Kabanata Kabanata 31 · Chapter 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 headstrong) burgher of to-day 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 where 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 moneybag, such as was carried by all farmers and dealers—untying

it, and 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

a 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 home

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

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 paralyzed condition during the settlement of

his bankruptcy, were stirred into activity again when the new tenant

had possession. Thenceforward the full sacks, looped with the shining

chain, went scurrying up and down under the cat-head, 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.