Hope Republican, Volume 2, Number 50, Hope, Bartholomew County, 5 April 1894 — Page 6

THE MAYOR OF GASTERBRIDGE BY THOMAS HARDY* CHAPTER XXXIX.

When Farfrae descended out of the loft, breathless from his encounter with Henchard, he paused at the bottom to recover himself. He arrived at the yard with the intention of putting the horse into the gig himself (all the men having a holiday), and driving to a village on the Budmouth Road. Despite the fearful struggle, he decided to still persevere in his journey, so as to recover himself before going indoors and meeting the eyes of Lucetta. He wished to consider his course in a case so serious. When he was just on the point of driving off, Whittlebone arrived with a note, badly addressed, and bearing the word ( ‘iinmediate” upon the outside. On opening it, he was surprised to see that it was un- • signed. It contained a brief request that he would go to Weatherbury 1 that evening about some business which he was conducting there. Farfrae knew nothing that could! make it pressing; but, as he was! bent upon going out, he yielded to ! the anonymous request, particularly 1 as he had a call toinakeatMellstock, which could be included in the same i tour. Thereupon he told Whittlebone of his change of direction, in ' words which Henchard had over- j heard; and set out §n his way. Far-1 frae had not directed his man to take , the message indoors, and Whittle- f bone had not been supposed to do so , ■on his own responsibility.

Now the anonymous letter was the well-intentioned' but clumsy contriv-1 ance of Longways and other of Far-; frae’s men to get him out of the way ! for the evening, in order that the j satirical mummery should fall flat, if i It were attempted. By giving open information they would have brought; ■down upon their heads the vengeance ( of those among their comrades who ■enjoyed these boisterous old games, j ■ and therefore the plan of sending a better recommended itself by its in- j directness. For poor Lucetta they took no protective measure, believing with the majority there was some truth In the scandal, which she would have to bear as best she might. It was about eight o’clock, and Lucetta was sitting in the drawingroom alone. Night had set in for more than half atr hour, but she had not had the candles lighted, for when Farfrae was away she preferred waiting for him by the fire- ■ light, and, if it were not too cold, I keeping one of the window-sashes a I little way open, that the sound of his > wheels might reach her oars early.! She was leaning back in her chair in a more hopeful mood than she had ( enjoyed since her marriage. The { day had been such a success; and | the temporary uneasiness which Henchard’s show of effrontery had wrought in her disappeared with the quiet disappearance of Henchard himself under her husband’s reproof. The floating evidences of her void marriage with him had been destroyed, and she really seemed to have no cause for fear. The reverie in which these and other subjects mingled was disturbed by a hubbub in the distance, that increased moment by moment. It did not greatly surprise her, the afternoon having been given up to recreation by a majority of the populace since the passage of the royal equipages. But her attention was at once riveted to the matter by the voice of the maid-servant next door, who spoke from an upper window across the street to some other maid even,more elevated than she. ‘‘Which way be they going now?’’ inquired the first, with interest. “I can’t bo sure for a moment,” said the second, “because of the malter’s chimbley. O hr, yes—I can see ’em. Well, I declare—I declare!” “What, what?” from the first, more enthusiastically. “They are coming up Corn Street, after all! They sit back to back!” “What—two of ’em—are there two figures?” “Yes. Two images op a donkey, back to back, their elbows tied to one another’s. She’s facing the head, and he’s facing the.tail.” “Is it meant for anybody in particular?” “Well, it may be. The man has got on a blue coat and kerseymere leggings; he has black whiskers and a reddish face. Tis a stuffed figure with a mask,” The din was increasing now —then it lessened a little. “There —I shan’t see, after all!” cried the disappointed first maid. “They have gone into a back street —that’s all,” said the one who occupied the enviable position in the attic. “There—now I have got ’em all endways nicely.” “What’s the woman like? Just «av, and I can tell in a moment if ’tis meant for one I’ve in mind.” “My—why —’tis dressed just as

she was dressed when she sat in the front seat at the the time the playactors came to the Town Hall!” Lucetta started to her feet, and almost at the instant the door of the room was quickly and softly opened. Elizabeth Jane advanced into the firelight. “I have come to see you,” she said, breathlessly. “I did not stop to knock—forgive me. I see you have not shut your shutters, and-the-window is open.”

CHAPTER XL. Long before this time Henchard, weary of his ruminations on the bridge, had repaired toward the town. When he stood at the bottom of the street a procession burst upj on his view, in the act of turning out of an alley just above him. The lanterns, horns, and multitude frightened him; he saw the mounted images, and knew what it all meant. They crossed-the way, entered another street and disappeared. He turned back a few steps and was lost in grave reflection, finally wending his tfey homeward by the obscure riverside path. U liable to rest there he went to his stepdaughter's lodging, and was told that- Elizabeth Jane had gone to Mrs. Farfrae’s. Like one acting in obedience to a charm and with a nameless apprehension, he followed in the same direction. in the hope of meeting her, the roisterers having vanished. Disappointed in this, he gave the gentlest of pulls to the doorbell and then learned the particulars of what«had occurred, together with the doctor's imperative orders that Farfrae should be brought home, and how they had set out to meet him on the Budmouth Road. “But he has gone to Mellstock and Weatherbury!” exclaimed Henchard, now unspeakably grieved:-- “Not Budmouth way at all.” But, alas! for Henchard; he had lost his srood name. They would not believe him, taking nis word but as the frothy utterances of recklessness. Though Lucetta’s life at that moment seemed to depend upon her husband’s return (she being in great mental agony lest he should never know how little she was to blame for her past relations with Henchard), no messenger was dispatched toward Weatherbury. Henchard, in a state of bitter anxiety and contrition, determined to seek Farfrae himself. To this end he hastened down the town, ran along the eastern road over the moor, up the hill beyond, and thus onward in the moderate darkness of this spring night till he had reached a second and a third hill about three miles distant. In a cutting on the summit of the last he listened. At first nothing beyond his own heart-throbs was to be heard but the slow wind making its moan among the masses of spruce and larch which clothed the heights on either hand; but presently there came the sound of light wheels whetting their felloes against the newly stoned patches of road, accompanied by the distant glimmer of lights. He knew it was Farfrae’s gig, from an indescribable personality in its noise, the vehicle having been his own till bought by the Scotchman at the sale of his effects. Henchard thereupon descended the hill on its further side, meeting the gig as its driver slackened speed at the foot of the incline. It was a point in the highway at which the road to Mellstock branched off from the homeward direction. By diverging to that village, as he had intended to do, Farfrae might probably delay his return by a couple of hours. It soon appeared that his intention was to do so stilt, the light swerving toward the byroad. Farfrae’s off gig-lamp flashed in Henchard’s face. At the same time Farfrae discerned his late antagonist. “Farfrae —Mr. Farfrae!’ cried the breathless Henchard, holding up his hand. Farfrae allowed the horse to turn several steps into the branch lane before he pulled up. Ho then drew rein, and said “Yes?” over his shoulder, as one would toward a pronounced enemy. “Come back to Casterbridge at once!” Henchard said. “There's something wrong at your house—requiring your return. I’ve run all the way here on purpose to tell ’ee!” Farfrae was silent, and at his silence Henchard’s soul sunk within him, ‘Why had he not before this thought of what was only too obvious? He who, four hours earlier, had enticed Farfrae into a deadly wrestle, stood now in the darkness of late night-time on a lonely road, at a point where it plunged in’to a cutting through a wood; he invited the man, whom on the first occasion he had let off, to enter that wood, when his purposed way was across

an open upland, where there was at least a better opportunity of guarding- himself from attack. Henchard could almost feel this view of things in course of passage through Farfrae's mind. “I have to go to Mellstock," said Farfrae, coldly, as he loosened his rein to move on. “But,” implored Henchard, “the matter is more serious than your business at Mellstock. It is—yonr wife. She is ill. I can tell you particulars as we go along. ” The very agitation and hesitancy of Henchard increased Farfrae’s suspicion that this was a ruse to decoy him into the wood, where might be effectually compassed what from policy or want of nerve, Henchard had failed to do earlier in the day. Ho started the horse. “I know what you think,” deprecated Henchard, running after, almost bowed down with despair as he perceived the monstrous image of unscrupulous villainy that he had assumed in his former friend’s eyes. “But I am not what you think!” he cried, hoarsely. “Believe me, Farfrae; I have come entirely on your own and your wife’s account. She is in danger. I know no more; and they want you to come. Your man has gone the other way in a mistake. Oh, Farfrae, don’t mistrust me—I am a wretched man; but my heart is true to you stilll” Farfrae did distrust him utterly. He had left his wife not long ago in perfect health: and Henchard’s treachery was more credible than his story. He had in his time heard bitter ironies from Henchard’s lips, and these might be ironies now. He' quickened the horse’s pace, and had soon risen into the open country lying between there and Mellstock, Henehard's spasmodic run after him lending yet more substance to his thought of evil purposes.

The gig and its driver lessened against the sky in Henchard’s eyes; his exertions for Farfrae’s good had been in vain. Over this repentant sinner, at least, there was to be no joy in heaven. He <jursed himself like a less scrupulous Job, q,s a vehement man will do when he Ipses selfrespect, the last mental prop under poverty. To this he had come after a time of emotional darkness, of which the adjoining woodland shade afforded inadequate illustration. Presently he began to walk back again along the way by which he had come. Farfrae should at all events have no reason for delay upon the road by seeing him there when he took his journey homeward later on. Arriving at Casterbridge, Henchard went again to Farfrae’s house to make inquiries. As soon as the door opened anxious faces confronted his from the staircase, hall, and landing; and they all said in grievous disappointment. “Oh —it is not he!” The man, finding his mistake, had long since returned, and all hopes had been centered upon Henchard. “But haven’t you found him?” said the doctor. “Yes. I cannot tell ’ee!" Henchard replied, as he sunk down on a chair within the entrance. “He I can't be home for two hours.” “H’m!” said the physician, return-) ing upstairs. ! ‘How is she?" asked Henchard of I Elizabeth Jane, who formed one of the group. “In great danger. Her anxiety to see her husband makes her fearfully restless. Poor woman—I fear they have killed her!” Henchard regarded the sympathetic speaker for a few instants, as if she struck him in a new light; then, without further remarks, went out of the door and onward to his lonely cottage. So much for man's rivalry he thought. Death was to have the oyster, and Farfrae and himself the shells. But about Elizabeth Jane; in the midst of his gloom she seemed to him as a pin point of light. He had liked the look of her face as she answered him from the stairs. There had been affection in it, and above all things what he desired now was affection from anything that was good and pure. She was not his own; yet, for the first time, he had a faint dream that he might get to like her as his own —if she would only continue to love him. Jopp was just going to bed when Henchard got home. As the latter opened the door Jopp said, “This is rather bad about Mrs. Farfrae’s illness.” “Yes,” said Henchard shortly, though little dreaming of Jopp’s complicity in the night’s harlequinade, and raised his eyes just sufficiently to observe that Jopp's face was lined with anxiety. “Somebody called for you,’’continued Jopp when Henchard was shutting himself in his own apartment. “A kind of traveler, or sea captain of some sort.” “Oh! who could ho be?” “He seemed a well-be-doing man— : had gray hair and a broadish face; but he gave no name and no message. ” “Nor do I gie him any attention.” And, saying this, Henchard closed his door. * m. e * * »

The divergence to Mellstock delayed Farfrae’s return very nearly the two hour’s of Henchard’s estimate. Among the other urgent reasons for his presence had been the need of his authority to send to Budmouth for a second physician; and when at length Farfrae did come back he was in a state bordering on distraction at his misconception of Henchard’s motives. A messenger was dispatched to Budmouth, late as it had grown; the night wore on, and the other doctor came jn the small hours. Lucetta had been much soothed by Donald’s arrival; he seldom or never left her side; and when, immediately after his entry, she had tried to lisp out to him the secret which so oppressed her, he checked her feeble words lest talking should be dangerous, assuring her there was plenty of time to tell him everything. Up to this time he knew nothing of the skimmington ride. The dangerous illness of Mrs. Farfrae was soon rumored through the town,and an apprehensive guess having been given as to its cause by the protagonists of the exploit, compunction and fear threw a dead silence over all particulars of the orgy; while those immediately around Lucetta would not venture to add to her husband's distress by alluding to the subject.

What and how much Farfrae’s wife ultimately explained to him of her past entanglement with Henchard when they were alone in the solitude of that sad night cannot be told. That she informed him of the bare facts of her void marriage with the bankrupt merchant became plain from Farfrae’s own statements. But in respect of her subsequent conduct —her motive in coming to Casterbridge to reunite herself with Henchard—her assumed justification in abandoning him as she discovered reasons for fearing him—her inconsequent passion for another man at first sight—her method of reconciling to her conscience a. marriage with the second when she was in a measure the partner of the first; to what extent she spoke of these things remained Farfrae’s secret alone. Beside the watchman who called the hours and weather in Casterbridge that night there walked a figure up and down Corn Street hardly less frequently. It was Henchard’s, whose retiring to rest had proved itself a futility as soon as attempted, and he gave it up to go hither and thither and make inquiries about the patient every now and then. He called as much on Farfrae’s account as on Lucetta’s, and on Elizabeth Jane’s even more than on cither’s. Shorn one by one of all other interests, his life seemed to be centering on the personality of the stepdaughter whose presence but recently he could not endure. To see her on each occasion of his inquiry at Lucetta’s was a comfort to him. The last of his calls was made about four o’clock in the morning, in the steely light of dawn. Lucifer was fading into day over Drummerford Moor, the sparrows were just alighting into the street, and the hens had begun to cackle in the out houses. When within a few yards of Farfrae’s he saw the door gently opened and a servant raise her hand to the knocker and untie a piece of cloth which had muffled it. He went across, the sparrows in his way scarcely flying up from the horse droppings, so little did they believe in human aggression at so early a time. “Why do you take off that?” said Henchard. v She turned in some surprise at his presence and did not answer for an instant or two. Recognizing him, she said, “Because they may knock as loud as they will, she will never hear it any more.”

CHAPTER XLT. Henchard went home. The morning having now fully broke he lighted his fire and sat abstractedly beside it. He had not sat there long when a gentle footstep approached the house and entered the passage, a finger tapping lightly at the door. Henchard’s face brightened.for he knew the motions to be Elizabeth’s. She came into his room, looking pale and sad. “Have you heard?" she asked. “Mrs. Farfrae? She is dead! Yes, indeed —about an hour ago.” “I know it.” said Henchard. “I have but lately come in from there. It is so very good of ye, Elizabeth, to come and tell me. You must be so tii - ed out, too, with sitting up. Now do you bide here with me this morning. You can go arid rest in the other room, and I will call 'ee when breakfast is ready.” To please him, and herself—for his recent kindness was winning a surprised gratitude from the lonely girl- she did as he bade her, and lay down on a sort of couch • which Henchard had rigged up out of a settle in the adjoining room. She could hear him moving about in his preparations; but her mind ran most j strongly on Lucetta, whose death, i in such fulness of life, and amid such

cheerful hopes of maternity, was appallingly unexpected. Presently she fell asleep. Meanwhile her stepfather in the outer room had set the breakfast in readiness; but finding that she dozed he would not call her; he waited on, looking into the fire and keeping the kettle boiling with housewifely care, as if it were an honor to have her in the house. In truth, a great change had come over him with regard to her, and he . was developing the dream of a future lighted by her filial presence, as though that way alone could happiness lie. He was disturbed by another knock at the door, and rose to open it, rather deprecating a call from anybody just .then. A stoutly-built man stood on the doorstep, with an alien, unfamiliar air about his figure and bearing an air which might have been called colonial by oeoplo of cosmopolitan experience, It was the man who had asked his way at Peter's Finger. Henchard nodded, and looked inquiry. ‘‘Good morning, good morning;” said 'thestrnger, wish profuse heartiness. “Is it _ Mr. Henchard I am talking to?” “My name is Henchard.” “Then I caught ye at home —that’s right. Morning’s the time for business, says I. Can I have a few words with ’ee?” “By all means,” Henchard answered, showing the way in. “You may rememoer me.” said his visitor, seating himself. Henchard observed him indifferently. and shook his head. “Well, perhaps you may not. My name is Newson.” Henchard’s face and eyes seemed to die. The other did not notice it. “I know ‘he name well,” Henchard said at last, looking on the floor. “I make no doubt of that. Well, the. fact is, I've been looking for you this fortnight past. I went through Casterbridge on my way to Weydon Priors, and when I got there they told me you had some years before been living at Casterbridge, Back carno I again, and by long and by late I got here by coach, ten minutes ago. "He lives down by the mill,’ says they, so here I am. Now —that transaction between us some twenty years agone—’tis that I’ve called about. ’Twas a curious business. I was younger then than I am now, and perhaps the less said about it in one sense the better.”

“Curious business? ’Twas worse than curious. I cannot even allow that I’m the man you met then. I was not in my senses, and a man’s senses are himself.” “We were young 1 and thoughtless,” said Newson. “However, I’ve come to mend matters rather than open arguments. Poor Susan —her’s was a strange experience.” “It was.” “She was a warm-hearted, homespun woman. She was not what they call shrewd or sharp at allbetter she had been.” “She was not”’ “As you in all likelihood know, she was simple-minded enough to think that the sale was binding. She was as guiltless o’ wrong-doing in that particular as a saint in the clouds.”

“I know it—I know it. I found it out directly,” said Henchard, still with averted eyes. “There lay the sting o’t tome. If she had known the truth she never would have left me —never! But how should she bo expected to know? What advantages had she? None? She could write her own name, and no more.” “Well, it was not in my heart to undeceive her when the deed was done,” said the sailor of former days. “I thought, and there wds not much vanity in thinking it, that she would be happier with me. She was fairly happy, and I never would have undeceived her till the day of her death. Your child died; she had another, and all went well. But a time came —mark me, a time always does come, A time came —it was some time after she and I and the child had returned from America —when somebody she had confided her history to told her my claim to her was a mockery, and and made a jest of her belief in my right. After that she was never happy with me. She pined and pined, and rocked and sighed. She said she must leave me, and then came the question of our child. Then a man advised me what to do, and I did it, for I thought it was best. I left her at Falmouth, and went to sea. “When I got to the other side o( the Atlantic there was a storm, and it got in the papers that a lot of us, including myself, had been washed overboard. I got ashore at Newfoundland, and then I asked myself what I should do. “Since I’m here, here I’ll bide,’ I thought to myself, ‘’twill be most kindness to her, now she’s took against me. to let her believe me lost; for, I thought, ‘while she supposes us both alive she'll be miserable; but if she thinks me dead she’ll go back to him, and the child will have a homo.’ I never returned to this country till a month ago, and I found that, as I had supposed, she went to you, and my daughter with her. They told me in Falmouth thal