Chapter Chapter 29 · Chapter 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

stubby expanse of corn-land like a strip 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 house-holder on going

out of his parlour to find his hall or passage full of little children,

nursemaids, 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 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-stick, 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-paralyzed, 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 re-entered to the succour

of Lucetta; for he had not perceived Elizabeth, who had climbed on to

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 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

circumstance 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

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.”

“I cannot!” she insisted desperately.

“Why? When I have only within these few minutes released you from your

promise to do the thing offhand.”

“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 he 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 to-day, 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 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.