Bab Bab 34 · Chapter 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 those men upon whom an incident is never

absolutely lost. He revised impressions from a subsequent point of

view, and the impulsive judgment 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.

“About that little seedsman’s shop,” he said, “the shop overlooking 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 work 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 straight-way 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 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, whereupon 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 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 to-night! 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 of 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 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 time

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! the

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 young 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?”

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 the 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, whosesoever 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.”

“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 here 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.