The Mayor of Casterbridge
The look of Elizabeth betrayed that the latter knew it already.
“Let us shut it out,” coaxed Elizabeth-Jane, noting that the rigid
wildness of Lucetta’s features was growing yet more rigid and wild with
the meaning of the noise and laughter. “Let us shut it out!”
“It is of no use!” she shrieked. “He will see it, won’t he? Donald will
see it! He is just coming home—and it will break his heart—he will
never love me any more—and O, it will kill me—kill me!”
Elizabeth-Jane was frantic now. “O, can’t something be done to stop
it?” she cried. “Is there nobody to do it—not one?”
She relinquished Lucetta’s hands, and ran to the door. Lucetta herself,
saying recklessly “I will see it!” turned to the window, threw up the
sash, and went out upon the balcony. Elizabeth immediately followed,
and put her arm round her to pull her in. Lucetta’s eyes were straight
upon the spectacle of the uncanny revel, now dancing rapidly. The
numerous lights round the two effigies threw them up into lurid
distinctness; it was impossible to mistake the pair for other than the
intended victims.
“Come in, come in,” implored Elizabeth; “and let me shut the window!”
“She’s me—she’s me—even to the parasol—my green parasol!” cried Lucetta
with a wild laugh as she stepped in. She stood motionless for one
second—then fell heavily to the floor.
Almost at the instant of her fall the rude music of the skimmington
ceased. The roars of sarcastic laughter went off in ripples, and the
trampling died out like the rustle of a spent wind. Elizabeth was only
indirectly conscious of this; she had rung the bell, and was bending
over Lucetta, who remained convulsed on the carpet in the paroxysms of
an epileptic seizure. She rang again and again, in vain; the
probability being that the servants had all run out of the house to see
more of the Demoniac Sabbath than they could see within.
At last Farfrae’s man, who had been agape on the doorstep, came up;
then the cook. The shutters, hastily pushed to by Elizabeth, were quite
closed, a light was obtained, Lucetta carried to her room, and the man
sent off for a doctor. While Elizabeth was undressing her she recovered
consciousness; but as soon as she remembered what had passed the fit
returned.
The doctor arrived with unhoped-for promptitude; he had been standing
at his door, like others, wondering what the uproar meant. As soon as
he saw the unhappy sufferer he said, in answer to Elizabeth’s mute
appeal, “This is serious.”
“It is a fit,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes. But a fit in the present state of her health means mischief. You
must send at once for Mr. Farfrae. Where is he?”
“He has driven into the country, sir,” said the parlour-maid; “to some
place on the Budmouth Road. He’s likely to be back soon.”
“Never mind, he must be sent for, in case he should not hurry.” The
doctor returned to the bedside again. The man was despatched, and they
soon heard him clattering out of the yard at the back.
Meanwhile Mr. Benjamin Grower, that prominent burgess of whom mention
has been already made, hearing the din of cleavers, tongs, tambourines,
kits, crouds, humstrums, serpents, rams’-horns, and other historical
kinds of music as he sat indoors in the High Street, had put on his hat
and gone out to learn the cause. He came to the corner above Farfrae’s,
and soon guessed the nature of the proceedings; for being a native of
the town he had witnessed such rough jests before. His first move was
to search hither and thither for the constables, there were two in the
town, shrivelled men whom he ultimately found in hiding up an alley yet
more shrivelled than usual, having some not ungrounded fears that they
might be roughly handled if seen.
“What can we two poor lammigers do against such a multitude!”
expostulated Stubberd, in answer to Mr. Grower’s chiding. “’Tis
tempting ’em to commit _felo de se_ upon us, and that would be the
death of the perpetrator; and we wouldn’t be the cause of a
fellow-creature’s death on no account, not we!”
“Get some help, then! Here, I’ll come with you. We’ll see what a few
words of authority can do. Quick now; have you got your staves?”
“We didn’t want the folk to notice us as law officers, being so
short-handed, sir; so we pushed our Gover’ment staves up this
water-pipe.”
“Out with ’em, and come along, for Heaven’s sake! Ah, here’s Mr.
Blowbody; that’s lucky.” (Blowbody was the third of the three borough
magistrates.)
“Well, what’s the row?” said Blowbody. “Got their names—hey?”
“No. Now,” said Grower to one of the constables, “you go with Mr.
Blowbody round by the Old Walk and come up the street; and I’ll go with
Stubberd straight forward. By this plan we shall have ’em between us.
Get their names only: no attack or interruption.”
Thus they started. But as Stubberd with Mr. Grower advanced into Corn
Street, whence the sounds had proceeded, they were surprised that no
procession could be seen. They passed Farfrae’s, and looked to the end
of the street. The lamp flames waved, the Walk trees soughed, a few
loungers stood about with their hands in their pockets. Everything was
as usual.
“Have you seen a motley crowd making a disturbance?” Grower said
magisterially to one of these in a fustian jacket, who smoked a short
pipe and wore straps round his knees.
“Beg yer pardon, sir?” blandly said the person addressed, who was no
other than Charl, of Peter’s Finger. Mr. Grower repeated the words.
Charl shook his head to the zero of childlike ignorance. “No; we
haven’t seen anything; have we, Joe? And you was here afore I.”
Joseph was quite as blank as the other in his reply.
“H’m—that’s odd,” said Mr. Grower. “Ah—here’s a respectable man coming
that I know by sight. Have you,” he inquired, addressing the nearing
shape of Jopp, “have you seen any gang of fellows making a devil of a
noise—skimmington riding, or something of the sort?”
“O no—nothing, sir,” Jopp replied, as if receiving the most singular
news. “But I’ve not been far tonight, so perhaps—”
“Oh, ’twas here—just here,” said the magistrate.
“Now I’ve noticed, come to think o’t that the wind in the Walk trees
makes a peculiar poetical-like murmur to-night, sir; more than common;
so perhaps ’twas that?” Jopp suggested, as he rearranged his hand in
his greatcoat pocket (where it ingeniously supported a pair of kitchen
tongs and a cow’s horn, thrust up under his waistcoat).
“No, no, no—d’ye think I’m a fool? Constable, come this way. They must
have gone into the back street.”
Neither in back street nor in front street, however, could the
disturbers be perceived, and Blowbody and the second constable, who
came up at this time, brought similar intelligence. Effigies, donkey,
lanterns, band, all had disappeared like the crew of _Comus_.
“Now,” said Mr. Grower, “there’s only one thing more we can do. Get ye
half-a-dozen helpers, and go in a body to Mixen Lane, and into Peter’s
Finger. I’m much mistaken if you don’t find a clue to the perpetrators
there.”
The rusty-jointed executors of the law mustered assistance as soon as
they could, and the whole party marched off to the lane of notoriety.
It was no rapid matter to get there at night, not a lamp or glimmer of
any sort offering itself to light the way, except an occasional pale
radiance through some window-curtain, or through the chink of some door
which could not be closed because of the smoky chimney within. At last
they entered the inn boldly, by the till then bolted front-door, after
a prolonged knocking of loudness commensurate with the importance of
their standing.
In the settles of the large room, guyed to the ceiling by cords as
usual for stability, an ordinary group sat drinking and smoking with
statuesque quiet of demeanour. The landlady looked mildly at the
invaders, saying in honest accents, “Good evening, gentlemen; there’s
plenty of room. I hope there’s nothing amiss?”
They looked round the room. “Surely,” said Stubberd to one of the men,
“I saw you by now in Corn Street—Mr. Grower spoke to ’ee?”
The man, who was Charl, shook his head absently. “I’ve been here this
last hour, hain’t I, Nance?” he said to the woman who meditatively
sipped her ale near him.
“Faith, that you have. I came in for my quiet suppertime half-pint, and
you were here then, as well as all the rest.”
The other constable was facing the clock-case, where he saw reflected
in the glass a quick motion by the landlady. Turning sharply, he caught
her closing the oven-door.
“Something curious about that oven, ma’am!” he observed advancing,
opening it, and drawing out a tambourine.
“Ah,” she said apologetically, “that’s what we keep here to use when
there’s a little quiet dancing. You see damp weather spoils it, so I
put it there to keep it dry.”
The constable nodded knowingly, but what he knew was nothing. Nohow
could anything be elicited from this mute and inoffensive assembly. In
a few minutes the investigators went out, and joining those of their
auxiliaries who had been left at the door they pursued their way
elsewhither.
XL.
Long before this time Henchard, weary of his ruminations on the bridge,
had repaired towards the town. When he stood at the bottom of the
street a procession burst upon his view, in the act of turning out of
an alley just above him. The lanterns, horns, and multitude startled
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 way homeward by the obscure river-side path. Unable to rest
there he went to his stepdaughter’s lodging, and was told that
Elizabeth-Jane had gone to Mr. 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 roysterers having vanished.
Disappointed in this he gave the gentlest of pulls to the door-bell,
and then learnt 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 good name. They would not
believe him, taking his words but as the frothy utterances of
recklessness. Though Lucetta’s life seemed at that moment to depend
upon her husband’s return (she being in great mental agony lest he
should never know the unexaggerated truth of her past relations with
Henchard), no messenger was despatched towards 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
Durnover Moor, up the hill beyond, and thus onward in the moderate
darkness of this spring night till he had reached a second and almost a
third hill about three miles distant. In Yalbury Bottom, or Plain, at
the foot of the hill, 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 of Yalbury Wood 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 descending the hill 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
retraced his steps along Yalbury Plain, the gig coming up with him as
its driver slackened speed between two plantations.