第 二十七 章 · Chapter 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 certainty

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 a 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.

The thoroughfare leading to this spot was now blocked by two four-horse

waggons and horses, one laden with hay-trusses, 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 churchyard 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 repassed 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—of 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.”

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 to-night,

Stubberd,” said the corn-merchant. “It must bide till the morning, for

all hands are in the field still. And if any coach or road-waggon wants

to come along, tell ’em they must go round by the back street, and be

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 Templeman’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 a 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 to-night 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 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 moonlit 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 of 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 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 for 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

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 fluid, 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 got this power over you, that you promise to marry him against

your 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 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.”