The Mayor of Casterbridge
Henchard’s part, unquestionably, that it should be through the door.
At the outset Henchard’s hold by his only free hand, the right, was on
the left side of Farfrae’s collar, which he firmly grappled, the latter
holding Henchard by his collar with the contrary hand. With his right
he endeavoured to get hold of his antagonist’s left arm, which,
however, he could not do, so adroitly did Henchard keep it in the rear
as he gazed upon the lowered eyes of his fair and slim antagonist.
Henchard planted the first toe forward, Farfrae crossing him with his;
and thus far the struggle had very much the appearance of the ordinary
wrestling of those parts. Several minutes were passed by them in this
attitude, the pair rocking and writhing like trees in a gale, both
preserving an absolute silence. By this time their breathing could be
heard. Then Farfrae tried to get hold of the other side of Henchard’s
collar, which was resisted by the larger man exerting all his force in
a wrenching movement, and this part of the struggle ended by his
forcing Farfrae down on his knees by sheer pressure of one of his
muscular arms. Hampered as he was, however, he could not keep him
there, and Farfrae finding his feet again the struggle proceeded as
before.
By a whirl Henchard brought Donald dangerously near the precipice;
seeing his position the Scotchman for the first time locked himself to
his adversary, and all the efforts of that infuriated Prince of
Darkness—as he might have been called from his appearance just now—were
inadequate to lift or loosen Farfrae for a time. By an extraordinary
effort he succeeded at last, though not until they had got far back
again from the fatal door. In doing so Henchard contrived to turn
Farfrae a complete somersault. Had Henchard’s other arm been free it
would have been all over with Farfrae then. But again he regained his
feet, wrenching Henchard’s arm considerably, and causing him sharp
pain, as could be seen from the twitching of his face. He instantly
delivered the younger man an annihilating turn by the left fore-hip, as
it used to be expressed, and following up his advantage thrust him
towards the door, never loosening his hold till Farfrae’s fair head was
hanging over the window-sill, and his arm dangling down outside the
wall.
“Now,” said Henchard between his gasps, “this is the end of what you
began this morning. Your life is in my hands.”
“Then take it, take it!” said Farfrae. “Ye’ve wished to long enough!”
Henchard looked down upon him in silence, and their eyes met. “O
Farfrae!—that’s not true!” he said bitterly. “God is my witness that no
man ever loved another as I did thee at one time.... And now—though I
came here to kill ’ee, I cannot hurt thee! Go and give me in charge—do
what you will—I care nothing for what comes of me!”
He withdrew to the back part of the loft, loosened his arm, and flung
himself in a corner upon some sacks, in the abandonment of remorse.
Farfrae regarded him in silence; then went to the hatch and descended
through it. Henchard would fain have recalled him, but his tongue
failed in its task, and the young man’s steps died on his ear.
Henchard took his full measure of shame and self-reproach. The scenes
of his first acquaintance with Farfrae rushed back upon him—that time
when the curious mixture of romance and thrift in the young man’s
composition so commanded his heart that Farfrae could play upon him as
on an instrument. So thoroughly subdued was he that he remained on the
sacks in a crouching attitude, unusual for a man, and for such a man.
Its womanliness sat tragically on the figure of so stern a piece of
virility. He heard a conversation below, the opening of the coach-house
door, and the putting in of a horse, but took no notice.
Here he stayed till the thin shades thickened to opaque obscurity, and
the loft-door became an oblong of gray light—the only visible shape
around. At length he arose, shook the dust from his clothes wearily,
felt his way to the hatch, and gropingly descended the steps till he
stood in the yard.
“He thought highly of me once,” he murmured. “Now he’ll hate me and
despise me for ever!”
He became possessed by an overpowering wish to see Farfrae again that
night, and by some desperate pleading to attempt the well-nigh
impossible task of winning pardon for his late mad attack. But as he
walked towards Farfrae’s door he recalled the unheeded doings in the
yard while he had lain above in a sort of stupor. Farfrae he remembered
had gone to the stable and put the horse into the gig; while doing so
Whittle had brought him a letter; Farfrae had then said that he would
not go towards Budmouth as he had intended—that he was unexpectedly
summoned to Weatherbury, and meant to call at Mellstock on his way
thither, that place lying but one or two miles out of his course.
He must have come prepared for a journey when he first arrived in the
yard, unsuspecting enmity; and he must have driven off (though in a
changed direction) without saying a word to any one on what had
occurred between themselves.
It would therefore be useless to call at Farfrae’s house till very
late.
There was no help for it but to wait till his return, though waiting
was almost torture to his restless and self-accusing soul. He walked
about the streets and outskirts of the town, lingering here and there
till he reached the stone bridge of which mention has been made, an
accustomed halting-place with him now. Here he spent a long time, the
purl of waters through the weirs meeting his ear, and the Casterbridge
lights glimmering at no great distance off.
While leaning thus upon the parapet his listless attention was awakened
by sounds of an unaccustomed kind from the town quarter. They were a
confusion of rhythmical noises, to which the streets added yet more
confusion by encumbering them with echoes. His first incurious thought
that the clangour arose from the town band, engaged in an attempt to
round off a memorable day in a burst of evening harmony, was
contradicted by certain peculiarities of reverberation. But
inexplicability did not rouse him to more than a cursory heed; his
sense of degradation was too strong for the admission of foreign ideas;
and he leant against the parapet as before.
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 still to
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 Whittle arrived with a
note badly addressed, and bearing the word “immediate” upon the
outside. On opening it he was surprised to see that it was unsigned. It
contained a brief request that he would go to Weatherbury 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 as he had a call to make
at Mellstock which could be included in the same tour. Thereupon he
told Whittle of his change of direction, in words which Henchard had
overheard, and set out on his way. Farfrae had not directed his man to
take the message indoors, and Whittle had not been supposed to do so on
his own responsibility.
Now the anonymous letter was a well-intentioned but clumsy contrivance
of Longways and other of Farfrae’s men to get him out of the way for
the evening, in order that the satirical mummery should fall flat, if
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; and therefore the plan of sending a
letter recommended itself by its indirectness.
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 she best might.
It was about eight o’clock, and Lucetta was sitting in the drawing-room
alone. Night had set in for more than half an hour, but she had not had
the candles lighted, for when Farfrae was away she preferred waiting
for him by the firelight, and, if it were not too cold, keeping one of
the window-sashes a little way open that the sound of his wheels might
reach her ears early. She was leaning back in the 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 absurd passion for him, and its consequences, 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 a
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 be sure for a moment,” said the second, “because of the
malter’s chimbley. O 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 on 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 mid 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 falseface.”
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 say, 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 time the play-actors 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.”
Without waiting for Lucetta’s reply she crossed quickly to the window
and pulled out one of the shutters. Lucetta glided to her side. “Let it
be—hush!” she said peremptorily, in a dry voice, while she seized
Elizabeth-Jane by the hand, and held up her finger. Their intercourse
had been so low and hurried that not a word had been lost of the
conversation without, which had thus proceeded:—
“Her neck is uncovered, and her hair in bands, and her back-comb in
place; she’s got on a puce silk, and white stockings, and coloured
shoes.”
Again Elizabeth-Jane attempted to close the window, but Lucetta held
her by main force.
“’Tis me!” she said, with a face pale as death. “A procession—a
scandal—an effigy of me, and him!”