Hope Republican, Volume 2, Number 37, Hope, Bartholomew County, 4 January 1894 — Page 6

fi 'Mini op .turn BY THOMAS HARDY. CHAPTER XVII— Continued.

''Meanwniie. Donald Farfrae had opened the gates of commerce on his qwp) account at a spot on Dummerford Hill, as far as possible from Henchard's stores, and with every Intention of keeping clear of his former friend and Employer’s customers. There was, it seemed to the younger man, room for both of them apd to, spare. The town was small, but the corn and hay trade was proportionately large, and with his native sagacity he saw honest opportunity for a share of it. So determined was he to do .nothing which shnuld seem like trade-antagonism to'lhe mayor that he refused his first customer, a large farmer of good repute, because Henchard and this man had dealt together within the'preoeding three mouths. Then a miller came to him, and they wore About to close a bargain for a hundred quarters oy more of produce, when the man, till then a stranger to Farfrae, mentioned the name of Henchard. “Ah! have you done business with iiirq?” < said Donald, quickly.

“Done business —why, my tender soul, I.have dealt wi’ nobody else these eleven year —I’ve only wanted the chance, and ’tis come I jump at it. He’s had his price of me too long.” “Then I must refuse you,” said Parfrae. “I can’t help it. It’s a vow I have made myself—an understanding between me and him.” “But I thought ye had had a row?” said the miller. “No, no. He was once my friend, and it's not for me to take business from him. I am sorry to disappoint you, bqt I can not hurt the trade of a man wlio’s been so kind to me.” In spite of this praiseworthy course the Scotchman’s trade increased. Whether it were that his Northern energy was an overmastering force among the easy-going Wessex worthies, or whether it was sheer luck, the fact remained that whatever he touched he prospered in. Like Jacob in PadamAram, he would no sooner humbly limit him self to the ring-straked and spotted exceptions of trade, than the ringstraked and spotted would multiply and prevail. But most, probably luck had little to do with it. Character is Fate, said Novalis, and Farfrae’s character was just the reverse of Henchard’s, who might not inaptly be described as Faust has been described—as a vehement, gloomy being, who had quitted the ways of! vulgar men without light to guide : him on a bet'er way. Farfrae di ly received the request to discontinue atttentions to Elizabeth Jane. His acts of that kind had been so slight that the request was almost superfluous. Yet he had felt a considerable interest in her, and after some cogitation he decided that it would be as well to enact no Romeo part just then —for the young girl’s own sake no less than his own. Thus the incipient attachment was stifled down, A time came when, avoid collision with ids former friend as he, might, Farfrae was compelled, in sheer selfdefense, to close with Henchard in mortal commercial combat. He could no longer parry the fierce attacks of the latter by simple avoidance. As soon as their war of prices bVgan everybody was interested.and some few guessed the end. It was in some degree, Northern insight matched against Southern doggedness —the dirk against the cudgel — and Uencliard’s was one which, if il did not deal ruin at the first or second stroke, left him afterward well nigh at his antagonist’s mercy.

Almost every Saturday they en countered each other,amid the crowd of farmers which thronged about the market place in the weekly course of their business. Donald .was always ready, and even anxious, to say a few friendly words, but th ■mayor invariably gazed stormfull v past him. like one who bad endured and lost on his account, and could in jio sense forgive the wrong: hor did Farfruo's snubbed manner of per •plexi-ty at all appease, him. The large fanners, corn-merchants, millers. auctioneers, and others had ■each an official stall in the cornmarket' room. with their names painted thereon; and when to the familiar series of “Henchard,” “Everdeno,” “Farton," and soon, was added one inscribed “Farfrae,” in staring new loiters, Hi nchard was qtung into bitterness; like Bellerophon, he wandered away from the crowd, cankered in soul. From that day Donald Farfrao’s ■name was seldom mentioned in Ilenchard-s house. If at breakfast or dinner Elizabeth Jane’s mother inadvertently alluded to her favorite’s movements, the girl would implore her by a h>ok to be silent; and tier husband would say. ■‘■‘What!— ■arc you, too, my jenemy?”

CHAPTER XVIII. There came a shock which had been foreseen for some time by Elizabeth Jane, as the driver forsees the approaching jerk from some channel across his track. Her mother was ill—too unwell to leave her room. Henchard, who treated her kindly* except in moments of irritation, sent at once for the richest, busiest doctor, whom he supposed to be the best'. Bedtime came, and they burned a light all night. In a day or two she rallied. EUzabeth, who had been staying ud, did not appear at breakfast on the second morning, and Henchard sat down alone. He was startled to see a letter for him from Jersey in a writing he knew too well, and had expected least to behold again. He took it up in his hands and looked at it as at a picture, a vision, a vista of past enactments; and then he read it as an. unimportant finale to conjecture.

The writer said that she at length perceived how impossible it would be for any further communications to proceed between them now that his remarriage had taken place. That such reunion had been the only straight-forward course open to him she was bound to admit. “Oh calm reflection, therefore,” she went on, “I quite forgive you for landing me in such a dilemma, remembering that you concealed nothing before our illadvised marriage, hasty as it was; and that you really did set before me the fact of ■ there being a certain risk in marrying you, slight as it seemed to be after eighteen years of silence on your wife’s part. I thus look upon the whole as a misfortune of mine, and not a fault of yours. “So that, Michael, I must ask you to overlook those letters with which I pestered you day after day in the heat of my feelings, immediately after being sent back to Jersey when I had come to join you. They were written whilst I thought your conduct to me cruel; but now T know more particulars of the position' you wqre in, I see.how inconsiderate my ‘reproaches were.” “Now you will, Lam sure, perceive that the one condition which will make any future happiness possible for me, is that the past connection between our lives be kept secret as the tomb. Speak of it I know you will not; and I can trust you not to write of it. One safeguard more remains to be mentioned—that no writings of mine, or trifling articles belonging to me, should be left in your possession through neglect or forgetfulness. To this end may I request you to return to me any such you may have, particularly the letters I have written in the abandonment of feeling since our supposed marriage. “For the handsome sum you settled on me as a plaster to the wound, I heartily thank you.”

‘“I am now on my way to Bristol, to see ray uncle the banker. He is rich, and T hope'he will do something for me. I shall return through Casterbridge and Budmouth, where I shall take the steamboat. Can you direct.some one to meet me with the letters and other trifles? I shall be in the coach that changes horses at the Stag Hotel at half-past five Wednesday evening; I shall be wearing a Paisley shawl with a red center, and thus may easily be found. For safety call me anything— Miss St. Heller, say. I should prefer this plan of receiving them to having them sent, since it would hinder dangerous inquiries in the house as to what the bundle contained. I remain still, ■ “Yours truly, L'ucetta." Henchard breathed heavily. “Poor thing—better you had saved the devil’s life than mine! Upon my heart and soul, if ever I should be left iua position to make that mar‘riage with you a legal one I ought to do it —1 ought to do it, indeed 1 ” The contingency he had in mind was, of course, the death of Mrs. Henchard. Mrs. Henchard sent to him from the room soon after and he went up. T feel so much better, Michael,” she said, “that I shall go out in a chair toward the middle of the day.” Henchard arranged that the chair should bo ready and wont about his daily business. About 12 o’clock he was passing round the south side of the town, ouside tho earth work of walls, and glancing into the Chestnut Avenue he saw that his wife was taking the airingas she had planned. Old Solomon Longways, with a long, white wooden rake, was scraping together the yellow, brown and green leaves which had fallen and heaping ing them into a deep wheelbarrow; they were insinuating visitors, those autumn leaves, sailing down the air into chimneys, green houses and roof gutters, even finding their way in some mysterious manner as far as the town pump—that center and hub

of the borough. But what attracted Henchard was other than this; it was the fact that his wife's chair was pulled up beside a lady seated on a bench at the edge of the walk —a lady closely veiled, of graceful figure, wearing a Paisley shawl with a red center. Upon her shoulders, and upon his wife’s, an occasional leaf rested as it floated down. They were talking after the manner of those whom a com- . mon recreation spot had made ao- ■ quaintances. Henchard looked thunderstruck when he beheld the incident. Then he seemed to fancy himself mistaken, especially as the day was not the day mentioned in Lucetta’s letter; and thus he went on his way. “I saw you talking to a friend in the Walk,” he said tq Susan at dinner, as she sat propped up by a cushion. < □ “Yea,-" said the unwitting Mrs. Henchard. “She was a stranger to pie, however. She was a kind, ladylike young woman, oh her way to Bristol, and she had stopped to look at the town for half an hour, which she had never seen before.” Henchard sunk into numbness at this news, which reconfirmed liis original conviction.' HC disliked the idea of that meeting and wondered if Lucetta had aimed to see his-wife or whether the conjuncture were an accident. ‘ ■ Nothing occurred to enlighten him, and three days afterward, the time she had appointed for receiving her o}d letters, he sealed them up in a packet, which he placed in the hands of Elizabeth Jane, she being one who could execute such a commission without burning curriosity or troublesome questioning. She was directed to meet the Bristol coach at Stag Hotel and give the parcel to a Miss St. Helier inside, who should ask for such a thing. Elizabeth had not seen Lucetta, if it had been Lucetta, with her mother in the Chestnut Walk, so he thought there would be no risk worth considering. At dusk Elizabeth Jane went and , stood opposite the coach office door, close to the inii yard. The evening was rather chilly and the coach happened to be late. While she stood she saw Farfrae coming round by the town pump, and he crossed over to her. Though there was no positive reason for so doing, she could not help telling him why she waited there. “Shall I give it to the lady? I’ll do so with pleasure if you find it tedious to stay,” he said. Elizabeth accepted his offer and came away. The coach at last arrived and there was nobody inside or out who asked for such a parcel. Farfrae was now rather embarrassed, till the guard declared that he knew the lady described —that she had passed through Casterbridge from Budmouth to Bristol three, or four days before and had mentioned this time for her return. He thought she must have missed the coach but would probably come on the following journey; he could give her the package if Farfrae would intrust him with it. The latter thereupon handed it over to him. A fortnight after, as Farfrae was walking along the street, the guard of the same coach came to him with the information that, though he had carried the packet up and down ever since, the lady had not returned, and he reproduced the article from his capacious pocket. It was worn through by friction and the letters were slipping out. Farfrae took the bundle, which had evidently hem investigated and deemed a pro.itless burden. He reached home, guessed the letters were the property of the lady Henchard had become involved with, understood the plan and was in doubt what to do. He put them aside till he should meet Miss Newson, and tell what had occurred. Meanwhile Mrs. Henchard was weakening visibly.' She could not go out-of-doors anymore. One day, after much thinking which seemed to distress her, she said she wanted to write something. A desk was put upon her bed with pen and paper, and at her request she was left alone. She remained writing for a short time, folded her paper carefully, called Elizabeth Jane to bring taper and wax, and then, still refusing assistance, sealed up the sheet, directed it, and locked it in her desk. She had directed it in these words: “Mr. Michael Henchard. Not to be opened till Elizabeth Jane’s wedding-day.” The latter sat up with her mother to the utmost of her strength night after night. To learn to take the universe seriously there is no quicker way than to watch—to be a “waker,” as the country people call it. Between the hours at which the last toss-pot went by and the first sparrow shook himself, the silence in Casterbridge was broken in Elizabeth’s ear only by the time-piece in the bedroom ticking frantically against the clock on the stairs; ticking harder and harder till it seemed to clang like a gong; and all this while Elizabeth Jane asking herself why she was born, why sitting in a room, and blinking at the candle; why things around her had taken the shape they wore in preference to every other possible shape. Why

they stared at her so helplessly, as if waiting for the touch of some magic wand that should release them from terrestrial restraint; what that chaos called consciousness, which spun in her at this moment like a top, tended to, and began in. Her eyes fell together; she was awake, yet she was asleep. A word from her mother roused her. Without preface, and as the continuation of a scene already progressing in her mind, Mrs. Henchard said: “You remember the note sent to you and Mr. Farfrae—asking you to meet some one in Dummerford Barton —and that you thought it was a trick to fool you?” “Yes.” “It was not to make fools of you — it was done to bring you together. ’Twas I did it.” “Why?” said Elizabeth with a start. “I —wanted you to marry Mr. Farfrae.” “Oh, motherl” Elizabeth Jane bent down her head so much that she looked quite into her own lap. But as her mother did not go on, she said, “What reason?” “Well I had a reason. ’Twill out some day. I wish it could have been in my time! But there —nothing is as you wish it. Henchard hates him.” “Perhaps they’ll befriends again,” murmured the girl. “I don’t know—I don’t know." After this her mother was silent and’ dozed; and she spoke no more on the subject. Some days after this Farfrae, in turning over his cupboard, found the letters he had been 'commissioned to hand to the lady-traveler by coach. He thrust them into his great-coat pocket, and, though it was Sunday morning, took them to Henchard's house to return them to Miss Newson at once. When he got there he saw that the blinds were all down. He rang the bell so softly that it only sounded a single full note and a small dead one; and then he was informed that Mrs. Henchard was dead—just dead —that very hour. He would hot leave the letters, as they were nearly loose; and he wished to explain why he still had them; so he took them back to his cupboard again.

At the town pump there were gathered, when he passed, a few old inhabitants who came there for water whenever they had, as at present, spare time to fetch it, because it was purer from that original fount than from there own wells. Mrs. Cuxsom, who had been standing there for an indefinite time with her pitcher, was describing the incidents of Mrs. Henchard’s death, as she had learned them from the nurse. “And she was white as marblestone,” said Mrs. Cuxsom. “And likewise such a thoughtful woman, too —ah, poor soul! —so thoughtful that a’ minded every little thing that wanted tending. ‘Yes,’ says she, ‘when I’m gone, and my last breath’s Wowed, look in the top drawer o’ the chest in the back room by the winder, and you’ll find my coffin clothes; a piece of flannel—that's to put under me, and the little piece is to put under my head; and my new stockings for my feet — they be folded alongside, and all my other things. And there’s four ounce pennies, the heaviest I could find, a-tied up in bits of linen for weights—two for my right eye and two for my left,’ she said. ‘And when you’ve used ’em, and my eyes don’t open no more, bury the pennies, good souls, and don’t ye go spending on ’em, for I shouldn’t like it. And open the winders as soon as I am carried out, and make it as cheerful as you can for my Elizabeth Jane.’ ” “Ah, poor heart!” “Well, and Martha did it, and buried the ounce pen nies in the garden. But if ye’ll believe the words, that man, Christopher Coney, went and dug 'em up, and spent ’em at at the King o’ Prussia, ‘h’aith,’ he said, ‘why should death deprive life of fourpence? Death s not of such 1 good report that wc should honor [ him to that extent,’ says he.” “ ’Twas rather a cannibal deed, nevertheless!” deprecated herlistenI crs, shaking their heads. “Gad, then, I won’t quite hae it!” said Solomon Longways. “I say it to-day, and ’tis a Sunday morning, and I wouldn’t speak wrongfully for a silver sixpence at such a time. I don't see harm in it; Bain’t we all lumps of one mixture, the dead and the living—say? To respect the dead is sound doxology; and I wouldn’t sell skellintons—leastwise respectable skellintons —to bo varnished for natomies, except I were out o’ work. But money is scarce, and throats be dry. Why should death deprive life of fourpence? 1 say there is no treason in it.” ‘Well, poor soul, she’s helpless to hinder that or anything now,” answered Mother Cuxom. “And all her shining keys will be took from her, and her cupboards opened; and things a’ didn,t wish seen, anybody will see- and her little ways and wishes will be as nothing.” CHAPTER XIX. Henchard and Elizabeth Jane sat

conversing by the Are. It was three weeks after Mrs. Henchard s funeral; the candles were not lighted, and a flexuous acrobatic flame, poised on a coal called from the shady walls all shapes that could respond—the old pier glass, with gilt columns and huge entablature, the picture frames, sundry knobs and handles, and the brass rosette at the bottom of each ribbon bell-pull on either side of the chiraney-piecc. “Elizabeth, do' you think much of old times?” said Henchard. “Yes; sir. often,” said she. “Who do you put in your pictures of ’em?” , , “Mother and father—nobody else hardly.” , Henchard always looked like one bent on resisting pain when Elizabeth Jane spoke of Richard Newson as “father.” “Ah, I am out of all that, am J not?” he said. “Was Newson a kind father?” “Yes, sir; very.” Henchard's face settled into an expression of stolid loneliness which graduallv modulated into something softer. "“Suppose I had been your real father?” he said. “Would you have cared for me as much as you care for Richard Newson?” “I can’t think it,” she said quickly. “I can think of no other as my father except my father.” Henchard's wife was dissevered from him by death; his friend and helper Farfrae by estrangement; Elizabeth Jane by ignorance. It seemed to him that only one of them could possibly be recalled, and that was the girl His mind began vibrating between the wish to reveal himself to her; and tlje. policy of leaving well alone, till he could no longer sit still. He walked up and down, and then he came and stood behind her chair, looking down upon the top of her head. He could no longer restrain his impulse. “What did your mother tell you about me — my history?” he asked. “That you Were related by marriage,” ‘ ‘She should have told more, before you knew me. Then my task would not have been such a hard one. Elizabeth, it is I who am your fathei - , and not Richard Newson. Shame alone prevented your wretched parents from owning this to you while both of ’em were alive. The back of Elizabeth’s head remained still, and her shoulders did not even denote even the movements of breathing. Henchard went on: “I’d rather have your scorn, your fear, anything than your ignorance; ’tis t}iat I hate. Your mother and I were man and wife when we were young. What you saw was our second marriage. Your mother was too honest. We had thought each other dead—and —Newson became her husband,”

This was the nearest approach Henchard could make to ttie full truth. As far as he personally was concerned he would have screened nothing; but he showed a respect for the young girl’s sex and years worthy of a better man. When he had gone on to give details which a whole series of slight and unregarded incidents in her past life strangely corr'oberated—when, in short, she believed his story to be true, she became greatly agitated, and turning round to the table, flung her face upon it weeping. “Don’t cry—don’t cry,” pleaded Henchard, with vehement pathos. “I can’t beai it; I won’t bear it. I am your father; why should you cry? Am I so dreadful, so hateful to ’ee? Don’t take against me, Elizabeth Jane!” he cried, grasping her wet hand. “Dont ’ee take against me—though I was a drinking man once, and used your mother roughly—I’ll be kinder to ’ee than he was! I’ll do anything, if you will only look upon me as your father!” She tried to stand up and confront him trustfully’; but she could not; she was troubled at his presence, like the brethren at the avowal of Joseph. “I don’t want ’ee to come to me all of a sudden,” said Henchard, in jerks, and moving like a great tree in the wind. “No, Elizabeth, I don’t. I’ll go away and not see you till tomorrow, or when you like; and then I’ll show ’ee letters to prove my words. There, I am gone, and I’ll not disturb ’ee any more. ’Twas I that chose your name, my daughter, your mother wanted it Susan. There,’ don’t forget ’twas I gave you your name.” He went out at 'the door and shut her softly in, and she heard him go away into the garden. But ne had not done. Before she had moved, or in any way recovered from the effect of his disclosure, he reappeared. “One word more, Elizabeth.” he said, “You’ll take my surname now hey? Your mother was against it; but it will be much more pleasant to me. ’T;s legally yours, you know. But nobody need know that. You shall take it as if by choice. I’ll talk to my lawyer -I don’t know the law of it exactly; but will ye do this—-let me put a few lines in the newspapers that such is to be your name?” * “If it is my name I must have it, mustn't I?” she asked.