promo carrefour

chapter 24. poor elizabeth-jane, little thinking whather malignant star had done to blast the budding attentions she had won fromdonald farfrae, was glad to hear lucetta's words about remaining. for in addition to lucetta's house being ahome, that raking view of the market-place which it afforded had asmuch attraction for her as for lucetta. the carrefour was like the regulationopen place in spectacular dramas, where the incidents that occur alwayshappen to bear on the lives of the adjoining residents. farmers,merchants, dairymen, quacks,

hawkers, appeared there from week to week,and disappeared as the afternoon wasted away. it was the node ofall orbits. from saturday to saturday was as from dayto day with the two young women now. in an emotional sense they didnot live at all during the intervals. wherever they might go wanderingon other days, on market-day they were sure to be at home. both stole slyglances out of the window at farfrae's shoulders and poll. his facethey seldom saw, for, either through shyness, or not to disturb his mercantilemood, he avoided looking towards their quarters.

thus things went on, till a certain market-morningbrought a new sensation. elizabeth and lucetta were sittingat breakfast when a parcel containing two dresses arrived for the latterfrom london. she called elizabeth from her breakfast, and enteringher friend's bedroom elizabeth saw the gowns spread out on thebed, one of a deep cherry colour, the other lighter—a glove lyingat the end of each sleeve, a bonnet at the top of each neck, and parasolsacross the gloves, lucetta standing beside the suggested humanfigure in an attitude of contemplation.

"i wouldn't think so hard about it," saidelizabeth, marking the intensity with which lucetta was alternatingthe question whether this or that would suit best. "but settling upon new clothes is so trying,"said lucetta. "you are that person" (pointing to one of the arrangements),"or you are that totally different person" (pointing to theother), "for the whole of the coming spring and one of the two, you don'tknow which, may turn out to be very objectionable." it was finally decided by miss templeman thatshe would be the

cherry-coloured person at all hazards. thedress was pronounced to be a fit, and lucetta walked with it into the frontroom, elizabeth following her. the morning was exceptionally bright for thetime of year. the sun fell so flat on the houses and pavement oppositelucetta's residence that they poured their brightness into her rooms.suddenly, after a rumbling of wheels, there were added to this steadylight a fantastic series of circling irradiations upon the ceiling, andthe companions turned to the window. immediately opposite a vehicle ofstrange description had come

to a standstill, as if it had been placedthere for exhibition. it was the new-fashioned agricultural implementcalled a horse-drill, till then unknown, in its modern shape, inthis part of the country, where the venerable seed-lip was still usedfor sowing as in the days of the heptarchy. its arrival created aboutas much sensation in the corn-market as a flying machine would createat charing cross. the farmers crowded round it, women drew nearit, children crept under and into it. the machine was painted in brighthues of green, yellow, and red, and it resembled as a whole a compoundof hornet, grasshopper,

and shrimp, magnified enormously. or it mighthave been likened to an upright musical instrument with the frontgone. that was how it struck lucetta. "why, it is a sort of agriculturalpiano," she said. "it has something to do with corn," said elizabeth. "i wonder who thought of introducing it here?" donald farfrae was in the minds of both asthe innovator, for though not a farmer he was closely leagued with farmingoperations. and as if in response to their thought he came up atthat moment, looked at the machine, walked round it, and handled it asif he knew something about

its make. the two watchers had inwardly startedat his coming, and elizabeth left the window, went to the backof the room, and stood as if absorbed in the panelling of the wall. shehardly knew that she had done this till lucetta, animated by the conjunctionof her new attire with the sight of farfrae, spoke out: "let us goand look at the instrument, whatever it is." elizabeth-jane's bonnet and shawl were pitchforkedon in a moment, and they went out. among all the agriculturistsgathered round the only appropriate possessor of the new machine seemedto be lucetta, because

she alone rivalled it in colour. they examined it curiously; observing therows of trumpet-shaped tubes one within the other, the little scoops, likerevolving salt-spoons, which tossed the seed into the upper endsof the tubes that conducted it to the ground; till somebody said, "good morning,elizabeth-jane." she looked up, and there was her stepfather. his greeting had been somewhat dry and thunderous,and elizabeth-jane, embarrassed out of her equanimity, stammeredat random, "this is the lady i live with, father—miss templeman."

henchard put his hand to his hat, which hebrought down with a great wave till it met his body at the knee. misstempleman bowed. "i am happy to become acquainted with you, mr. henchard,"she said. "this is a curious machine." "yes," henchard replied; and he proceededto explain it, and still more forcibly to ridicule it. "who brought it here?" said lucetta. "oh, don't ask me, ma'am!" said henchard."the thing—why 'tis impossible it should act. 'twas brought hereby one of our machinists on

the recommendation of a jumped-up jackanapesof a fellow who thinks——" his eye caught elizabeth-jane's imploringface, and he stopped, probably thinking that the suit might be progressing. he turned to go away. then something seemedto occur which his stepdaughter fancied must really be a hallucinationof hers. a murmur apparently came from henchard's lips in whichshe detected the words, "you refused to see me!" reproachfully addressedto lucetta. she could not believe that they had been uttered byher stepfather; unless, indeed, they might have been spoken to oneof the yellow-gaitered

farmers near them. yet lucetta seemed silent,and then all thought of the incident was dissipated by the hummingof a song, which sounded as though from the interior of the machine.henchard had by this time vanished into the market-house, and both thewomen glanced towards the corn-drill. they could see behind it the bentback of a man who was pushing his head into the internal works tomaster their simple secrets. the hummed song went on— "'tw—s on a s—m—r aftern—n,a wee be—re the s—n w—nt d—n, when kitty wi' a braw n—w g—wnc—me ow're the h—lls to gowrie."

elizabeth-jane had apprehended the singerin a moment, and looked guilty of she did not know what. lucetta next recognizedhim, and more mistress of herself said archly, "the 'lassof gowrie' from inside of a seed-drill—what a phenomenon!" satisfied at last with his investigation theyoung man stood upright, and met their eyes across the summit. "we are looking at the wonderful new drill,"miss templeman said. "but practically it is a stupid thing—is it not?"she added, on the strength of henchard's information.

"stupid? o no!" said farfrae gravely. "itwill revolutionize sowing heerabout! no more sowers flinging their seedabout broadcast, so that some falls by the wayside and some among thorns,and all that. each grain will go straight to its intendedplace, and nowhere else whatever!" "then the romance of the sower is gone forgood," observed elizabeth-jane, who felt herself at one withfarfrae in bible-reading at least. "'he that observeth the wind shallnot sow,' so the preacher said; but his words will not be to the pointany more. how things

change!" "ay; ay....it must be so!" donald admitted,his gaze fixing itself on a blank point far away. "but the machines arealready very common in the east and north of england," he added apologetically. lucetta seemed to be outside this train ofsentiment, her acquaintance with the scriptures being somewhat limited."is the machine yours?" she asked of farfrae. "o no, madam," said he, becoming embarrassedand deferential at the sound of her voice, though with elizabethjane he was quite at his ease.

"no, no—i merely recommended that it shouldbe got." in the silence which followed farfrae appearedonly conscious of her; to have passed from perception of elizabethinto a brighter sphere of existence than she appertained to. lucetta,discerning that he was much mixed that day, partly in his mercantile moodand partly in his romantic one, said gaily to him— "well, don't forsake the machine for us,"and went indoors with her companion. the latter felt that she had been in the way,though why was

unaccountable to her. lucetta explained thematter somewhat by saying when they were again in the sitting-room— "i had occasion to speak to mr. farfrae theother day, and so i knew him this morning." lucetta was very kind towards elizabeth thatday. together they saw the market thicken, and in course of time thinaway with the slow decline of the sun towards the upper end of town,its rays taking the street endways and enfilading the long thoroughfarefrom top to bottom. the gigs and vans disappeared one by one tillthere was not a vehicle in the

street. the time of the riding world was over;the pedestrian world held sway. field labourers and their wives andchildren trooped in from the villages for their weekly shopping, and insteadof a rattle of wheels and a tramp of horses ruling the sound asearlier, there was nothing but the shuffle of many feet. all the implementswere gone; all the farmers; all the moneyed class. the character of thetown's trading had changed from bulk to multiplicity and pence were handlednow as pounds had been handled earlier in the day. lucetta and elizabeth looked out upon this,for though it was night and

the street lamps were lighted, they had kepttheir shutters unclosed. in the faint blink of the fire they spoke morefreely. "your father was distant with you," said lucetta. "yes." and having forgotten the momentarymystery of henchard's seeming speech to lucetta she continued, "it is becausehe does not think i am respectable. i have tried to be so more thanyou can imagine, but in vain! my mother's separation from my fatherwas unfortunate for me. you don't know what it is to have shadows likethat upon your life." lucetta seemed to wince. "i do not—of thatkind precisely," she said,

"but you may feel a—sense of disgrace—shame—inother ways." "have you ever had any such feeling?" saidthe younger innocently. "o no," said lucetta quickly. "i was thinkingof—what happens sometimes when women get themselves in strange positionsin the eyes of the world from no fault of their own." "it must make them very unhappy afterwards." "it makes them anxious; for might not otherwomen despise them?" "not altogether despise them. yet not quitelike or respect them." lucetta winced again. her past was by no meanssecure from

investigation, even in casterbridge. for onething henchard had never returned to her the cloud of letters she hadwritten and sent him in her first excitement. possibly they were destroyed;but she could have wished that they had never been written. the rencounter with farfrae and his bearingstowards lucetta had made the reflective elizabeth more observant ofher brilliant and amiable companion. a few days afterwards, when hereyes met lucetta's as the latter was going out, she somehow knewthat miss templeman was nourishing a hope of seeing the attractivescotchman. the fact was

printed large all over lucetta's cheeks andeyes to any one who could read her as elizabeth-jane was beginning todo. lucetta passed on and closed the street door. a seer's spirit took possession of elizabeth,impelling her to sit down by the fire and divine events so surely fromdata already her own that they could be held as witnessed. she followedlucetta thus mentally—saw her encounter donald somewhere as if by chance—sawhim wear his special look when meeting women, with an added intensitybecause this one was lucetta. she depicted his impassioned manner;beheld the indecision

of both between their lothness to separateand their desire not to be observed; depicted their shaking of hands;how they probably parted with frigidity in their general contour and movements,only in the smaller features showing the spark of passion, thusinvisible to all but themselves. this discerning silent witch hadnot done thinking of these things when lucetta came noiselessly behindher and made her start. it was all true as she had pictured—shecould have sworn it. lucetta had a heightened luminousness in her eye overand above the advanced colour of her cheeks.

"you've seen mr. farfrae," said elizabethdemurely. "yes," said lucetta. "how did you know?" she knelt down on the hearth and took herfriend's hands excitedly in her own. but after all she did not say whenor how she had seen him or what he had said. that night she became restless; in the morningshe was feverish; and at breakfast-time she told her companion thatshe had something on her mind—something which concerned a personin whom she was interested much. elizabeth was earnest to listen andsympathize.

"this person—a lady—once admired a manmuch—very much," she said tentatively. "ah," said elizabeth-jane. "they were intimate—rather. he did not thinkso deeply of her as she did of him. but in an impulsive moment, purelyout of reparation, he proposed to make her his wife. she agreed.but there was an unsuspected hitch in the proceedings; though she had beenso far compromised with him that she felt she could never belong toanother man, as a pure matter of conscience, even if she should wishto. after that they were

much apart, heard nothing of each other fora long time, and she felt her life quite closed up for her." "ah—poor girl!" "she suffered much on account of him; thoughi should add that he could not altogether be blamed for what had happened.at last the obstacle which separated them was providentially removed;and he came to marry her." "how delightful!" "but in the interval she—my poor friend—hadseen a man, she liked

better than him. now comes the point: couldshe in honour dismiss the first?" "a new man she liked better—that's bad!" "yes," said lucetta, looking pained at a boywho was swinging the town pump-handle. "it is bad! though you must rememberthat she was forced into an equivocal position with the firstman by an accident—that he was not so well educated or refined as thesecond, and that she had discovered some qualities in the first thatrendered him less desirable as a husband than she had at first thoughthim to be."

"i cannot answer," said elizabeth-jane thoughtfully."it is so difficult. it wants a pope to settle that!" "you prefer not to perhaps?" lucetta showedin her appealing tone how much she leant on elizabeth's judgment. "yes, miss templeman," admitted elizabeth."i would rather not say." nevertheless, lucetta seemed relieved by thesimple fact of having opened out the situation a little, and wasslowly convalescent of her headache. "bring me a looking-glass. how doi appear to people?" she said languidly.

"well—a little worn," answered elizabeth,eyeing her as a critic eyes a doubtful painting; fetching the glass sheenabled lucetta to survey herself in it, which lucetta anxiously did. "i wonder if i wear well, as times go!" sheobserved after a while. "yes—fairly. "where am i worst?" "under your eyes—i notice a little brownnessthere." "yes. that is my worst place, i know. howmany years more do you think i shall last before i get hopelessly plain?"

there was something curious in the way inwhich elizabeth, though the younger, had come to play the part ofexperienced sage in these discussions. "it may be five years," she saidjudicially. "or, with a quiet life, as many as ten. with no love youmight calculate on ten." lucetta seemed to reflect on this as on anunalterable, impartial verdict. she told elizabeth-jane no more ofthe past attachment she had roughly adumbrated as the experiences of athird person; and elizabeth, who in spite of her philosophy was very tender-hearted,sighed that night in bed at the thought that her pretty,rich lucetta did not treat

her to the full confidence of names and datesin her confessions. for by the "she" of lucetta's story elizabeth hadnot been beguiled. 25. the next phase of the supersession of henchardin lucetta's heart was an experiment in calling on her performedby farfrae with some apparent trepidation. conventionally speaking he conversedwith both miss templeman and her companion; but in fact itwas rather that elizabeth sat invisible in the room. donald appearednot to see her at all, and answered her wise little remarks with curtlyindifferent monosyllables,

his looks and faculties hanging on the womanwho could boast of a more protean variety in her phases, moods, opinions,and also principles, than could elizabeth. lucetta had persistedin dragging her into the circle; but she had remained like an awkwardthird point which that circle would not touch. susan henchard's daughter bore up againstthe frosty ache of the treatment, as she had borne up under worsethings, and contrived as soon as possible to get out of the inharmoniousroom without being missed. the scotchman seemed hardly the same farfraewho had danced with her and

walked with her in a delicate poise betweenlove and friendship—that period in the history of a love when aloneit can be said to be unalloyed with pain. she stoically looked from her bedroom window,and contemplated her fate as if it were written on the top of the church-towerhard by. "yes," she said at last, bringing down her palm uponthe sill with a pat: "he is the second man of that story she told me!" all this time henchard's smouldering sentimentstowards lucetta had been fanned into higher and higher inflammationby the circumstances of the

case. he was discovering that the young womanfor whom he once felt a pitying warmth which had been almost chilledout of him by reflection, was, when now qualified with a slight inaccessibilityand a more matured beauty, the very being to make him satisfiedwith life. day after day proved to him, by her silence, that it wasno use to think of bringing her round by holding aloof; so he gave in,and called upon her again, elizabeth-jane being absent. he crossed the room to her with a heavy treadof some awkwardness, his strong, warm gaze upon her—like the sunbeside the moon in comparison

with farfrae's modest look—and with somethingof a hail-fellow bearing, as, indeed, was not unnatural. but she seemedso transubstantiated by her change of position, and held out herhand to him in such cool friendship, that he became deferential, andsat down with a perceptible loss of power. he understood but little offashion in dress, yet enough to feel himself inadequate in appearance besideher whom he had hitherto been dreaming of as almost his property. shesaid something very polite about his being good enough to call. thiscaused him to recover balance. he looked her oddly in the face, losing hisawe.

"why, of course i have called, lucetta," hesaid. "what does that nonsense mean? you know i couldn't have helpedmyself if i had wished—that is, if i had any kindness atall. i've called to say that i am ready, as soon as custom will permit,to give you my name in return for your devotion and what you lost by itin thinking too little of yourself and too much of me; to say that youcan fix the day or month, with my full consent, whenever in your opinionit would be seemly: you know more of these things than i." "it is full early yet," she said evasively.

"yes, yes; i suppose it is. but you know,lucetta, i felt directly my poor ill-used susan died, and when i couldnot bear the idea of marrying again, that after what had happened betweenus it was my duty not to let any unnecessary delay occur before puttingthings to rights. still, i wouldn't call in a hurry, because—well,you can guess how this money you've come into made me feel." his voiceslowly fell; he was conscious that in this room his accents and manner worea roughness not observable in the street. he looked about the room atthe novel hangings and ingenious furniture with which she had surroundedherself.

"upon my life i didn't know such furnitureas this could be bought in casterbridge," he said. "nor can it be," said she. "nor will it tillfifty years more of civilization have passed over the town. ittook a waggon and four horses to get it here." "h'm. it looks as if you were living on capital." "o no, i am not." "so much the better. but the fact is, yoursetting up like this makes my beaming towards you rather awkward."

"why?" an answer was not really needed, and he didnot furnish one. "well," he went on, "there's nobody in the world i wouldhave wished to see enter into this wealth before you, lucetta, andnobody, i am sure, who will become it more." he turned to her with congratulatoryadmiration so fervid that she shrank somewhat, notwithstandingthat she knew him so well. "i am greatly obliged to you for all that,"said she, rather with an air of speaking ritual. the stint of reciprocalfeeling was perceived, and

henchard showed chagrin at once—nobody wasmore quick to show that than he. "you may be obliged or not for't. though thethings i say may not have the polish of what you've lately learnt toexpect for the first time in your life, they are real, my lady lucetta." "that's rather a rude way of speaking to me,"pouted lucetta, with stormy eyes. "not at all!" replied henchard hotly. "butthere, there, i don't wish to quarrel with 'ee. i come with an honestproposal for silencing your

jersey enemies, and you ought to be thankful." "how can you speak so!" she answered, firingquickly. "knowing that my only crime was the indulging in a foolishgirl's passion for you with too little regard for correctness, and thati was what i call innocent all the time they called me guilty, you oughtnot to be so cutting! i suffered enough at that worrying time, whenyou wrote to tell me of your wife's return and my consequent dismissal,and if i am a little independent now, surely the privilege is dueto me!" "yes, it is," he said. "but it is not by whatis, in this life, but by

what appears, that you are judged; and i thereforethink you ought to accept me—for your own good name's sake.what is known in your native jersey may get known here." "how you keep on about jersey! i am english!" "yes, yes. well, what do you say to my proposal?" for the first time in their acquaintance lucettahad the move; and yet she was backward. "for the present let thingsbe," she said with some embarrassment. "treat me as an acquaintance,and i'll treat you as one. time will—" she stopped; and he saidnothing to fill the gap for

awhile, there being no pressure of half acquaintanceto drive them into speech if they were not minded for it. "that's the way the wind blows, is it?" hesaid at last grimly, nodding an affirmative to his own thoughts. a yellow flood of reflected sunlight filledthe room for a few instants. it was produced by the passing of a load ofnewly trussed hay from the country, in a waggon marked with farfrae'sname. beside it rode farfrae himself on horseback. lucetta's face became—asa woman's face becomes when the man she loves rises upon her gazelike an apparition.

a turn of the eye by henchard, a glance fromthe window, and the secret of her inaccessibility would have beenrevealed. but henchard in estimating her tone was looking down so plumb-straightthat he did not note the warm consciousness upon lucetta'sface. "i shouldn't have thought it—i shouldn'thave thought it of women!" he said emphatically by-and-by, rising and shakinghimself into activity; while lucetta was so anxious to divert himfrom any suspicion of the truth that she asked him to be in no hurry.bringing him some apples she insisted upon paring one for him.

he would not take it. "no, no; such is notfor me," he said drily, and moved to the door. at going out he turnedhis eye upon her. "you came to live in casterbridge entirelyon my account," he said. "yet now you are here you won't have anything tosay to my offer!" he had hardly gone down the staircase whenshe dropped upon the sofa and jumped up again in a fit of desperation. "iwill love him!" she cried passionately; "as for him—he's hot-temperedand stern, and it would be madness to bind myself to him knowing that.i won't be a slave to the past—i'll love where i choose!"

yet having decided to break away from henchardone might have supposed her capable of aiming higher than farfrae.but lucetta reasoned nothing: she feared hard words from the people withwhom she had been earlier associated; she had no relatives left; andwith native lightness of heart took kindly to what fate offered. elizabeth-jane, surveying the position oflucetta between her two lovers from the crystalline sphere of a straightforwardmind, did not fail to perceive that her father, as she called him,and donald farfrae became more desperately enamoured of her friend everyday. on farfrae's side

it was the unforced passion of youth. on henchard'sthe artificially stimulated coveting of maturer age. the pain she experienced from the almost absoluteobliviousness to her existence that was shown by the pair ofthem became at times half dissipated by her sense of its humourousness.when lucetta had pricked her finger they were as deeply concerned asif she were dying; when she herself had been seriously sick or in dangerthey uttered a conventional word of sympathy at the news, and forgot allabout it immediately. but, as regarded henchard, this perceptionof hers also caused her

some filial grief; she could not help askingwhat she had done to be neglected so, after the professions ofsolicitude he had made. as regarded farfrae, she thought, after honestreflection, that it was quite natural. what was she beside lucetta?—asone of the "meaner beauties of the night," when the moon hadrisen in the skies. she had learnt the lesson of renunciation,and was as familiar with the wreck of each day's wishes as with the diurnalsetting of the sun. if her earthly career had taught her few bookphilosophies it had at least well practised her in this. yet her experiencehad consisted less in

a series of pure disappointments than in aseries of substitutions. continually it had happened that what shehad desired had not been granted her, and that what had been grantedher she had not desired. so she viewed with an approach to equanimitythe now cancelled days when donald had been her undeclared lover, andwondered what unwished-for thing heaven might send her in place of him. 26. it chanced that on a fine spring morning henchardand farfrae met in the chestnut-walk which ran along the south wallof the town. each had just

come out from his early breakfast, and therewas not another soul near. henchard was reading a letter from lucetta,sent in answer to a note from him, in which she made some excuse fornot immediately granting him a second interview that he had desired. donald had no wish to enter into conversationwith his former friend on their present constrained terms; neither wouldhe pass him in scowling silence. he nodded, and henchard did the same.they receded from each other several paces when a voice cried "farfrae!"it was henchard's, who stood regarding him.

"do you remember," said henchard, as if itwere the presence of the thought and not of the man which made himspeak, "do you remember my story of that second woman—who sufferedfor her thoughtless intimacy with me?" "i do," said farfrae. "do you remember my telling 'ee how it allbegan and how it ended? "yes." "well, i have offered to marry her now thati can; but she won't marry me. now what would you think of her—i putit to you?"

"well, ye owe her nothing more now," saidfarfrae heartily. "it is true," said henchard, and went on. that he had looked up from a letter to askhis questions completely shut out from farfrae's mind all vision of lucettaas the culprit. indeed, her present position was so different fromthat of the young woman of henchard's story as of itself to be sufficientto blind him absolutely to her identity. as for henchard, he was reassuredby farfrae's words and manner against a suspicion which had crossedhis mind. they were not those of a conscious rival.

yet that there was rivalry by some one hewas firmly persuaded. he could feel it in the air around lucetta, see itin the turn of her pen. there was an antagonistic force in exercise, sothat when he had tried to hang near her he seemed standing in a refluentcurrent. that it was not innate caprice he was more and more certain.her windows gleamed as if they did not want him; her curtains seemto hang slily, as if they screened an ousting presence. to discoverwhose presence that was—whether really farfrae's after all,or another's—he exerted himself to the utmost to see her again; andat length succeeded.

at the interview, when she offered him tea,he made it a point to launch a cautious inquiry if she knew mr. farfrae. o yes, she knew him, she declared; she couldnot help knowing almost everybody in casterbridge, living in sucha gazebo over the centre and arena of the town. "pleasant young fellow," said henchard. "yes," said lucetta. "we both know him," said kind elizabeth-jane,to relieve her companion's divined embarrassment.

there was a knock at the door; literally,three full knocks and a little one at the end. "that kind of knock means half-and-half—somebodybetween gentle and simple," said the corn-merchant to himself."i shouldn't wonder therefore if it is he." in a few seconds surelyenough donald walked in. lucetta was full of little fidgets and flutters,which increased henchard's suspicions without affording anyspecial proof of their correctness. he was well-nigh ferocious atthe sense of the queer situation in which he stood towards this woman.one who had reproached

him for deserting her when calumniated, whohad urged claims upon his consideration on that account, who had livedwaiting for him, who at the first decent opportunity had come to ask himto rectify, by making her his, the false position into which she hadplaced herself for his sake; such she had been. and now he sat at her tea-tableeager to gain her attention, and in his amatory rage feelingthe other man present to be a villain, just as any young fool of a lovermight feel. they sat stiffly side by side at the darkeningtable, like some tuscan painting of the two disciples supping at emmaus.lucetta, forming the

third and haloed figure, was opposite them;elizabeth-jane, being out of the game, and out of the group, could observeall from afar, like the evangelist who had to write it down: thatthere were long spaces of taciturnity, when all exterior circumstanceswere subdued to the touch of spoons and china, the click of a heel onthe pavement under the window, the passing of a wheelbarrow or cart,the whistling of the carter, the gush of water into householders'buckets at the town-pump opposite, the exchange of greetings amongtheir neighbours, and the rattle of the yokes by which they carriedoff their evening supply.

"more bread-and-butter?" said lucetta to henchardand farfrae equally, holding out between them a plateful of longslices. henchard took a slice by one end and donald by the other;each feeling certain he was the man meant; neither let go, and the slicecame in two. "oh—i am so sorry!" cried lucetta, witha nervous titter. farfrae tried to laugh; but he was too much in love to seethe incident in any but a tragic light. "how ridiculous of all three of them!" saidelizabeth to herself. henchard left the house with a ton of conjecture,though without a grain

of proof, that the counterattraction was farfrae;and therefore he would not make up his mind. yet to elizabeth-janeit was plain as the town-pump that donald and lucetta were incipientlovers. more than once, in spite of her care, lucetta had been unableto restrain her glance from flitting across into farfrae's eyes likea bird to its nest. but henchard was constructed upon too large ascale to discern such minutiae as these by an evening light, which to himwere as the notes of an insect that lie above the compass of the humanear. but he was disturbed. and the sense of occultrivalry in suitorship was

so much superadded to the palpable rivalryof their business lives. to the coarse materiality of that rivalry itadded an inflaming soul. the thus vitalized antagonism took the formof action by henchard sending for jopp, the manager originally displacedby farfrae's arrival. henchard had frequently met this man aboutthe streets, observed that his clothing spoke of neediness, heard thathe lived in mixen lane—a back slum of the town, the pis allerof casterbridge domiciliation—itself almost a proof thata man had reached a stage when he would not stick at trifles.

jopp came after dark, by the gates of thestoreyard, and felt his way through the hay and straw to the office wherehenchard sat in solitude awaiting him. "i am again out of a foreman," said the corn-factor."are you in a place?" "not so much as a beggar's, sir." "how much do you ask?" jopp named his price, which was very moderate. "when can you come?"

"at this hour and moment, sir," said jopp,who, standing hands-pocketed at the street corner till the sun had fadedthe shoulders of his coat to scarecrow green, had regularly watchedhenchard in the market-place, measured him, and learnt him, by virtue ofthe power which the still man has in his stillness of knowing the busyone better than he knows himself. jopp too, had had a convenient experience;he was the only one in casterbridge besides henchard and the close-lippedelizabeth who knew that lucetta came truly from jersey, and butproximately from bath. "i know jersey too, sir," he said. "was livingthere when you used to do

business that way. o yes—have often seenye there." "indeed! very good. then the thing is settled.the testimonials you showed me when you first tried for't are sufficient." that characters deteriorated in time of needpossibly did not occur to henchard. jopp said, "thank you," and stoodmore firmly, in the consciousness that at last he officially belongedto that spot. "now," said henchard, digging his strong eyesinto jopp's face, "one thing is necessary to me, as the biggest corn-and-haydealer in these parts. the scotchman, who's taking the towntrade so bold into

his hands, must be cut out. d'ye hear? wetwo can't live side by side—that's clear and certain." "i've seen it all," said jopp. "by fair competition i mean, of course," henchardcontinued. "but as hard, keen, and unflinching as fair—rathermore so. by such a desperate bid against him for the farmers' custom aswill grind him into the ground—starve him out. i've capital, mindye, and i can do it." "i'm all that way of thinking," said the newforeman. jopp's dislike of farfrae as the man who had once ursurped hisplace, while it made him

a willing tool, made him, at the same time,commercially as unsafe a colleague as henchard could have chosen. "i sometimes think," he added, "that he musthave some glass that he sees next year in. he has such a knack ofmaking everything bring him fortune." "he's deep beyond all honest men's discerning,but we must make him shallower. we'll undersell him, and over-buyhim, and so snuff him out." they then entered into specific details ofthe process by which this would be accomplished, and parted at a latehour.

elizabeth-jane heard by accident that jopphad been engaged by her stepfather. she was so fully convinced thathe was not the right man for the place that, at the risk of making henchardangry, she expressed her apprehension to him when they met. butit was done to no purpose. henchard shut up her argument with a sharprebuff. the season's weather seemed to favour theirscheme. the time was in the years immediately before foreign competitionhad revolutionized the trade in grain; when still, as from theearliest ages, the wheat quotations from month to month depended entirelyupon the home harvest.

a bad harvest, or the prospect of one, woulddouble the price of corn in a few weeks; and the promise of a good yieldwould lower it as rapidly. prices were like the roads of the period,steep in gradient, reflecting in their phases the local conditions, withoutengineering, levellings, or averages. the farmer's income was ruled by the wheat-cropwithin his own horizon, and the wheat-crop by the weather. thus inperson, he became a sort of flesh-barometer, with feelers always directedto the sky and wind around him. the local atmosphere was everything tohim; the atmospheres of

other countries a matter of indifference.the people, too, who were not farmers, the rural multitude, saw in thegod of the weather a more important personage than they do now.indeed, the feeling of the peasantry in this matter was so intense asto be almost unrealizable in these equable days. their impulse was well-nighto prostrate themselves in lamentation before untimely rains and tempests,which came as the alastor of those households whose crime itwas to be poor. after midsummer they watched the weather-cocksas men waiting in antechambers watch the lackey. sun elatedthem; quiet rain sobered them;

weeks of watery tempest stupefied them. thataspect of the sky which they now regard as disagreeable they thenbeheld as maleficent. it was june, and the weather was very unfavourable.casterbridge, being as it were the bell-board on which all theadjacent hamlets and villages sounded their notes, was decidedly dull. insteadof new articles in the shop-windows those that had been rejectedin the foregoing summer were brought out again; superseded reap-hooks,badly-shaped rakes, shop-worn leggings, and time-stiffened water-tightsreappeared, furbished up as near to new as possible.

henchard, backed by jopp, read a disastrousgarnering, and resolved to base his strategy against farfrae upon thatreading. but before acting he wished—what so many have wished—thathe could know for certain what was at present only strong probability. hewas superstitious—as such head-strong natures often are—and he nourishedin his mind an idea bearing on the matter; an idea he shrank fromdisclosing even to jopp. in a lonely hamlet a few miles from the town—solonely that what are called lonely villages were teeming by comparison—therelived a man of curious repute as a forecaster or weather-prophet.the way to his house

was crooked and miry—even difficult in thepresent unpropitious season. one evening when it was raining so heavilythat ivy and laurel resounded like distant musketry, and an out-door mancould be excused for shrouding himself to his ears and eyes, sucha shrouded figure on foot might have been perceived travelling in thedirection of the hazel-copse which dripped over the prophet's cot. theturnpike-road became a lane, the lane a cart-track, the cart-track a bridle-path,the bridle-path a foot-way, the foot-way overgrown. the solitarywalker slipped here and there, and stumbled over the natural springesformed by the brambles,

till at length he reached the house, which,with its garden, was surrounded with a high, dense hedge. the cottage,comparatively a large one, had been built of mud by the occupier'sown hands, and thatched also by himself. here he had always lived,and here it was assumed he would die. he existed on unseen supplies; for it wasan anomalous thing that while there was hardly a soul in the neighbourhoodbut affected to laugh at this man's assertions, uttering the formula,"there's nothing in 'em," with full assurance on the surface of theirfaces, very few of them were

unbelievers in their secret hearts. wheneverthey consulted him they did it "for a fancy." when they paid him theysaid, "just a trifle for christmas," or "candlemas," as the case mightbe. he would have preferred more honesty in hisclients, and less sham ridicule; but fundamental belief consoledhim for superficial irony. as stated, he was enabled to live; people supportedhim with their backs turned. he was sometimes astonished that mencould profess so little and believe so much at his house, when at churchthey professed so much and believed so little.

behind his back he was called "wide-oh," onaccount of his reputation; to his face "mr." fall. the hedge of his garden formed an arch overthe entrance, and a door was inserted as in a wall. outside the doorthe tall traveller stopped, bandaged his face with a handkerchief as ifhe were suffering from toothache, and went up the path. the windowshutters were not closed, and he could see the prophet within, preparinghis supper. in answer to the knock fall came to the door,candle in hand. the visitor stepped back a little from the light,and said, "can i speak

to 'ee?" in significant tones. the other'sinvitation to come in was responded to by the country formula, "thiswill do, thank 'ee," after which the householder had no alternative butto come out. he placed the candle on the corner of the dresser, tookhis hat from a nail, and joined the stranger in the porch, shuttingthe door behind him. "i've long heard that you can—do thingsof a sort?" began the other, repressing his individuality as much as hecould. "maybe so, mr. henchard," said the weather-caster. "ah—why do you call me that?" asked thevisitor with a start.

"because it's your name. feeling you'd comei've waited for 'ee; and thinking you might be leery from yourwalk i laid two supper plates—look ye here." he threw open thedoor and disclosed the supper-table, at which appeared a second chair,knife and fork, plate and mug, as he had declared. henchard felt like saul at his reception bysamuel; he remained in silence for a few moments, then throwing offthe disguise of frigidity which he had hitherto preserved he said, "theni have not come in vain....now, for instance, can ye charm awaywarts?"

"without trouble." "cure the evil?" "that i've done—with consideration—ifthey will wear the toad-bag by night as well as by day." "forecast the weather?" "with labour and time." "then take this," said henchard. "'tis a crownpiece.now, what is the harvest fortnight to be? when can i know?' "i've worked it out already, and you can knowat once." (the fact

was that five farmers had already been thereon the same errand from different parts of the country.) "by the sun,moon, and stars, by the clouds, the winds, the trees, and grass, thecandle-flame and swallows, the smell of the herbs; likewise by the cats'eyes, the ravens, the leeches, the spiders, and the dungmixen, thelast fortnight in august will be—rain and tempest." "you are not certain, of course?" "as one can be in a world where all's unsure.'twill be more like living in revelations this autumn than in england.shall i sketch it out for

'ee in a scheme?" "o no, no," said henchard. "i don't altogetherbelieve in forecasts, come to second thoughts on such. but i—" "you don't—you don't—'tis quite understood,"said wide-oh, without a sound of scorn. "you have given me a crownbecause you've one too many. but won't you join me at supper, now 'tiswaiting and all?" henchard would gladly have joined; for thesavour of the stew had floated from the cottage into the porchwith such appetizing distinctness that the meat, the onions, thepepper, and the herbs could

be severally recognized by his nose. but assitting down to hob-and-nob there would have seemed to markhim too implicitly as the weather-caster's apostle, he declined, andwent his way. the next saturday henchard bought grain tosuch an enormous extent that there was quite a talk about his purchasesamong his neighbours the lawyer, the wine merchant, and the doctor;also on the next, and on all available days. when his granaries werefull to choking all the weather-cocks of casterbridge creaked andset their faces in another direction, as if tired of the south-west.the weather changed; the

sunlight, which had been like tin for weeks,assumed the hues of topaz. the temperament of the welkin passedfrom the phlegmatic to the sanguine; an excellent harvest was almosta certainty; and as a consequence prices rushed down. all these transformations, lovely to the outsider,to the wrong-headed corn-dealer were terrible. he was remindedof what he had well known before, that a man might gamble upon the squaregreen areas of fields as readily as upon those of a card-room. henchard had backed bad weather, and apparentlylost. he had mistaken

the turn of the flood for the turn of theebb. his dealings had been so extensive that settlement could not long bepostponed, and to settle he was obliged to sell off corn that he had boughtonly a few weeks before at figures higher by many shillings a quarter.much of the corn he had never seen; it had not even been moved fromthe ricks in which it lay stacked miles away. thus he lost heavily. in the blaze of an early august day he metfarfrae in the market-place. farfrae knew of his dealings (though he didnot guess their intended bearing on himself) and commiserated him;for since their exchange

of words in the south walk they had been onstiffly speaking terms. henchard for the moment appeared to resentthe sympathy; but he suddenly took a careless turn. "ho, no, no!—nothing serious, man!" he criedwith fierce gaiety. "these things always happen, don't they? i know ithas been said that figures have touched me tight lately; but is thatanything rare? the case is not so bad as folk make out perhaps. and dammy,a man must be a fool to mind the common hazards of trade!" but he had to enter the casterbridge bankthat day for reasons which

had never before sent him there—and to sita long time in the partners' room with a constrained bearing. it was rumouredsoon after that much real property as well as vast stores of produce,which had stood in henchard's name in the town and neighbourhood,was actually the possession of his bankers. coming down the steps of the bank he encounteredjopp. the gloomy transactions just completed within had addedfever to the original sting of farfrae's sympathy that morning, whichhenchard fancied might be a satire disguised so that jopp met with anythingbut a bland reception.

the latter was in the act of taking off hishat to wipe his forehead, and saying, "a fine hot day," to an acquaintance. "you can wipe and wipe, and say, 'a fine hotday,' can ye!" cried henchard in a savage undertone, imprisoningjopp between himself and the bank wall. "if it hadn't been for your blastedadvice it might have been a fine day enough! why did ye let me go on,hey?—when a word of doubt from you or anybody would have made me thinktwice! for you can never be sure of weather till 'tis past." "my advice, sir, was to do what you thoughtbest."

"a useful fellow! and the sooner you helpsomebody else in that way the better!" henchard continued his address tojopp in similar terms till it ended in jopp's dismissal there and then,henchard turning upon his heel and leaving him. "you shall be sorry for this, sir; sorry asa man can be!" said jopp, standing pale, and looking after the corn-merchantas he disappeared in the crowd of market-men hard by. 27. it was the eve of harvest. prices being lowfarfrae was buying. as was

usual, after reckoning too surely on famineweather the local farmers had flown to the other extreme, and (in farfrae'sopinion) were selling off too recklessly—calculating with justa trifle too much certainty upon an abundant yield. so he went on buyingold corn at its comparatively ridiculous price: for the produceof the previous year, though not large, had been of excellent quality. when henchard had squared his affairs in adisastrous way, and got rid of his burdensome purchases at a monstrousloss, 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 sicklesbegun to play than the atmosphere suddenly felt as if cress wouldgrow in it without other nourishment. it rubbed people's cheeks likedamp flannel when they walked abroad. there was a gusty, high, warmwind; isolated raindrops starred the window-panes at remote distances:the sunlight would flap out like a quickly opened fan, throw the patternof 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 therewas not to be so successful an ingathering after all. if henchardhad only waited long enough he might at least have avoided lossthough he had not made a profit. but the momentum of his characterknew no patience. at this turn of the scales he remained silent. the movementsof his mind seemed to tend to the thought that some power was workingagainst him. "i wonder," he asked himself with eerie misgiving;"i wonder if it can be that somebody has been roasting a waxenimage of me, or stirring an unholy brew to confound me! i don't believein such power; and yet—what

if they should ha' been doing it!" even hecould not admit that the perpetrator, if any, might be farfrae.these isolated hours of superstition came to henchard in time of moodydepression, when all his practical largeness of view had oozed outof him. meanwhile donald farfrae prospered. he hadpurchased in so depressed a market that the present moderate stiffnessof prices was sufficient to pile for him a large heap of gold where alittle one had been. "why, he'll soon be mayor!" said henchard.it was indeed hard that the speaker should, of all others, have to followthe triumphal chariot of

this man to the capitol. the rivalry of the masters was taken up bythe 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 comparativelyearly hour. a sound of jangling horse-bells and heavy wheels passedup the street. these were followed by angry voices outside lucetta'shouse, which led her and elizabeth-jane to run to the windows, andpull up the blinds. the neighbouring market house and town hallabutted against its next

neighbour the church except in the lower storey,where an arched thoroughfare gave admittance to a large squarecalled bull stake. a stone post rose in the midst, to which theoxen had formerly been tied for baiting with dogs to make them tenderbefore they were killed in the adjoining shambles. in a corner stood thestocks. the thoroughfare leading to this spot wasnow blocked by two four-horse waggons and horses, one laden with hay-trusses,the leaders having already passed each other, and become entangledhead to tail. the passage of the vehicles might have been practicableif empty; but built

up with hay to the bedroom windows as onewas, it was impossible. "you must have done it a' purpose!" said farfrae'swaggoner. "you can hear my horses' bells half-a-mile such a nightas this!" "if ye'd been minding your business insteadof 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 theroad it appeared that henchard's man was most in the wrong, he thereforeattempted to back into the high street. in doing this the nearhind-wheel rose against

the churchyard wall and the whole mountainousload went over, two of the four wheels rising in the air, and the legsof the thill horse. instead of considering how to gather up theload the two men closed in a fight with their fists. before the firstround was quite over henchard came upon the spot, somebody having run forhim. henchard sent the two men staggering in contrarydirections by collaring one with each hand, turned to the horse thatwas down, and extricated him after some trouble. he then inquired intothe circumstances; and seeing the state of his waggon and its loadbegan hotly rating farfrae's

man. lucetta and elizabeth-jane had by this timerun down to the street corner, whence they watched the bright heapof new hay lying in the moon's rays, and passed and repassed by theforms of henchard and the waggoners. the women had witnessed what nobodyelse had seen—the origin of the mishap; and lucetta spoke. "i saw it all, mr. henchard," she cried; "andyour 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 blamefor 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'sman. "why not?" asked henchard sharply. "why, you see, sir, all the women side withfarfrae—being a damn young dand—of the sort that he is—one that creepsinto a maid's heart like

the giddying worm into a sheep's brain—makingcrooked seem straight to their eyes!" "but do you know who that lady is you talkabout 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 eightshillings 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 whatyou 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 herfurther. this disappointed him, for he had been sufficiently disturbedby what the man had said to wish to speak to her more closely. while pausingthe old constable came up. "just see that nobody drives against thathay and waggon to-night, stubberd," said the corn-merchant. "it mustbide till the morning, for all hands are in the field still. and if anycoach or road-waggon wants to come along, tell 'em they must go roundby 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 andcommitting a nuisance in a horrible profane manner against the churchwall, 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 forgetto keep an eye on that hay.

good night t' 'ee." during those moments henchard had determinedto follow up lucetta notwithstanding her elusiveness, and he knockedfor admission. the answer he received was an expression ofmiss templeman's sorrow at being unable to see him again that eveningbecause she had an engagement to go out. henchard walked away from the door to theopposite side of the street, and stood by his hay in a lonely reverie,the constable having strolled elsewhere, and the horses being removed. thoughthe moon was not bright

as yet there were no lamps lighted, and heentered the shadow of one of the projecting jambs which formed the thoroughfareto bull stake; here he watched lucetta's door. candle-lights were flitting in and out ofher bedroom, and it was obvious that she was dressing for the appointment,whatever the nature of that might be at such an hour. the lightsdisappeared, the clock struck nine, and almost at the moment farfraecame round the opposite corner and knocked. that she had been waitingjust inside for him was certain, for she instantly opened the doorherself. they went together

by the way of a back lane westward, avoidingthe front street; guessing where they were going he determined to follow. the harvest had been so delayed by the capriciousweather that whenever a fine day occurred all sinews were strainedto save what could be saved of the damaged crops. on account of the rapidshortening of the days the harvesters worked by moonlight. hence to-nightthe wheat-fields abutting on the two sides of the square formed by casterbridgetown were animated by the gathering hands. their shouts and laughterhad reached henchard at the market house, while he stood therewaiting, and he had little

doubt from the turn which farfrae and lucettahad taken that they were bound for the spot. nearly the whole town had gone into the fields.the casterbridge populace still retained the primitive habitof helping one another in time of need; and thus, though the corn belongedto the farming section of the little community—that inhabitingthe durnover quarter—the remainder was no less interested in the labourof getting it home. reaching the top of the lane henchard crossedthe shaded avenue on the walls, slid down the green rampart, and stoodamongst the stubble. the

"stitches" or shocks rose like tents aboutthe yellow expanse, those in the distance becoming lost in the moonlithazes. he had entered at a point removed from thescene of immediate operations; but two others had entered atthat place, and he could see them winding among the shocks. they werepaying no regard to the direction of their walk, whose vague serpentiningsoon began to bear down towards henchard. a meeting promisedto be awkward, and he therefore stepped into the hollow of the nearestshock, and sat down. "you have my leave," lucetta was saying gaily."speak what you like."

"well, then," replied farfrae, with the unmistakableinflection of the lover pure, which henchard had never heardin full resonance of his lips before, "you are sure to be much sought afterfor your position, wealth, talents, and beauty. but will ye resist thetemptation to be one of those ladies with lots of admirers—ay—andbe 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 makeme forget my manners!" "then i hope you'll never have any, if youlack them only for that

cause." after some broken words which henchardlost she added, "are you sure you won't be jealous?" farfrae seemed to assure her that he wouldnot, by taking her hand. "you are convinced, donald, that i love nobodyelse," she presently said. "but i should wish to have my own wayin some things." "in everything! what special thing did youmean?" "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 mighthave 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 werebeing handed, a dozen a minute, upon the carts and waggons which carriedthem away. lucetta insisted on parting from farfrae whenthey 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 followedher. his state of mind was such that on reaching lucetta's door hedid 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 perceivedthat in his haste he had somehow passed her on the way hither. he hadnot to wait many minutes, however, for he soon heard her dress rustlingin the hall, followed by a soft closing of the door. in a moment sheappeared. the light was so low that she did not noticehenchard at first. as soon as she saw him she uttered a little cry, almostof terror. "how can you frighten me so?" she exclaimed,with a flushed face. "it is past ten o'clock, and you have no rightto surprise me here at such a

time." "i don't know that i've not the right. atany rate i have the excuse. is it so necessary that i should stop to thinkof manners and customs?" "it is too late for propriety, and might injureme." "i called an hour ago, and you would not seeme, 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 tohear it!" she said through her hands, as he, standing close to the edge ofher gown, began to allude to the jersey days. "but you ought to hear it," said he. "it came to nothing; and through you. thenwhy not leave me the freedom that i gained with such sorrow! had i foundthat 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—almostas an unpleasant duty—because i had nursed you, and compromisedmyself, and you thought

you must repay me. after that i did not carefor 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 sowell." "and why then don't you think so now?" she was silent. it was only too obvious thatconscience had ruled well enough till new love had intervened and usurpedthat rule. in feeling this she herself forgot for the moment herpartially justifying

argument—that having discovered henchard'sinfirmities of temper, she had some excuse for not risking her happinessin his hands after once escaping them. the only thing she could saywas, "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 awkwardfor me. but i don't want to touch your money. i am quite willing thatevery 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 betterthan i."

"if you were as good as he you would leaveme!" she cried passionately. this unluckily aroused henchard. "you cannotin honour refuse me," he said. "and unless you give me your promisethis very night to be my wife, before a witness, i'll reveal our intimacy—incommon fairness to other men!" a look of resignation settled upon her. henchardsaw its bitterness; and had lucetta's heart been given to anyother man in the world than farfrae he would probably have had pity uponher at that moment. but the supplanter was the upstart (as henchard calledhim) who had mounted into

prominence upon his shoulders, and he couldbring himself to show no mercy. without another word she rang the bell, anddirected that elizabeth-jane should be fetched from her room. the latterappeared, surprised in the midst of her lucubrations. as soon as shesaw 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 willyou not, marry me? "if you—wish it, i must agree!"

"you say yes?" "i do." no sooner had she given the promise than shefell 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 downby lucetta. "don't compel her to do anything against her will! i havelived with her, and know that she cannot bear much." "don't be a no'thern simpleton!" said hencharddrily. "this promise will

leave him free for you, if you want him, won'tit?" at this lucetta seemed to wake from her swoonwith a start. "him? who are you talking about?" she saidwildly. "nobody, as far as i am concerned," said elizabethfirmly. "oh—well. then it is my mistake," said henchard."but the business is between me and miss templeman. she agreesto be my wife." "but don't dwell on it just now," entreatedelizabeth, holding lucetta's hand. "i don't wish to, if she promises," said henchard.

"i have, i have," groaned lucetta, her limbshanging like fluid, from very misery and faintness. "michael, pleasedon't argue it any more!" "i will not," he said. and taking up his hathe went away. elizabeth-jane continued to kneel by lucetta."what is this?" she said. "you called my father 'michael' as if youknew him well? and how is it he has got this power over you, that you promiseto marry him against your will? ah—you have many many secretsfrom me!" "perhaps you have some from me," lucetta murmuredwith closed eyes, little thinking, however, so unsuspiciouswas she, that the secret of

elizabeth's heart concerned the young manwho had caused this damage to her own. "i would not—do anything against you atall!" stammered elizabeth, keeping in all signs of emotion till she wasready 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 torelease you." "no, no," said lucetta. "let it all be." 28. the next morning henchard went to the townhall below lucetta's house,

to attend petty sessions, being still a magistratefor the year by virtue of his late position as mayor. in passinghe looked up at her windows, but nothing of her was to be seen. henchard as a justice of the peace may atfirst seem to be an even greater incongruity than shallow and silencethemselves. but his rough and ready perceptions, his sledge-hammer directness,had often served him better than nice legal knowledge in despatchingsuch simple business as fell to his hands in this court. to-daydr. chalkfield, the mayor for the year, being absent, the corn-merchanttook the big chair, his eyes

still abstractedly stretching out of the windowto the ashlar front of high-place hall. there was one case only, and the offenderstood before him. she was an old woman of mottled countenance, attiredin a shawl of that nameless tertiary hue which comes, but cannot be made—ahue neither tawny, russet, hazel, nor ash; a sticky black bonnetthat seemed to have been worn in the country of the psalmist wherethe clouds drop fatness; and an apron that had been white in time so comparativelyrecent as still to contrast visibly with the rest of her clothes.the steeped aspect of the

woman as a whole showed her to be no nativeof the country-side or even of a country-town. she looked cursorily at henchard and the secondmagistrate, and henchard looked at her, with a momentary pause, asif she had reminded him indistinctly of somebody or something whichpassed from his mind as quickly as it had come. "well, and what hasshe been doing?" he said, looking down at the charge sheet. "she is charged, sir, with the offence ofdisorderly female and nuisance," whispered stubberd.

"where did she do that?" said the other magistrate. "by the church, sir, of all the horrible placesin the world!—i caught her in the act, your worship." "stand back then," said henchard, "and let'shear what you've got to say." stubberd was sworn in, the magistrate's clerkdipped his pen, henchard being no note-taker himself, and the constablebegan— "hearing a' illegal noise i went down thestreet at twenty-five minutes past eleven p.m. on the night of the fifthinstinct, hannah dominy. when

i had— "don't go so fast, stubberd," said the clerk. the constable waited, with his eyes on theclerk's pen, till the latter stopped scratching and said, "yes." stubberdcontinued: "when i had proceeded to the spot i saw defendant at anotherspot, namely, the gutter." he paused, watching the point ofthe clerk's pen again. "gutter, yes, stubberd." "spot measuring twelve feet nine inches orthereabouts from where i—" still careful not to outrun the clerk's penmanshipstubberd pulled up

again; for having got his evidence by heartit was immaterial to him whereabouts he broke off. "i object to that," spoke up the old woman,"'spot measuring twelve feet nine or thereabouts from where i,' is notsound testimony!" the magistrates consulted, and the secondone said that the bench was of opinion that twelve feet nine inches froma man on his oath was admissible. stubberd, with a suppressed gaze of victoriousrectitude at the old woman, continued: "was standing myself. shewas wambling about quite

dangerous to the thoroughfare and when i approachedto draw near she committed the nuisance, and insulted me." "'insulted me.'...yes, what did she say?" "she said, 'put away that dee lantern,' shesays." "says she, 'dost hear, old turmit-head? putaway that dee lantern. i have floored fellows a dee sight finer-lookingthan a dee fool like thee, you son of a bee, dee me if i haint,'she says. "i object to that conversation!" interposedthe old woman. "i was not capable enough to hear what i said, and whatis said out of my hearing

is not evidence." there was another stoppage for consultation,a book was referred to, and finally stubberd was allowed to go on again.the truth was that the old woman had appeared in court so many moretimes than the magistrates themselves, that they were obliged to keepa sharp look-out upon their procedure. however, when stubberd had rambledon a little further henchard broke out impatiently, "come—wedon't want to hear any more of them cust dees and bees! say the words outlike a man, and don't be so modest, stubberd; or else leave it alone!"turning to the woman, "now

then, have you any questions to ask him, oranything to say?" "yes," she replied with a twinkle in her eye;and the clerk dipped his pen. "twenty years ago or thereabout i was sellingof furmity in a tent at weydon fair——" "'twenty years ago'—well, that's beginningat the beginning; suppose you go back to the creation!" said the clerk,not without satire. but henchard stared, and quite forgot whatwas evidence and what was not.

"a man and a woman with a little child cameinto my tent," the woman continued. "they sat down and had a basinapiece. ah, lord's my life! i was of a more respectable station in the worldthen than i am now, being a land smuggler in a large way of business;and i used to season my furmity with rum for them who asked for't.i did it for the man; and then he had more and more; till at last hequarrelled with his wife, and offered to sell her to the highest bidder.a sailor came in and bid five guineas, and paid the money, and led her away.and the man who sold his wife in that fashion is the man sitting therein the great big chair."

the speaker concluded by nodding her headat henchard and folding her arms. everybody looked at henchard. his face seemedstrange, and in tint as if it had been powdered over with ashes. "wedon't want to hear your life and adventures," said the second magistratesharply, filling the pause which followed. "you've been asked if you'veanything to say bearing on the case." "that bears on the case. it proves that he'sno better than i, and has no right to sit there in judgment upon me."

"'tis a concocted story," said the clerk."so hold your tongue!" "no—'tis true." the words came from henchard."'tis as true as the light," he said slowly. "and upon my soulit does prove that i'm no better than she! and to keep out of any temptationto treat her hard for her revenge, i'll leave her to you." the sensation in the court was indescribablygreat. henchard left the chair, and came out, passing through a groupof people on the steps and outside that was much larger than usual;for it seemed that the old furmity dealer had mysteriously hinted tothe denizens of the lane in

which she had been lodging since her arrival,that she knew a queer thing or two about their great local man mr.henchard, if she chose to tell it. this had brought them hither. "why are there so many idlers round the townhall to-day?" said lucetta to her servant when the case was over. shehad risen late, and had just looked out of the window. "oh, please, ma'am, 'tis this larry aboutmr. henchard. a woman has proved that before he became a gentleman hesold his wife for five guineas in a booth at a fair."

in all the accounts which henchard had givenher of the separation from his wife susan for so many years, of his beliefin her death, and so on, he had never clearly explained the actualand immediate cause of that separation. the story she now heard for thefirst time. a gradual misery overspread lucetta's faceas she dwelt upon the promise wrung from her the night before. at bottom,then, henchard was this. how terrible a contingency for a woman whoshould commit herself to his care. during the day she went out to the ring andto other places, not coming

in till nearly dusk. as soon as she saw elizabeth-janeafter her return indoors she told her that she had resolvedto go away from home to the seaside for a few days—to port-bredy; casterbridgewas so gloomy. elizabeth, seeing that she looked wan anddisturbed, encouraged her in the idea, thinking a change would afford herrelief. she could not help suspecting that the gloom which seemed tohave come over casterbridge in lucetta's eyes might be partially owingto the fact that farfrae was away from home. elizabeth saw her friend depart for port-bredy,and took charge of

high-place hall till her return. after twoor three days of solitude and incessant rain henchard called at the house.he seemed disappointed to hear of lucetta's absence and though he noddedwith outward indifference he went away handling his beard with a nettledmien. the next day he called again. "is she comenow?" he asked. "yes. she returned this morning," repliedhis stepdaughter. "but she is not indoors. she has gone for a walk alongthe turnpike-road to port-bredy. she will be home by dusk." after a few words, which only served to revealhis restless impatience,

he left the house again. 29. at this hour lucetta was bounding along theroad to port-bredy just as elizabeth had announced. that she had chosenfor her afternoon walk the road along which she had returned to casterbridgethree hours earlier in a carriage was curious—if anything shouldbe called curious in concatenations of phenomena wherein each isknown to have its accounting cause. it was the day of the chief market—saturday—andfarfrae for once had been missed from his corn-standin the dealers' room.

nevertheless, it was known that he would behome that night—"for sunday," as casterbridge expressed it. lucetta, in continuing her walk, had at lengthreached the end of the ranked trees which bordered the highway inthis and other directions out of the town. this end marked a mile; and hereshe stopped. the spot was a vale between two gentle acclivities,and the road, still adhering to its roman foundation, stretchedonward straight as a surveyor's line till lost to sight on themost 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 toan undulating garment. near her was a barn—the single building of anykind within her horizon. she strained her eyes up the lessening road,but nothing appeared thereon—not so much as a speck. she sighedone word—"donald!" and turned her face to the town for retreat. here the case was different. a single figurewas approaching her—elizabeth-jane's. lucetta, in spite of her loneliness, seemeda little vexed. elizabeth's face, as soon as she recognized her friend,shaped itself into

affectionate lines while yet beyond speakingdistance. "i suddenly thought i would come and meet you," she said,smiling. lucetta's reply was taken from her lips byan unexpected diversion. a by-road on her right hand descended from thefields into the highway at the point where she stood, and down thetrack 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 cattlewere at once the mainstay and the terror of families about casterbridgeand its neighbourhood, where

breeding was carried on with abrahamic success.the head of stock driven into and out of the town at this seasonto be sold by the local auctioneer was very large; and all these hornedbeasts, in travelling to and fro, sent women and children to shelteras nothing else could do. in the main the animals would have walkedalong quietly enough; but the casterbridge tradition was that to drive stockit was indispensable that hideous cries, coupled with yahoo antics andgestures, should be used, large sticks flourished, stray dogs calledin, and in general everything done that was likely to infuriate the viciouslydisposed and terrify the

mild. nothing was commoner than for a house-holderon going out of his parlour to find his hall or passage full oflittle children, nursemaids, aged women, or a ladies' school, who apologizedfor their presence by saying, "a bull passing down street from thesale." lucetta and elizabeth regarded the animalin doubt, he meanwhile drawing vaguely towards them. it was a large specimenof the breed, in colour rich dun, though disfigured at present bysplotches of mud about his seamy sides. his horns were thick andtipped with brass; his two nostrils like the thames tunnel as seen inthe perspective toys of yore.

between them, through the gristle of his nose,was a stout copper ring, welded on, and irremovable as gurth's collarof brass. to the ring was attached an ash staff about a yard long, whichthe bull with the motions of his head flung about like a flail. it was not till they observed this danglingstick that the young women were really alarmed; for it revealed to themthat the bull was an old one, too savage to be driven, which had insome way escaped, the staff being the means by which the drover controlledhim 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 theireyes 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 hetossed his head and decided to thoroughly terrify them. this caused thetwo helpless girls to run wildly, whereupon the bull advanced in a deliberatecharge. 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 theymade. the interior had been

cleared by a recent bout of threshing exceptat one end, where there was a stack of dry clover. elizabeth-jane tookin the situation. "we must climb up there," she said. but before they had even approached it theyheard the bull scampering through the pond without, and in a secondhe dashed into the barn, knocking down the hurdle-stake in passing;the heavy door slammed behind him; and all three were imprisoned in thebarn together. the mistaken creature saw them, and stalked towards theend of the barn into which they had fled. the girls doubled so adroitlythat their pursuer was

against the wall when the fugitives were alreadyhalf way to the other end. by the time that his length would allowhim to turn and follow them thither they had crossed over; thus the pursuitwent on, the hot air from his nostrils blowing over them like asirocco, and not a moment being attainable by elizabeth or lucetta inwhich to open the door. what might have happened had their situation continuedcannot be said; but in a few moments a rattling of the door distractedtheir adversary's attention, and a man appeared. he ran forwardtowards the leading-staff, seized it, and wrenched the animal's headas if he would snap it off.

the wrench was in reality so violent thatthe thick neck seemed to have lost its stiffness and to become half-paralyzed,whilst the nose dropped blood. the premeditated human contrivanceof the nose-ring was too cunning for impulsive brute force, and thecreature flinched. the man was seen in the partial gloom to belarge-framed and unhesitating. he led the bull to the door,and the light revealed henchard. he made the bull fast without, andre-entered to the succour of lucetta; for he had not perceived elizabeth,who had climbed on to the clover-heap. lucetta was hysterical, andhenchard took her in his

arms and carried her to the door. "you—have saved me!" she cried, as soonas she could speak. "i have returned your kindness," he respondedtenderly. "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 beenwanting to tell you something these two or three days; but youhave 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 theface of the clover-stack to the floor. henchard supporting lucetta on one side, andelizabeth-jane on the other, they went slowly along the rising road.they had reached the top and were descending again when lucetta, nowmuch recovered, recollected that she had dropped her muff in the barn. "i'll run back," said elizabeth-jane. "i don'tmind it at all, as i am not tired as you are." she thereupon hasteneddown again to the barn,

the others pursuing their way. elizabeth soon found the muff, such an articlebeing by no means small at that time. coming out she paused to lookfor a moment at the bull, now rather to be pitied with his bleedingnose, having perhaps rather intended a practical joke than a murder. henchardhad secured him by jamming the staff into the hinge of the barn-door,and wedging it there with a stake. at length she turned tohasten onward after her contemplation, when she saw a green-and-blackgig approaching from the contrary direction, the vehicle being drivenby farfrae.

his presence here seemed to explain lucetta'swalk that way. donald saw her, drew up, and was hastily made acquaintedwith what had occurred. at elizabeth-jane mentioning how greatly lucettahad been jeopardized, he exhibited an agitation different in kind noless than in intensity from any she had seen in him before. he becameso absorbed in the circumstance that he scarcely had sufficientknowledge 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 almostthere 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 guessedwhy. he was thinking that it would be best not to intrude on the othertwo just now. henchard had saved lucetta, and to provoke a possibleexhibition of her deeper affection for himself was as ungenerous asit was unwise. the immediate subject of their talk beingexhausted she felt more

embarrassed at sitting thus beside her pastlover; but soon the two figures of the others were visible at theentrance to the town. the face of the woman was frequently turned back, butfarfrae did not whip on the horse. when these reached the town walls henchardand his companion had disappeared down the street; farfrae setdown 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 throughhis garden, and going up to his apartments found them in a particularlydisturbed state, his boxes

being hauled out upon the landing, and hisbookcase standing in three pieces. these phenomena, however, seemed tocause 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," saidshe. "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 farfraecheerily. "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." thusspeaking he went out by the front door and up the street. during this interval henchard and lucettahad had experiences of a different kind. after elizabeth's departurefor the muff the corn-merchant opened himself frankly, holdingher hand within his arm, though she would fain have withdrawn it. "dearlucetta, i have been very, very anxious to see you these two orthree days," he said, "ever since i saw you last! i have thought overthe way i got your promise that night. you said to me, 'if i were a mani should not insist.' that

cut me deep. i felt that there was some truthin it. i don't want to make you wretched; and to marry me just nowwould do that as nothing else could—it is but too plain. thereforei agree to an indefinite engagement—to put off all thought of marriagefor a year or two." "but—but—can i do nothing of a differentkind?" said lucetta. "i am full of gratitude to you—you have savedmy life. and your care of me is like coals of fire on my head! i am a moniedperson now. surely i can do something in return for your goodness—somethingpractical?" henchard remained in thought. he had evidentlynot 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 withrenewed misgiving. "i must tell you a secret to ask it.—youmay have heard that i have been unlucky this year? i did what i havenever done before—speculated rashly; and i lost. that's just put me ina 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 nearlymy own as you. no, lucetta;

what you can do is this and it would saveme. my great creditor is grower, and it is at his hands i shall sufferif at anybody's; while a fortnight's forbearance on his part wouldbe enough to allow me to pull through. this may be got out of him in oneway—that you would let it be known to him that you are my intended—thatwe are to be quietly married in the next fortnight.—now stop, you haven'theard all! let him have this story, without, of course, any prejudiceto the fact that the actual engagement between us is to be a longone. nobody else need know: you could go with me to mr. grower and justlet me speak to 'ee before

him as if we were on such terms. we'll askhim to keep it secret. he will willingly wait then. at the fortnight'send i shall be able to face him; and i can coolly tell him all is postponedbetween us for a year or two. not a soul in the town need know howyou've helped me. since you wish to be of use, there's your way." it being now what the people called the "pinkingin" of the day, that is, the quarter-hour just before dusk, hedid not at first observe the result of his own words upon her. "if it were anything else," she began, andthe 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 beginningof 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 becausei absolutely can't," she said, with rising distress. "you are provoking!" he burst out. "it isenough 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 minutesreleased 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 upbraidme!" "well! let's hear what you mean?" "witness of my marriage—mr. grower was!" "marriage?"

"yes. with mr. farfrae. o michael! i am alreadyhis wife. we were married this week at port-bredy. there werereasons against our doing it here. mr. grower was a witness because hehappened to be at port-bredy at the time." henchard stood as if idiotized. she was soalarmed at his silence that she murmured something about lending him sufficientmoney to tide over the perilous fortnight. "married him?" said henchard at length. "mygood—what, married him whilst—bound to marry me?"

"it was like this," she explained, with tearsin her eyes and quavers in her voice; "don't—don't be cruel! i lovedhim so much, and i thought you might tell him of the past—and thatgrieved me! and then, when i had promised you, i learnt of the rumour thatyou had—sold your first wife at a fair like a horse or cow! how couldi keep my promise after hearing that? i could not risk myself in yourhands; it would have been letting myself down to take your name aftersuch a scandal. but i knew i should lose donald if i did not secure himat once—for you would carry out your threat of telling him of our formeracquaintance, as long as

there was a chance of keeping me for yourselfby doing so. but you will not do so now, will you, michael? for it istoo late to separate us." the notes of st. peter's bells in full pealhad been wafted to them while he spoke, and now the genial thumpingof the town band, renowned for its unstinted use of the drum-stick, throbbeddown the street. "then this racket they are making is on accountof it, i suppose?" said "yes—i think he has told them, or else mr.grower has....may i leave you now? my—he was detained at port-bredyto-day, and sent me on a few hours before him."

"then it is his wife's life i have saved thisafternoon." "yes—and he will be for ever grateful toyou." "i am much obliged to him....o you false woman!"burst from henchard. "you promised me!" "yes, yes! but it was under compulsion, andi did not know all your past——" "and now i've a mind to punish you as youdeserve! one word to this bran-new husband of how you courted me, andyour precious happiness is blown to atoms!"

"michael—pity me, and be generous!" "you don't deserve pity! you did; but youdon't now." "i'll help you to pay off your debt." "a pensioner of farfrae's wife—not i! don'tstay with me longer—i shall say something worse. go home!" she disappeared under the trees of the southwalk as the band came round the corner, awaking the echoes of every stockand stone in celebration of her happiness. lucetta took no heed, butran up the back street and reached her own home unperceived.

30. farfrae's words to his landlady had referredto the removal of his boxes and other effects from his late lodgings tolucetta's house. the work was not heavy, but it had been much hinderedon account of the frequent pauses necessitated by exclamations of surpriseat the event, of which the good woman had been briefly informed byletter a few hours earlier. at the last moment of leaving port-bredy,farfrae, like john gilpin, had been detained by important customers,whom, even in the exceptional circumstances, he was not the man to neglect.moreover, there was a

convenience in lucetta arriving first at herhouse. nobody there as yet knew what had happened; and she was best ina position to break the news to the inmates, and give directions for herhusband's accommodation. he had, therefore, sent on his two-days' bridein a hired brougham, whilst he went across the country to a certain groupof wheat and barley ricks a few miles off, telling her the hour at whichhe might be expected the same evening. this accounted for her trottingout to meet him after their separation of four hours. by a strenuous effort, after leaving henchardshe calmed herself in

readiness to receive donald at high-placehall when he came on from his lodgings. one supreme fact empowered her tothis, the sense that, come what would, she had secured him. half-an-hourafter her arrival he walked in, and she met him with a relievedgladness, which a month's perilous absence could not have intensified. "there is one thing i have not done; and yetit is important," she said earnestly, when she had finished talking aboutthe adventure with the bull. "that is, broken the news of ourmarriage to my dear elizabeth-jane."

"ah, and you have not?" he said thoughtfully."i gave her a lift from the barn homewards; but i did not tell hereither; for i thought she might have heard of it in the town, andwas keeping back her congratulations from shyness, and all that." "she can hardly have heard of it. but i'llfind out; i'll go to her now. and, donald, you don't mind her livingon with me just the same as before? she is so quiet and unassuming." "o no, indeed i don't," farfrae answered with,perhaps, a faint awkwardness. "but i wonder if she would careto?"

"o yes!" said lucetta eagerly. "i am sureshe would like to. besides, poor thing, she has no other home." farfrae looked at her and saw that she didnot suspect the secret of her more reserved friend. he liked her allthe better for the blindness. "arrange as you like with her by all means,"he said. "it is i who have come to your house, not you to mine." "i'll run and speak to her," said lucetta. when she got upstairs to elizabeth-jane'sroom the latter had taken off her out-door things, and was resting overa book. lucetta found in a

moment that she had not yet learnt the news. "i did not come down to you, miss templeman,"she said simply. "i was coming to ask if you had quite recovered fromyour fright, but i found you had a visitor. what are the bells ringingfor, i wonder? and the band, too, is playing. somebody must be married;or else they are practising for christmas." lucetta uttered a vague "yes," and seatingherself by the other young woman looked musingly at her. "what a lonelycreature you are," she presently said; "never knowing what's goingon, or what people are

talking about everywhere with keen interest.you should get out, and gossip about as other women do, and then youwouldn't be obliged to ask me a question of that kind. well, now, i havesomething to tell you." elizabeth-jane said she was so glad, and madeherself receptive. "i must go rather a long way back," said lucetta,the difficulty of explaining herself satisfactorily to the ponderingone beside her growing more apparent at each syllable. "youremember that trying case of conscience i told you of some time ago—aboutthe first lover and the second lover?" she let out in jerky phrasesa leading word or two of the

story she had told. "o yes—i remember the story of your friend,"said elizabeth drily, regarding the irises of lucetta's eyes asthough to catch their exact shade. "the two lovers—the old one and thenew: how she wanted to marry the second, but felt she ought to marry thefirst; so that she neglected the better course to follow the evil, likethe poet ovid i've just been construing: 'video meliora proboque, deteriorasequor.'" "o no; she didn't follow evil exactly!" saidlucetta hastily. "but you said that she—or as i may say you"—answeredelizabeth,

dropping the mask, "were in honour and consciencebound to marry the lucetta's blush at being seen through cameand went again before she replied anxiously, "you will never breathethis, will you, elizabeth-jane?" "certainly not, if you say not. "then i will tell you that the case is morecomplicated—worse, in fact—than it seemed in my story. i and thefirst man were thrown together in a strange way, and felt that weought to be united, as the world had talked of us. he was a widower,as he supposed. he had not

heard of his first wife for many years. butthe wife returned, and we parted. she is now dead, and the husbandcomes paying me addresses again, saying, 'now we'll complete our purposes.'but, elizabeth-jane, all this amounts to a new courtship of meby him; i was absolved from all vows by the return of the other woman." "have you not lately renewed your promise?"said the younger with quiet surmise. she had divined man number one. "that was wrung from me by a threat." "yes, it was. but i think when any one getscoupled up with a man in the

past so unfortunately as you have done sheought to become his wife if she can, even if she were not the sinningparty." lucetta's countenance lost its sparkle. "heturned out to be a man i should be afraid to marry," she pleaded. "reallyafraid! and it was not till after my renewed promise that i knewit." "then there is only one course left to honesty.you must remain a single woman." "but think again! do consider——" "i am certain," interrupted her companionhardily. "i have guessed very

well who the man is. my father; and i sayit is him or nobody for you." any suspicion of impropriety was to elizabeth-janelike a red rag to a bull. her craving for correctness of procedurewas, indeed, almost vicious. owing to her early troubles withregard to her mother a semblance of irregularity had terrors forher which those whose names are safeguarded from suspicion know nothingof. "you ought to marry mr. henchard or nobody—certainly not anotherman!" she went on with a quivering lip in whose movement two passionsshared. "i don't admit that!" said lucetta passionately.

"admit it or not, it is true!" lucetta covered her eyes with her right hand,as if she could plead no more, holding out her left to elizabeth-jane. "why, you have married him!" cried the latter,jumping up with pleasure after a glance at lucetta's fingers. "whendid you do it? why did you not tell me, instead of teasing me like this?how very honourable of you! he did treat my mother badly once,it seems, in a moment of intoxication. and it is true that he is sternsometimes. but you will rule him entirely, i am sure, with yourbeauty and wealth and

accomplishments. you are the woman he willadore, and we shall all three be happy together now!" "o, my elizabeth-jane!" cried lucetta distressfully."'tis somebody else that i have married! i was so desperate—soafraid of being forced to anything else—so afraid of revelations thatwould quench his love for me, that i resolved to do it offhand, comewhat might, and purchase a week of happiness at any cost!" "you—have—married mr. farfrae!" criedelizabeth-jane, in nathan tones lucetta bowed. she had recovered herself.

"the bells are ringing on that account," shesaid. "my husband is downstairs. he will live here till a moresuitable house is ready for us; and i have told him that i want you tostay with me just as before." "let me think of it alone," the girl quicklyreplied, corking up the turmoil of her feeling with grand control. "you shall. i am sure we shall be happy together." lucetta departed to join donald below, a vagueuneasiness floating over her joy at seeing him quite at home there.not on account of her friend elizabeth did she feel it: for of the bearingsof elizabeth-jane's

emotions she had not the least suspicion;but on henchard's alone. now the instant decision of susan henchard'sdaughter was to dwell in that house no more. apart from her estimateof the propriety of lucetta's conduct, farfrae had been so nearlyher avowed lover that she felt she could not abide there. it was still early in the evening when shehastily put on her things and went out. in a few minutes, knowing the ground,she had found a suitable lodging, and arranged to enter it that night.returning and entering noiselessly she took off her pretty dressand arrayed herself in a plain

one, packing up the other to keep as her best;for she would have to be very economical now. she wrote a note toleave for lucetta, who was closely shut up in the drawing-room withfarfrae; and then elizabeth-jane called a man with a wheel-barrow;and seeing her boxes put into it she trotted off down the streetto her rooms. they were in the street in which henchard lived, and almostopposite his door. here she sat down and considered the meansof subsistence. the little annual sum settled on her by her stepfatherwould keep body and soul together. a wonderful skill in netting ofall sorts—acquired in

childhood by making seines in newson's home—mightserve her in good stead; and her studies, which were pursuedunremittingly, might serve her in still better. by this time the marriage that had taken placewas known throughout casterbridge; had been discussed noisily onkerbstones, confidentially behind counters, and jovially at the threemariners. whether farfrae would sell his business and set up for a gentlemanon his wife's money, or whether he would show independence enoughto stick to his trade in spite of his brilliant alliance, was a greatpoint of interest.

31. the retort of the furmity-woman before themagistrates had spread; and in four-and-twenty hours there was not a personin casterbridge who remained unacquainted with the story ofhenchard's mad freak at weydon-priors fair, long years before. theamends he had made in after life were lost sight of in the dramatic glareof 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 rathertall wild oat, but well-nigh the single one, of a young man withwhom the steady and mature

(if somewhat headstrong) burgher of to-dayhad scarcely a point in common. but the act having lain as dead andburied ever since, the interspace of years was unperceived; and theblack spot of his youth wore the aspect of a recent crime. small as the police-court incident had beenin itself, it formed the edge or turn in the incline of henchard'sfortunes. on that day—almost at that minute—he passed the ridge of prosperityand honour, and began to descend rapidly on the other side. it wasstrange how soon he sank in esteem. socially he had received a startlingfillip downwards; and,

having already lost commercial buoyancy fromrash transactions, the velocity of his descent in both aspects becameaccelerated every hour. he now gazed more at the pavements and lessat the house-fronts when he walked about; more at the feet and leggingsof men, and less into the pupils of their eyes with the blazing regardwhich formerly had made them blink. new events combined to undo him. it had beena bad year for others besides himself, and the heavy failure ofa debtor whom he had trusted generously completed the overthrow of histottering credit. and now,

in his desperation, he failed to preservethat strict correspondence between bulk and sample which is the soulof commerce in grain. for this, one of his men was mainly to blame;that worthy, in his great unwisdom, having picked over the sample ofan 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 ordinarykind. one day elizabeth-jane was passing the king's arms,when she saw people bustling in and out more than usual where there wasno market. a bystander informed her, with some surprise at her ignorance,that it was a meeting of the commissioners under mr. henchard'sbankruptcy. she felt quite tearful, and when she heard that he was presentin the hotel she wished to go in and see him, but was advised notto intrude that day. the room in which debtor and creditors hadassembled was a front one, and henchard, looking out of the window,had caught sight of

elizabeth-jane through the wire blind. hisexamination had closed, and the creditors were leaving. the appearanceof elizabeth threw him into a reverie, till, turning his face from the window,and towering above all the rest, he called their attention for amoment more. his countenance had somewhat changed from its flush of prosperity;the black hair and whiskers were the same as ever, but a filmof ash was over the rest. "gentlemen," he said, "over and above theassets 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 elsei've got, and i don't wish to

keep it from you, not i." saying this, hetook his gold watch from his pocket and laid it on the table; thenhis purse—the yellow canvas moneybag, such as was carried by all farmersand dealers—untying it, and shaking the money out upon the table besidethe watch. the latter he drew back quickly for an instant, to removethe hair-guard made and given him by lucetta. "there, now you haveall i've got in the world," he said. "and i wish for your sakes 'twasmore." the creditors, farmers almost to a man, lookedat the watch, and at the money, and into the street; when farmer jameseverdene of weatherbury

spoke. "no, no, henchard," he said warmly. "we don'twant that. 'tis honourable in ye; but keep it. what do you say, neighbours—doye agree?" "ay, sure: we don't wish it at all," saidgrower, another creditor. "let him keep it, of course," murmured anotherin the background—a silent, reserved young man named boldwood;and the rest responded unanimously. "well," said the senior commissioner, addressinghenchard, "though the case is a desperate one, i am bound to admitthat i have never met a

debtor who behaved more fairly. i've provedthe 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 wronginganybody." henchard was more affected by this than hecared to let them perceive, and he turned aside to the window again. ageneral murmur of agreement followed the commissioner's words, and themeeting dispersed. when they were gone henchard regarded the watch theyhad returned to him. "'tisn't

mine by rights," he said to himself. "whythe 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 withthe proceeds to one among the smaller of his creditors, a cottager ofdurnover in straitened circumstances, to whom he handed the money. when everything was ticketed that henchardhad owned, and the auctions were in progress, there was quite a sympatheticreaction in the town, which till then for some time past had donenothing but condemn him. now

that henchard's whole career was pictureddistinctly to his neighbours, and they could see how admirably he had usedhis one talent of energy to create a position of affluence out of absolutelynothing—which was really all he could show when he cameto the town as a journeyman hay-trusser, with his wimble and knife inhis basket—they wondered and regretted his fall. try as she might, elizabeth could never meetwith him. she believed in him still, though nobody else did; andshe wanted to be allowed to forgive him for his roughness to her, andto help him in his trouble.

she wrote to him; he did not reply. she thenwent to his house—the great house she had lived in so happily fora time—with its front of dun brick, vitrified here and there andits heavy sash-bars—but henchard was to be found there no more. theex-mayor had left the home of his prosperity, and gone into jopp's cottageby the priory mill—the sad purlieu to which he had wandered on thenight of his discovery that she was not his daughter. thither she went. elizabeth thought it odd that he had fixedon 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 stoodaround, and the back hatch of the original mill yet formed a cascadewhich had raised its terrific roar for centuries. the cottage itselfwas built of old stones from the long dismantled priory, scrapsof tracery, moulded window-jambs, and arch-labels, being mixedin with the rubble of the walls. in this cottage he occupied a couple of rooms,jopp, whom henchard had employed, abused, cajoled, and dismissedby turns, being the householder. but even here her stepfathercould 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-storesand hay-barns which had been the headquarters of his business. sheknew that he ruled there no longer; but it was with amazement thatshe regarded the familiar gateway. a smear of decisive lead-colouredpaint had been laid on to obliterate henchard's name, though its lettersdimly loomed through like ships in a fog. over these, in fresh white,spread the name of farfrae. abel whittle was edging his skeleton in atthe wicket, and she said,

"mr. farfrae is master here?" "yaas, miss henchet," he said, "mr. farfraehave bought the concern and all of we work-folk with it; and 'tis betterfor 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 myfew poor hairs so thin! no busting out, no slamming of doors, no meddlingwith yer eternal soul and all that; and though 'tis a shilling a weekless i'm the richer man; for what's all the world if yer mind is alwaysin a larry, miss henchet?" the intelligence was in a general sense true;and henchard's stores,

which had remained in a paralyzed conditionduring the settlement of his bankruptcy, were stirred into activityagain 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 thegrain was hauled in; trusses of hay were tossed anew in and out of thebarns, and the wimbles creaked; while the scales and steel-yardsbegan to be busy where guess-work had formerly been the rule. end of chapter 31�