by Thomas Hardy
“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 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 perempority, 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!”
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 Daemonic 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 tonight, 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 supper-time 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.
40.
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 riverside 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.
It was a point in the highway near 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 still, the light swerving towards Cuckoo Lane, the by-road aforesaid. 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. He then drew rein, and said “Yes?” over his shoulder, as one would towards 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 ye.”
Farfrae was silent, and at his silence Henchard’s soul sank 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, inviting him to come a particular way, where an assailant might have confederates, instead of going his purposed way, where there might be 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 reins to move on.
“But,” implored Henchard, “the matter is more serious than your business at Mellstock. It is—your wife! She is ill. I can tell you particulars as we go along.”
The very agitation and abruptness of Henchard increased Farfrae’s suspicion that this was a ruse to decoy him on to the next wood, where might be effectually compassed what, from policy or want of nerve, Henchard had failed to do earlier in the day. He started the horse.
“I know what you think,” deprecated Henchard running after, almost bowed down with despair as he perceived the image of unscrupulous villainy that he 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 m
istake. O Farfrae! don’t mistrust me—I am a wretched man; but my heart is true to you still!”
Farfrae, however, did distrust him utterly. He knew his wife was with child, but he had left her 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 there might be ironies now. He quickened the horse’s pace, and had soon risen into the high country lying between there and Mellstock, Henchard’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 cursed himself like a less scrupulous Job, as a vehement man will do when he loses self-respect, 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 arrived. 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, “O—it is not he!” The manservant, finding his mistake, had long since returned, and all hopes had centred upon Henchard.
“But haven’t you found him?” said the doctor.
“Yes….I cannot tell ‘ee!” Henchard replied as he sank down on a chair within the entrance. “He can’t be home for two hours.”
“H’m,” said the surgeon, returning upstairs.
“How is she?” asked Henchard of Elizabeth, who formed one of the group.
“In great danger, father. 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 remark, 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-lane; in the midst of his gloom she seemed to him as a pin-point of light. He had liked the look on 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.
