Chapter Chapter 20 · Chapter 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 “hag-rid,” 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 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 on 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 needlerocks 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 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. 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.

Henchard glanced at Elizabeth-Jane, whose complexion, now pink and

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 reserve

his judgment 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 hair-pins 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 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. 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 now 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 course 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 to-day.

“Well, where have you been?” he said to her with offhand 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.

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 face 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 of 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 only 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.”

“Perhaps you were to blame,” suggested the stranger.

“I was—in many ways,” sighed the meek Elizabeth. “I swept up the coals

when the servants 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 know 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.”

“But where do you live?”

“In Casterbridge, or rather I shall be living here after twelve o’clock

to-day.”

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 to-night 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.