.
"A public-house."
"Ah. Perhaps it will suit me to put up at. Now then, come in and wet your whistle at my expense for the
lift over you have given me."
They followed him into the inn, where the increased light exhibited him as one who would stand higher
in an estimate by the eye than in one by the ear. He was dressed with a certain clumsy richness - his coat
being furred, and his head covered by a cap of seal-skin, which, though the nights were chilly, must have
been warm for the daytime, spring being somewhat advanced. In his hand he carried a small mahogany
case, strapped, and clamped with brass.
Apparently surprised at the kind of company which confronted him through the kitchen door, he at once


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abandoned his idea of putting up at the house; but taking the situation lightly, he called for glasses of the
best, paid for them as he stood in the passage, and turned to proceed on his way by the front door. This
was barred, and while the landlady was unfastening it the conversation about the skimmington was
continued in the sitting-room, and reached his ears.
"What do they mean by a ""skimmity-ride""?" he asked.
"O, sir!" said the landlady, swinging her long earrings with deprecating modesty; "'tis a' old foolish thing
they do in these parts when a man's wife is - well, not too particularly his own. But as a respectable
householder I don't encourage it."
"Still, are they going to do it shortly? It is a good sight to see, I suppose?"
"Well, sir!" she simpered. And then, bursting into naturalness, and glancing from the corner of her eye,
"'Tis the funniest thing under the sun! And it costs money."
"Ah! I remember hearing of some such thing. Now I shall be in Casterbridge for two or three weeks to
come, and should not mind seeing the performance. Wait a moment." He turned back, entered the
sitting-room, and said, "Here, good folks; I should like to see the old custom you are talking of, and I
don't mind being something towards it - take that." He threw a sovereign on the table and returned to the
landlady at the door, of whom, having inquired the way into the town, he took his leave.
"There were more where that one came from," said Charl, when the sovereign had been taken up and
handed to the land-lady for safe keeping. "By George! we ought to have got a few more while we had
him here."
"No, no," answered the landlady. "This is a respectable house, thank God! And I'll have nothing done but
what's honourable."
"Well," said Jopp; "now we'll consider the business begun, and will soon get it in train."
"We will!" said Nance. "A good laugh warms my heart more than a cordial, and that's the truth on't."
Jopp gathered up the letters, and it being now somewhat late he did not attempt to call at Farfrae's with
them that night. He reached home, sealed them up as before, and delivered the parcel at its address next
morning. Within an hour its contents were reduced to ashes by Lucetta, who, poor soul! was inclined to
fall down on her knees in thankfulness that at last no evidence remained of the unlucky episode with
Henchard in her past. For though hers had been rather the laxity of inadvertence than of intention, that
episode, if known, was not the less likely to operate fatally between herself and her husband.




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* XXXVII *
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
candlelight 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 fête carillonnée 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 sign-painter had in his shop. The Council met on the
Tuesday before the appointed day, to arrange the details of the 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 quillpen off,
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

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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 window-gazers 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-one years 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 door-step, 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 cortège 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 be traversed by road in the old fashion. People thus waited - the county
families in their carriages, the masses on foot - and watched the far-stretching 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,


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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 washer-woman, 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 his
features - 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. Ever 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 furthest 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 front 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, sanded;
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 staggered 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, "O, 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 eyes met 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
new-comer 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!"


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"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 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 Illustrious Personage 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 every one 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 off Mixen Lanewards, 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 this 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

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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.




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* XXXVIII *
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 this 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 look 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

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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 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 dropping boughs of the limes; 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
whither-ward:-
      "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 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!"


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Farfrae warmed a little at this. "Ye'd no business there," he said.
"As much as any one among ye! What, your forward stripling, tell a man of my age he'd no business
there!" The angervein 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 calledfrom 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


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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 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 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, but 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

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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.




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* XXXIX *
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. There-upon 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 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 evidence 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 maidservant 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!"



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"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 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 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 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 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 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


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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 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 about 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

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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 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.

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"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 was here then, 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.




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* XL *
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 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, 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 giglamp 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


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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 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 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 in 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 been 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

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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-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 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 disress by
alluding to the subject.
What, and how much, Farfrae's wife ultimately explained to him of her past entanglement with

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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 extend 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 in 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
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."




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* XLI *
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 this 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 fullness 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 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

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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 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 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.

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"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 the 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 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 be-thought 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.

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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 that 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

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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 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 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 deathbed. 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


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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


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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 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!"




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* XLII *
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
consquences. 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


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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 judgement 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, notwithstanding such conditions, Lucetta's image still lived on with him, her
weaknesses provoking only the gentlest criticism, and her suffering's 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 these 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.

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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 pitch-forks of prong sufficient to skewer up a small
family. Henchard, contrary to his wont, 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. There-upon 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 stepdaughter 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 today, 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

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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.



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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 to 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 stepsire'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?"




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* XLIII *
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 stepdaughter, 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 natural 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 éclat 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 little 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?


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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; and 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 his 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
tomorrow, 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 step-father, 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


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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 intention, 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, lzzy," 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, lzzy? - 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,
knee-naps 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.



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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 spring of his stride, that his state
of hopelessness had weakened him, and imparted to his shoulders, as weighted by the basket, a
perceptible bend.
He went on till he came to the first milestone, which stood in the bank, half way up a steep hill. He rested
his basket on the top of the stone, placed his elbows on it, and gave way to a convulsive twitch, which
was worse than a sob, because it was so hard and so dry.
"If I had only got her with me - if I only had!" he said. "Hard work would be nothing to me then! But that
was not to be. I - Cain - go alone as I deserve - an outcast and a vagabond. But my punishment is not
greater than I can bear!"
He sternly subdued his anguish, shouldered his basket, and went on.
Elizabeth, in the meantime, had breathed him a sigh, recovered her equanimity, and turned her face to
Casterbridge. Before she had reached the first house she was met in her walk by Donald Farfrae. This
was evidently not their first meeting that day; they joined hands without ceremony, and Farfrae anxiously
asked, "And is he gone - and did you tell him? - I mean of the other matter - not of ours."
"He is gone; and I told him all I knew of your friend. Donald, who is he?"
"Well, well dearie; you will know soon about that. And Mr Henchard will hear of it if he does not go
far."
"He will go far - he's bent upon getting out of sight and sound!"
She walked beside her lover, and when they reached the Crossways, or Bow, turned with him into Corn
Street instead of going straight on to her own door. At Farfrae's house they stopped and went in.
Farfrae flung open the door of the ground-floor sittingroom, saying, "There he is waiting for you," and
Elizabeth entered. In the arm-chair sat the broad-faced genial man who had called on Henchard on a
memorable morning between one and two years before this time, and whom the latter had seen mount the
coach and depart within half-an-hour of his arrival. It was Richard Newson. The meeting with the
light-hearted father from whom she had been separated half-a-dozen years, as if by death, need hardly be
detailed. It was an affecting one, apart from the question of paternity. Henchard's departure was in a
moment explained. When the true facts came to be handled the difficulty of restoring her to her old belief
in Newson was not so great as might have seemed likely, for Henchard's conduct itself was a proof that
those facts were true. Moreover, she had grown up under Newson's paternal care; and even had Henchard
been her father in nature, this father in early domiciliation might almost have carried the point against
him, when the incidents of her parting with Henchard had a little worn off.



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Newson's pride in what she had grown up to be was more than he could express. He kissed her again and
again.
"I've saved you the trouble to come and meet me - ha-ha!" said Newson. "The fact is that Mr Farfrae
here, he said, ""Come up and stop with me for a day or two, Captain Newson, and I'll bring her round.""
""Faith,"" says I, ""so I will""; and here I am."
"Well, Henchard is gone," said Farfrae, shutting the door. "He has done it all voluntarily, and, as I gather
from Elizabeth, he has been very nice with her. I was got rather uneasy; but all is as it should be, and we
will have no more deefficulties at all."
"Now, that's very much as I thought," said Newson, looking into the face of each by turns. "I said to
myself, ay, a hundred times, when I tried to get a peep at her unknown to herself - ""Depend upon it, 'tis
best that I should live on quiet for a few days like this till something turns up for the better."" I now know
you are all right, and what can I wish for more?"
"Well, Captain Newson, I will be glad to see ye here every day now, since it can do no harm," said
Farfrae. "And what I've been thinking is that the wedding may as well be kept under my own roof, the
house being large, and you being in lodgings by yourself - so that a great deal of trouble and expense
would be saved ye? - and 'tis a convenience when a couple's married not to hae far to go to get home!"
"With all my heart," said Captain Newson; "since, as ye say, it can do no harm, now poor Henchard's
gone; though I wouldn't have done it otherwise, or put myself in his way at all; for I've already in my
lifetime been an intruder into his family quite as far as politeness can be expected to put up with. But
what do the young woman say herself about it? Elizabeth, my child, come and hearken to what we be
talking about, and not bide staring out o' the window as if ye didn't hear."
"Donald and you must settle it," murmured Elizabeth, still keeping up a scrutinizing gaze at some small
object in the street.
"Well, then," continued Newson, turning anew to Farfrae with a face expressing thorough entry into the
subject, "that's how we'll have it. And, Mr Farfrae, as you provide so much, and houseroom, and all that,
I'll do my part in the drinkables, and see to the rum and schiedam - maybe a dozen jars will be sufficient?
- as many of the folk will be ladies, and perhaps they won't drink hard enough to make a high average in
the reckoning? But you know best. I've provided for men and shipmates times enough, but I'm as
ignorant as a child how many glasses of grog a woman, that's not a drinking woman, is expected to
consume at these ceremonies?"
"Oh, none - we'll no want much of that - O no!" said Farfrae, shaking his head with appalled gravity. "Do
you leave all to me."
When they had gone a little further in these particulars Newson, leaning back in his chair and smiling
reflectively at the ceiling, said, "I've never told ye, or have I, Mr Farfrae, how Henchard put me off the
scent that time?"
He expressed ignorance of what the Captain alluded to.
"Ah, I thought I hadn't resolved that I would not, I remember, not to hurt the man's name. But now he's
gone I can tell ye. Why, I came to Casterbridge nine or ten months before that day last week that I found
ye out. I had been here twice before then. The first time I passed through the town on my way westward,

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not knowing Elizabeth lived here. Then hearing at some place - I forget where - that a man of the name
of Henchard had been mayor here, I came back, and called at his house one morning. The old rascal! - he
said Elizabeth-Jane had died years ago."
Elizabeth now gave earnest heed to his story.
"Now, it never crossed my mind that the man was selling me a packet," continued Newson. "And, if
you'll believe me, I was that upset, that I went back to the coach that had brought me, and took passage
onward without lying in the town half-an-hour. Ha-ha!--'twas a good joke, and well carried out, and I
give the man credit for't!"
Elizabeth-Jane was amazed at the intelligence. "A joke? - O no!" she cried. "Then he kept you from me,
father, all those months, when you might have been here?"
The father admitted that such was the case.
"He ought not to have done it!" said Farfrae.
Elizabeth sighed. "I said I would never forget him. But O!I think I ought to forget him now!"
Newson, like a good many rovers and sojourners among strange men and strange moralities, failed to
perceive the enormity of Henchard's crime, notwithstanding that he himself had been the chief sufferer
therefrom. Indeed, the attack upon the absent culprit waxing serious, he began to take Henchard's part.
"Well, 'twas not ten words that he said, after all," Newson pleaded. "And how could he know that I
should be such a simpleton as to believe him? 'Twas as much my fault as his, poor fellow!"
"No," said Elizabeth-Jane firmly, in her revulsion of feeling. "He knew your disposition - you always
were so trusting, father; I've heard my mother say so hundreds of times - and he did it to wrong you.
After weaning me from you these five years by saying he was my father, he should not have done this."
Thus they conversed; and there was nobody to set before Elizabeth any extenuation of the absent one's
deceit. Even had he been present Henchard might scarce have pleaded it, so little did he value himself or
his good name.
"Well, well - never mind - it is all over and past," said Newson good-naturedly. "Now, about this
wedding again."




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* XLIV *
MEANWHILE, the man of their talk had pursued his solitary way eastward till weariness overtook him,
and he lookedabout for a place of rest. His heart was so exacerbated at parting from the girl that he could
not face an inn, or even a household of the most humble kind; and entering a field he lay down under a
wheatrick, feeling no want of food. The very heaviness of his soul caused him to sleep profoundly.
The bright autumn sun shining into his eyes across the stubble awoke him the next morning early. He
opened his basket and ate for his breakfast what he had packed for his supper; and in doing so overhauled
the remainder of his kit. Although everything he brought necessitated carriage at his own back, he had
secreted among his tools a few of Elizabeth-Jane's cast-off belongings, in the shape of gloves, shoes, a
scrap of her handwriting, and the like; and in his pocket he carried a curl of her hair. Having looked at
these things he closed them up again, and went onward.
During five consecutive days Henchard's rush basket rode along upon his shoulder between the highway
hedges, the new yellow of the rushes catching the eye of an occasional field-labourer as he glanced
through the quickset, together with the wayfarer's hat and head, and down-turned face, over which the
twig shadows moved in endless procession. It now became apparent that the direction of his journey was
Weydon-Priors, which he reached on the afternoon of the sixth day.
The renowned hill whereon the annual fair had been held for so many generations was now bare of
human beings, and almost of aught besides. A few sheep grazed thereabout, but these ran off when
Henchard halted upon the summit. He deposited his basket upon the turf, and looked about with sad
curiosity; till he discovered the road by which his wife and himself had entered on the upland so
memorable to both, five-and-twenty years before.
"Yes, we came up that way," he said, after ascertaining his bearings. "She was carrying the baby, and I
was reading a ballet-sheet. Then we crossed about here - she so sad and weary, and I speaking to her
hardly at all, because of my cursed pride and mortification at being poor. Then we saw the tent - that
must have stood more this way." He walked to another spot; it was not really where the tent had stood,
but it seemed so to him. "Here we went in, and here we sat down. I faced this way. Then I drank, and
committed my crime. It must have been just on that very pixy-ring that she was standing when she said
her last words to me before going off with him; I can hear their sound now, and the sound of her sobs:
""O Mike! I've lived with thee all this while, and had nothing but temper. Now I'm no more to 'ee - I'll try
my luck elsewhere."""
He experienced not only the bitterness of a man who finds, in looking back upon an ambitious course,
that what he has sacrificed in sentiment was worth as much as what he has gained in substance; but the
superadded bitterness of seeing his very recantation nullified. He had been sorry for all this long ago; but
his attempts to replace ambition by love had been as fully foiled as his ambition itself. His wronged wife
had foiled them by a fraud so grandly simple as to be almost a virtue. It was an odd sequence that out of
all this tampering with social law came that flower of Nature, Elizabeth. Part of his wish to wash his
hands of life arose from his perception of its contrarious inconsistencies - of Nature's jaunty readiness to
support unorthodox social principles.
He intended to go on from this place - visited as an act of penance - into another part of the country
altogether. But he could not help thinking of Elizabeth, and the quarter of the horizon in which she lived.

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Out of this it happened that the centrifugal tendency imparted by weariness of the world was
counteracted by the centripetal influence of his love for his stepdaughter. As a consequence, instead of
following a straight course yet further away from Casterbridge, Henchard gradually, almost
unconsciously, deflected from that right line of his first intention; till by degrees, his wandering, like that
of the Canadian woodsman, became part of a circle of which Casterbridge formed the centre. In
ascending any particular hill he ascertained the bearings as nearly as he could by means of the sun, moon,
or stars, and settled in his mind the exact direction in which Casterbridge and Elizabeth-Jane lay.
Sneering at himself for his weakness he yet every hour - nay, every few minutes - conjectured her actions
for the time being - her sitting down and rising up, her goings and comings, till thought of Newson's and
Farfrae's counter-influence would pass like a cold blast over a pool, and efface her image. And then he
would say of himself, "O you fool! All this about a daughter who is no daughter of thine!"
At length he obtained employment at his own occupation of hay-trusser, work of that sort being in
demand at this autumn time. The scene of his hiring was a pastoral farm near the old western highway,
whose course was the channel of all such communications as passed between the busy centres of novelty
and the remote Wessex boroughs. He had chosen the neighbourhood of this artery from a sense that,
situated here, though at a distance of fifty miles, he was virtually nearer to her whose welfare was so dear
than he would be at a roadless spot only half as remote.
Any thus Henchard found himself again on the precise standing which he had occupied a quarter of a
century before. Externally there was nothing to hinder his making another start on the upward slope, and
by his new lights achieving higher things than his soul in its half-formed state had been able to
accomplish. But the ingenious machinery contrived by the Gods for reducing human possibilities of
amelioration to a minimum - which arranges that wisdom to do shall come pari passu with the departure
of zest for doing - stood in the way of all that. He had no wish to make an arena a second time of a world
that had become a mere painted scene to him.
Very often, as his hay-knife crunched down among the sweet-smelling grassy stems, he would survey
mankind and say to himself: "Here and everywhere be folk dying before their time like frosted leaves,
though wanted by their families, the country, and the world; while I, an outcast, an encumberer of the
ground, wanted by nobody, and despised by all, live on against my will!"
He often kept an eager ear upon the conversation of those who passed along the road - not from a general
curiosity by any means - but in the hope that among these travellers between Casterbridge and London
some would, sooner or later, speak of the former place. The distance, however, was too great to lend
much probability to his desire; and the highest result of his attention to wayside words was that he did
indeed hear the name "Casterbridge" uttered one day by the driver of a road-waggon. Henchard ran to the
gate of the field he worked in, and hailed the speaker, who was a stranger.
"Yes - I've come from there, maister," he said, in answer to Henchard's inquiry. "I trade up and down, ye
know; though, what with this travelling without horses that's getting so common, my work will soon be
done."
"Anything moving in the old place, mid I ask?"
"All the same as usual."
"I've heard that Mr Farfrae, the late mayor, is thinking of getting married. Now is that true or not?"


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"I couldn't say for the life o' me. O no, I should think not."
"But yes, John - you forget," said a woman inside the waggon-tilt. "What were them packages we carr'd
there at the beginning o' the week? Surely they said a wedding was coming off soon - on Martin's Day?"
The man declared he remembered nothing about it; and the waggon went on jangling over the hill.
Henchard was convinced that the woman's memory served her well. The date was an extremely probable
one, there being no reason for delay on either side. He might, for that matter, write and inquire of
Elizabeth; but his instinct for sequestration had made the course difficult. Yet before he left her she had
said that for him to be absent from her wedding was not as she wished it to be.
The remembrance would continually revive in him now that it was not Elizabeth and Farfrae who had
driven him away from them, but his own haughty sense that his presence was no longer desired. He had
assumed the return of Newson without absolute proof that the Captain meant to return; still less that
Elizabeth-Jane would welcome him; and with no proof whatever that if he did return he would stay.
What if he had been mistaken in his views; if there had been no necessity that his own absolute
separation from her he loved should be involved in these untoward incidents? To make one more attempt
to be near her: to go back; to see her, to plead his cause before her, to ask forgiveness for his fraud, to
endeavour strenuously to hold his own in her love; it was worth the risk of repulse, ay, of life itself.
But how to initiate this reversal of all his former resolves without causing husband and wife to despise
him for his inconsistency was a question which made him tremble and brood.
He cut and cut his trusses two days more, and then he concluded his hesitancies by a sudden reckless
determination to go to the wedding festivity. Neither writing nor message would be expected of him. She
had regretted his decision to be absent - his unanticipated presence would fill the little unsatisfied corner
that would probably have place in her just heart without him.
To intrude as little of his personality as possible upon a gay event with which that personality could show
nothing in keeping, he decided not to make his appearance till evening - when stiffness would have worn
off, and a gentle wish to let bygones be bygones would exercise its sway in all hearts.
He started on foot, two mornings before St Martin's-tide, allowing himself about sixteen miles to perform
for each of the three days' journey, reckoning the wedding-day as one. There were only two towns,
Melchester and Shottsford, of any importance along his course, and at the latter he stopped on the second
night, not only to rest, but to prepare himself for the next evening.
Possessing no clothes but the working suit he stood in - now stained and distorted by their two months of
hard usage, he entered a shop to make some purchases which should put him, externally at any rate, a
little in harmony with the prevailing tone of the morrow. A rough yet respectable coat and hat, a new
shirt and neck-cloth, were the chief of these; and having satisfied himself that in appearance at least he
would not offend her, he proceeded to the more interesting particular of buying her some present.
What should that present be? He walked up and down the street regarding dubiously the display in the
shop windows, from a gloomy sense that what he might most like to give her would be beyond his
miserable pocket. At length a caged goldfinch met his eye. The cage was a plain and small one, the shop
humble, and on inquiry he concluded he could afford the modest sum asked. A sheet of newspaper was
tied round the little creature's wire prison, and with the wrapped up cage in his hand Henchard sought a


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lodging for the night.
Next day he set out upon the last stage, and was soon within the district which had been his dealing
ground in bygone years. Part of the distance he travelled by carrier, seating himself in the darkest corner
at the back of that trader's van; and as the other passengers, mainly women going short journeys,
mounted and alighted in front of Henchard, they talked over much local news, not the least portion of this
being the wedding then in course of celebration at the town they were nearing. It appeared from their
accounts that the town band had been hired for the evening party, and, lest the convivial instincts of that
body should get the better of their skill, the further step had been taken of engaging the string band from
Budmouth, so that there would be a reserve of harmony to fall back upon in case of need.
He heard, however, but few particulars beyond those known to him already, the incident of the deepest
interest on the journey being the soft pealing of the Casterbridge bells, which reached the travellers' ears
while the van paused on the top of Yalbury Hill to have the drag lowered. The time was just after twelve
o'clock.
Those notes were a signal that all had gone well; that there had been no slip 'twixt cup and lip in this
case; that Elizabeth-Jane and Donald Farfrae were man and wife.
Henchard did not care to ride any further with his chattering companions after hearing this sound. Indeed,
it quite unmanned him; and in pursuance of his plan of not showing himself in Casterbridge street till
evening, lest he should mortify Farfrae and his bride, he alighted here, with his bundle and bird-cage, and
was soon left as a lonely figure on the broad white highway.
It was the hill near which he had waited to meet Farfrae, almost two years earlier, to tell him of the
serious illness of his wife Lucetta. The place was unchanged; the same larches sighed the same notes; but
Farfrae had another wife - and, as Henchard knew, a better one. He only hoped that Elizabeth-Jane had
obtained a better home than had been hers at the former time.
He passed the remainder of the afternoon in a curious high-strung condition, unable to do much but think
of the approaching meeting with her, and sadly satirize himself for his emotions thereon, as a Samson
shorn. Such an innovation on Casterbridge customs as a flitting of bridegroom and bride from the town
immediately after the ceremony, was not likely, but if it should have taken place he would wait till their
return. To assure himself on this point he asked a market-man when near the borough if the
newly-married couple had gone away, and was promptly informed that they had not; they were at that
hour, according to all accounts, entertaining a houseful of guests at their home in Corn Street.
Henchard dusted his boots, washed his hands at the riverside, and proceeded up the town under the feeble
lamps. He need have made no inquiries beforehand, for on drawing near Farfrae's residence it was plain
to the least observant that festivity prevailed within, and that Donald himself shared it, his voice being
distinctly audible in the street, giving strong expression to a song of his dear native country that he loved
so well as never to have revisited it. Idlers were standing on the pavement in front; and wishing to escape
the notice of these Henchard passed quickly on to the door.
It was wide open; the hall was lighted extravagantly, and people were going up and down the stairs. His
courage failed him; to enter footsore, laden, and poorly dressed in to the midst of such resplendency was
to bring needless humiliation upon her he loved, if not to court repulse from her husband. Accordingly he
went round into the street at the back that he knew so well, entered the garden, and came quietly into the
house through the kitchen, temporarily depositing the bird and cage under a bush outside, to lessen the

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awkwardness of his arrival.
Solitude and sadness had so emolliated Henchard that he now feared circumstances he would formerly
have scorned, and he began to wish that he had not taken upon himself to arrive at such a juncture.
However, his progress was made unexpectedly easy by his discovering alone in the kitchen an elderly
woman who seemed to be acting as provisional housekeeper during the convulsions from which Farfrae's
establishment was just then suffering. She was one of those people whom nothing surprises, and though
to her, a total stranger, his request must have seemed odd, she willingly volunteered to go up and inform
the master and mistress of the house that "a humble old friend" had come.
On second thoughts she said that he had better not wait in the kitchen, but come up into the little
back-parlour, which was empty. He thereupon followed her thither, and she left him. Just as she had got
across the landing to the door of the best parlour a dance was struck up, and she returned to say that she
would wait till that was over before announcing him - Mr and Mrs Farfrae having both joined in the
figure.
The door of the front room had been taken off its hinges to give more space, and that of the room
Henchard sat in being ajar, he could see fractional parts of the dancers whenever their gyrations brought
them near the doorway, chiefly in the shape of the skirts of dresses and streaming curls of hair; together
with about three-fifths of the band in profile, including the restless shadow of a fiddler's elbow, and the
tip of the bass-viol bow.
The gaiety jarred upon Henchard's spirits; and he could not quite understand why Farfrae, a
much-sobered man, and a widower, who had had his trials, should have cared for it all, notwithstanding
the fact that he was quite a young man still, and quickly kindled to enthusiasm by dance and song. That
the quiet Elizabeth, who had long ago appraised life at a moderate value, and who knew in spite of her
maidenhood that marriage was as a rule no dancing matter, should have had zest for this revelry surprised
him still more. However, young people could not be quite old people, he concluded, and custom was
omnipotent. With the progress of the dance the performers spread out somewhat, and then for the first
time he caught a glimpse of the once despised daughter who had mastered him, and made his heart ache.
She was in a dress of white silk or satin, he was not near enough to say which - snowy white, without a
tinge of milk or cream; and the expression of her face was one of nervous pleasure rather than of gaiety.
Presently Farfrae came round, his exuberant Scotch movement making him conspicuous in a moment.
The pair were not dancing together, but Henchard could discern that whenever the changes of the figure
made them the partners of a moment their emotions breathed a much subtler essence than at other times.
By degrees Henchard became aware that the measure was trod by some one who out-Farfraed Farfrae in
saltatory intenseness. This was strange, and it was stranger to find that eclipsing personage was
Elizabeth-Jane's partner. The first time that Henchard saw him he was sweeping grandly round, his head
quivering and low down, his legs in the form of an X and his back towards the door. The next time he
came round in the other direction, his white waistcoat preceding his face, and his toes preceding his
white waistcoat. That happy face - Henchard's complete discomfiture lay in it. It was Newson's, who had
indeed come and supplanted him.
Henchard pushed to the door, and for some seconds made no other movement. He rose to his feet, and
stood like a dark ruin, obscured by "the shade from his own soul upthrown".
But he was no longer the man to stand these reverses unmoved. His agitation was great, and he would


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fain have been gone, but before he could leave the dance had ended, the housekeeper had informed
Elizabeth-Jane of the stranger who awaited her, and she entered the room immediately.
"Oh - it is - Mr Henchard!" she said, starting back.
"What; Elizabeth?" he cried, as he seized her hand. "What do you say? - Mr Henchard? Don't, don't
scourge me like that!Call me worthless old Henchard - anything - but don't 'ee be so cold as this! O my
maid - I see you have another - a real father in my place. Then you know all; but don't give all your
thought to him! Do ye save a little room for me!"
She flushed up, and gently drew her hand away. "I could have loved you always - I would have gladly,"
said she. "But how can I when I know you have deceived me so - so bitterly deceived me! You persuaded
me that my father was not my father - allowed me to live on in ignorance of the truth for years; and then
when he, my warm-hearted real father, came to find me, cruelly sent him away with a wicked invention
of my death, which nearly broke his heart. O how can I love as I once did a man who has served us like
this!"
Henchard's lips half parted to begin an explanation. But he shut them up like a vice, and uttered not a
sound. How should he, there and then, set before her with any effect the palliatives of his great faults -
that he had himself been deceived in her identity at first, till informed by her mother's letter that his own
child had died; that, in the second accusation, his lie had been the last desperate throw of a gamester who
loved her affection better than his own honour? Among the many hindrances to such a pleading not the
least was this, that he did not sufficiently value himself to lessen his sufferings by strenuous appeal or
elaborate argument.
Waiving, therefore, his privilege of self-defence, he regarded only her discomposure. "Don't ye distress
yourself on my account," he said, with proud superiority. "I would not wish it - at such a time, too, as
this. I have done wrong in coming to 'ee - I see my error. But it is only for once, so forgive it. I'll never
trouble 'ee again, Elizabeth-Jane - no, not to my dying day! Good night. Good-bye!"
Then, before she could collect her thoughts, Henchard went out from her rooms, and departed from the
house by the back way as he had come; and she saw him no more.




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* XLV *
IT was about a month after the day which closed as in the last chapter. Elizabeth-Jane had grown
accustomed to the novelty of her situation, and the only difference between Donald's movements now
and formerly was that he hastened indoors rather more quickly after business hours than he had been in
the habit of doing for some time.
Newson had stayed in Casterbridge three days after the wedding party (whose gaiety, as might have been
surmised, was of his making rather than of the married couple's), and was stared at and honoured as
became the returned Crusoe of the hour. But whether or not because Casterbridge was difficult to excite
by dramatic returns and disappearances, through having been for centuries an assize town, in which
sensational exits from the world, antipodean absences, and such like, were half-yearly occurrences, the
inhabitants did not altogether lose their equanimity on his account. On the fourth morning he was
discovered disconsolately climbing a hill, in his craving to get a glimpse of the sea from somewhere or
other. The contiguity of salt water proved to be such a necessity of his existence that he preferred
Budmouth as a place of residence, notwithstanding the society of his daughter in the other town. Thither
he went, and settled in lodgings in a green-shuttered cottage which had a bow-window, jutting out
sufficiently to afford glimpses of a vertical strip of blue sea to any one opening the sash, and leaning
forward far enough to look through a narrow lane of tall intervening houses.
Elizabeth-Jane was standing in the middle of her upstairs parlour, critically surveying some
re-arrangement of articles with her head to one side, when the housemaid came in with the
announcement, "Oh, please ma'am, we know now how that bird-cage came there."
In exploring her new domain during the first week of residence, gazing with critical satisfaction on this
cheerful room and that, penetrating cautiously into dark cellars, sallying forth with gingerly tread to the
garden, now leaf-strewn by autumn winds, and thus, like a wise field-marshal, estimating the capabilities
of the site whereon she was about to open her house-keeping campaign - Mrs Donald Farfrae had
discovered in a screened corner a new bird-cage, shrouded in newspaper, and at the bottom of the cage a
little ball of feathers - the dead body of a goldfinch. Nobody could tell her how the bird and cage had
come there; though that the poor little songster had been starved to death was evident. The sadness of the
incident had made an impression on her. She had not been able to forget it for days, despite Farfrae's
tender banter; and now when the matter had been nearly forgotten it was again revived.
"Oh, please ma'am, we know how that bird-cage came there. That farmer's man who called on the
evening of the wedding - he was seen wi' it in his hand as he came up the street; and 'tis thoughted that he
put it down while he came in with his message, and then went away forgetting where he had left it."
This was enough to set Elizabeth thinking, and in thinking she seized hold of the idea, at one feminine
bound, that the caged bird had been brought by Henchard for her as a wedding gift and token of
repentance. He had not expressed to her any regrets or excuses for what he had done in the past; but it
was a part of his nature to extenuate nothing, and live on as one of his own worst accusers. She went out,
looked at the cage, buried the starved little singer, and from that hour her heart softened towards the
self-alienated man.
When her husband came in she told him her solution of the bird-cage mystery; and begged Donald to
help her in finding out, as soon as possible, whither Henchard had banished himself, that she might make

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her peace with him; try to do something to render his life less that of an outcast, and more tolerable to
him. Although Farfrae had never so passionately liked Henchard as Henchard had liked him, he had, on
the other hand, never so passionately hated in the same direction as his former friend had done; and he
was therefore not the least indisposed to assist Elizabeth-Jane in her laudable plan.
But it was by no means easy to set about discovering Henchard. He had apparently sunk into the earth on
leaving Mr and Mrs Farfrae's door. Elizabeth-Jane remembered what he had once attempted; and
trembled.
But though she did not know it Henchard had become a changed man since then - as far, that is, as
change of emotional basis can justify such a radical phrase; and she needed not to fear. In a few days
Farfrae's inquiries elicited that Henchard had been seen by one who knew him walking steadily along the
Melchester highway eastward, at twelve o'clock at night - in other words, retracing his steps on the road
by which he had come.
This was enough; and the next morning Farfrae might have been discovered driving his gig out of
Casterbridge in that direction, Elizabeth-Jane sitting beside him, wrapped in a thick flat fur - the victorine
of the period - her complexion somewhat richer than formerly, and an incipient matronly dignity, which
the serene Minerva-eyes of one "whose gestures beamed with mind" made becoming, settling on her
face. Having herself arrived at a promising haven from at least the grosser troubles of her life, her object
was to place Henchard in some similar quietude before he should sink into that lower stage of existence
which was only too possible to him now.
After driving along the highway for a few miles they made further inquiries, and learnt of a road-mender,
who had been working thereabouts for weeks, that he had observed such a man at the time mentioned; he
had left the Melchester coachroad at Weatherbury by a forking highway which skirted the north of Egdon
Heath. Into this road they directed the horse's head, and soon were bowling across that ancient country
whose surface never had been stirred to a finger's depth, save by the scratchings of rabbits, since brushed
by the feet of the earliest tribes. The tumuli these had left behind, dun and shagged with heather, jutted
roundly into the sky from the uplands, as though they were the full breasts of Diana Multimammia
supinely extended there.
They searched Egdon, but found no Henchard. Farfrae drove onward, and by the afternoon reached the
neighbourhood of some extension of the heath to the north of Anglebury, a prominent feature of which,
in the form of a blasted clump of firs on the summit of a hill, they soon passed under. That the road they
were following had, up to this point, been Henchard's track on foot they were pretty certain; but the
ramifications which now began to reveal themselves in the route made further progress in the right
direction a matter of pure guess-work, and Donald strongly advised his wife to give up the search in
person, and trust to other means for obtaining news of her stepfather. They were now a score of miles at
least from home, but, by resting the horse for a couple of hours at a village they had just traversed, it
would be possible to get back to Casterbridge that same day; while to go much further afield would
reduce them to the necessity of camping out for the night; "and that will make a hole in a sovereign," said
Farfrae. She pondered the position, and agreed with him.
He accordingly drew rein, but before reversing their direction paused a moment and looked vaguely
round upon the wide country which the elevated position disclosed. While they looked a solitary human
form came from under the clump of trees, and crossed ahead of them. The person was some labourer; his
gait was shambling, his regard fixed in front of him as absolutely as if he wore blinkers; and in his hand

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he carried a few sticks. Having crossed the road he descended into a ravine, where a cottage revealed
itself, which he entered.
"If it were not so far away from Casterbridge I should say that must be poor Whittle. 'Tis just like him,"
observed Elizabeth-Jane.
"And it may be Whittle, for he's never been to the yard these three weeks, going away without saying any
word at all; and I owing him for two days" work, without knowing who to pay it to."
The possibility led them to alight, and at least make an inquiry at the cottage. Farfrae hitched the reins to
the gate-post, and they approached what was of humble dwellings surely the humblest. The walls, built
of kneaded clay originally faced with a trowel, had been worn by years of rain-washings to a lumpy
crumbling surface, channelled and sunken from its plane, its gray rents held together here and there by a
leafy strap of ivy which could scarcely find substance enough for the purpose. The rafters were sunken,
and the thatch of the roof in ragged holes. Leaves from the fence had been blown into the corners of the
doorway, and lay there undisturbed. The door was ajar; Farfrae knocked; and he who stood before them
was Whittle, as they had conjectured.
His face showed marks of deep sadness, his eyes lighting on them with an unfocused gaze; and he still
held in his hand the few sticks he had been out to gather. As soon as he recognized them he started.
"What, Abel Whittle; is it that ye are heere?" said Farfrae.
"Ay, yes, sir! You see he was kind-like to mother when she wer here below, though 'a was rough to me."
"Who are you talking of?"
"O sir - Mr Henchet! Didn't ye know it? He's just gone - about half-an-hour ago, by the sun; for I've got
no watch to my name."
"Not - dead?" faltered Elizabeth-Jane.
"Yes, ma'am, he's gone! He was kind-like to mother when she wer here below, sending her the best
ship-coal, and hardly any ashes from it at all; and taties, and such-like that were very needful to her. I
seed en go down street on the night of your worshipful's wedding to the lady at yer side, and I thought he
looked low and faltering. And I followed en over Grey's Bridge, and he turned and zeed me, and said,
""You go back!"" But I followed, and he turned again, and said, ""Do you hear, sir? Go back!"" But I
zeed that he was low, and I followed on still. Then 'a said, ""Whittle, what do ye follow me for when I've
told ye to go back all these times?"" And I said, ""Because, sir, I see things be bad with 'ee, and yer wer
kind-like to mother if ye were rough to me, and I would fain be kind-like to you."" Then he walked on,
and I followed; and he never complained at me no more. We walked on like that all night; and in the blue
o' the morning, when 'twas hardly day, I looked ahead o' me, and I zeed that he wambled, and could
hardly drag along. By that time we had got past here, but I had seen that this house was empty as I went
by and I got him to come back; and I took down the boards from the windows, and helped him inside.
""What, Whittle,"" he said, ""and can ye really be such a poor fond fool as to care for such a wretch as
I!"" Then I went on further, and some neighbourly woodmen lent me a bed, and a chair, and a few other
traps, and we brought 'em here, and made him as comfortable as we could. But he didn't gain strength,
for you see, ma'am, he couldn't eat - no, no appetite at all - and he got weaker; and today he died. One of
the neighbours have gone to get a man to measure him."


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"Dear me - is that so!" said Farfrae.
As for Elizabeth, she said nothing.
"Upon the head of his bed he pinned a piece of paper, with some writing upon it," continued Abel
Whittle. "But not being a man o' letters, I can't read writing; so I don't know what it is. I can get it and
show ye."
They stood in silence while he ran into the cottage; returning in a moment with a crumpled scrap of
paper. On it there was pencilled as follows:-
MICHAEL HENCHARD'S WILL
That Elizabeth-Jane Farfrae be not told of my death, or made to grieve on account of me.
      & that I be not bury'd in consecrated ground. & that no sexton be asked to toll the bell. &
      that nobody is wished to see my dead body. & that no murners walk behind me at my
      funeral. & that no flours be planted on my grave. & that no man remember me. To this I put
      my name.
MICHAEL HENCHARD
"What are we to do?" said Donald, when he had handed the paper to her.
She could not answer distinctly. "O Donald!" she said at last through her tears, "what bitterness lies
there! O I would not have minded so much if it had not been for my unkindness at that last parting!
But there's no altering - so it must be."
What Henchard had written in the anguish of his dying was respected as far as practicable by
Elizabeth-Jane, though less from a sense of the sacredness of last words, as such, than from her
independent knowledge that the man who wrote them meant what he said. She knew the directions to be
a piece of the same stuff that his whole life was made of, and hence were not to be tampered with to give
herself a mournful pleasure, or her husband credit for large-heartedness.
All was over at last, even her regrets for having misunderstood him on his last visit, for not having
searched him outsooner, though these were deep and sharp for a good while. From this time forward
Elizabeth-Jane found herself in a latitude of calm weather, kindly and grateful in itself, and doubly so
after the Capharnaum in which some of her preceding years had been spent. As the lively and sparkling
emotions of her early married life cohered into an equable serenity, the finer movements of her nature
found scope in discovering to the narrow-lived ones around her the secret (as she had once learnt it) of
making limited opportunities endurable; which she deemed to consist in the cunning enlargement, by a
species of microscopic treatment, of those minute forms of satisfaction that offer themselves to
everybody not in positive pain; which, thus handled, have much of the same inspiriting effect upon life as
wider interests cursorily embraced.
Her teaching had a reflex action upon herself, insomuch that she thought she could perceive no great
personal difference between being respected in the nether parts of Casterbridge and glorified at the
uppermost end of the social world. Her position was, indeed, to a marked degree one that, in common
phrase, afforded much to be thankful for. That she was not demostratively thankful was no fault of hers.
Her experience had been of a kind to teach her, rightly or wrongly, that the doubtful honour of a brief

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transit through a sorry world hardly called for effusiveness, even when the path was suddenly irradiated
at some half-way point by daybeams rich as hers. But her strong sense that neither she nor any human
being deserved less than was given, did not blind her to the fact that there were others receiving less who
had deserved much more. And in being forced to class herself among the fortunate she did not cease to
wonder at the persistence of the unforeseen, when the one to whom such unbroken tranquillity had been
accorded in the adult stage was she whose youth had seemed to teach that happiness was but the
occasional episode in a general drama of pain.




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