The Mayor of Casterbridge

Chapter 22

We go back for a moment to the preceding night, to account

for Henchard's attitude.

At the hour when Elizabeth-Jane was contemplating her

stealthy reconnoitring excursion to the abode of the lady of

her fancy, he had been not a little amazed at receiving a

letter by hand in Lucetta's well-known characters. The

self-repression, the resignation of her previous

communication had vanished from her mood; she wrote with

some of the natural lightness which had marked her in their

early acquaintance.

HIGH-PLACE HALL

MY DEAR MR. HENCHARD,--Don't be surprised. It is for your

good and mine, as I hope, that I have come to live at

Casterbridge--for how long I cannot tell. That depends upon

another; and he is a man, and a merchant, and a Mayor, and

one who has the first right to my affections.

Seriously, mon ami, I am not so light-hearted as I may

seem to be from this. I have come here in consequence of

hearing of the death of your wife--whom you used to think of

as dead so many years before! Poor woman, she seems to have

been a sufferer, though uncomplaining, and though weak in

intellect not an imbecile. I am glad you acted fairly by

her. As soon as I knew she was no more, it was brought home

to me very forcibly by my conscience that I ought to

endeavour to disperse the shade which my etourderie

flung over my name, by asking you to carry out your promise

to me. I hope you are of the same mind, and that you will

take steps to this end. As, however, I did not know how you

were situated, or what had happened since our separation, I

decided to come and establish myself here before

communicating with you.

You probably feel as I do about this. I shall be able to

see you in a day or two. Till then, farewell.--Yours,

LUCETTA .

P.S.--I was unable to keep my appointment to meet you for a

moment or two in passing through Casterbridge the other day.

My plans were altered by a family event, which it will

surprise you to hear of.

Henchard had already heard that High-Place Hall was being

prepared for a tenant. He said with a puzzled air to the

first person he encountered, "Who is coming to live at the

Hall?"

"A lady of the name of Templeman, I believe, sir," said his

informant.

Henchard thought it over. "Lucetta is related to her, I

suppose," he said to himself. "Yes, I must put her in her

proper position, undoubtedly."

It was by no means with the oppression that would once have

accompanied the thought that he regarded the moral necessity

now; it was, indeed, with interest, if not warmth. His

bitter disappointment at finding Elizabeth-Jane to be none

of his, and himself a childless man, had left an emotional

void in Henchard that he unconsciously craved to fill. In

this frame of mind, though without strong feeling, he had

strolled up the alley and into High-Place Hall by the

postern at which Elizabeth had so nearly encountered him.

He had gone on thence into the court, and inquired of a man

whom he saw unpacking china from a crate if Miss Le Sueur

was living there. Miss Le Sueur had been the name under

which he had known Lucetta--or "Lucette," as she had called

herself at that time.

The man replied in the negative; that Miss Templeman only

had come. Henchard went away, concluding that Lucetta had

not as yet settled in.

He was in this interested stage of the inquiry when he

witnessed Elizabeth-Jane's departure the next day. On

hearing her announce the address there suddenly took

possession of him the strange thought that Lucetta and Miss

Templeman were one and the same person, for he could recall

that in her season of intimacy with him the name of the rich

relative whom he had deemed somewhat a mythical personage

had been given as Templeman. Though he was not a fortune-

hunter, the possibility that Lucetta had been sublimed into

a lady of means by some munificent testament on the part of

this relative lent a charm to her image which it might not

otherwise have acquired. He was getting on towards the dead

level of middle age, when material things increasingly

possess the mind.

But Henchard was not left long in suspense. Lucetta was

rather addicted to scribbling, as had been shown by the

torrent of letters after the fiasco in their marriage

arrangements, and hardly had Elizabeth gone away when

another note came to the Mayor's house from High-Place Hall.

"I am in residence," she said, "and comfortable, though

getting here has been a wearisome undertaking. You probably

know what I am going to tell you, or do you not? My good

Aunt Templeman, the banker's widow, whose very existence you

used to doubt, much more her affluence, has lately died, and

bequeathed some of her property to me. I will not enter

into details except to say that I have taken her name--as a

means of escape from mine, and its wrongs.

"I am now my own mistress, and have chosen to reside in

Casterbridge--to be tenant of High-Place Hall, that at least

you may be put to no trouble if you wish to see me. My

first intention was to keep you in ignorance of the changes

in my life till you should meet me in the street; but I have

thought better of this.

"You probably are aware of my arrangement with your

daughter, and have doubtless laughed at the--what shall I

call it?--practical joke (in all affection) of my getting

her to live with me. But my first meeting with her was

purely an accident. Do you see, Michael, partly why I have

done it?--why, to give you an excuse for coming here as if

to visit HER, and thus to form my acquaintance

naturally. She is a dear, good girl, and she thinks you

have treated her with undue severity. You may have done so

in your haste, but not deliberately, I am sure. As the

result has been to bring her to me I am not disposed to

upbraid you.--In haste, yours always,

LUCETTA.

The excitement which these announcements produced in

Henchard's gloomy soul was to him most pleasurable. He sat

over his dining-table long and dreamily, and by an almost

mechanical transfer the sentiments which had run to waste

since his estrangement from Elizabeth-Jane and Donald

Farfrae gathered around Lucetta before they had grown dry.

She was plainly in a very coming-on disposition for

marriage. But what else could a poor woman be who had given

her time and her heart to him so thoughtlessly, at that

former time, as to lose her credit by it? Probably

conscience no less than affection had brought her here. On

the whole he did not blame her.

"The artful little woman!" he said, smiling (with reference

to Lucetta's adroit and pleasant manoeuvre with Elizabeth-

Jane).

To feel that he would like to see Lucetta was with Henchard

to start for her house. He put on his hat and went. It was

between eight and nine o'clock when he reached her door.

The answer brought him was that Miss Templeman was engaged

for that evening; but that she would be happy to see him the

next day.

"That's rather like giving herself airs!" he thought. "And

considering what we--" But after all, she plainly had not

expected him, and he took the refusal quietly. Nevertheless

he resolved not to go next day. "These cursed women--

there's not an inch of straight grain in 'em!" he said.

Let us follow the train of Mr. Henchard's thought as if it

were a clue line, and view the interior of High-Place Hall

on this particular evening.

On Elizabeth-Jane's arrival she had been phlegmatically

asked by an elderly woman to go upstairs and take off her

things. She replied with great earnestness that she would

not think of giving that trouble, and on the instant

divested herself of her bonnet and cloak in the passage.

She was then conducted to the first floor on the landing,

and left to find her way further alone.

The room disclosed was prettily furnished as a boudoir or

small drawing-room, and on a sofa with two cylindrical

pillows reclined a dark-haired, large-eyed, pretty woman, of

unmistakably French extraction on one side or the other.

She was probably some years older than Elizabeth, and had a

sparkling light in her eye. In front of the sofa was a

small table, with a pack of cards scattered upon it faces

upward.

The attitude had been so full of abandonment that she

bounded up like a spring on hearing the door open.

Perceiving that it was Elizabeth she lapsed into ease, and

came across to her with a reckless skip that innate grace

only prevented from being boisterous.

"Why, you are late," she said, taking hold of Elizabeth-

Jane's hands.

"There were so many little things to put up."

"And you seem dead-alive and tired. Let me try to enliven

you by some wonderful tricks I have learnt, to kill time.

Sit there and don't move." She gathered up the pack of

cards, pulled the table in front of her, and began to deal

them rapidly, telling Elizabeth to choose some.

"Well, have you chosen?" she asked flinging down the last

card.

"No," stammered Elizabeth, arousing herself from a reverie.

"I forgot, I was thinking of--you, and me--and how strange

it is that I am here."

Miss Templeman looked at Elizabeth-Jane with interest, and

laid down the cards. "Ah! never mind," she said. "I'll lie

here while you sit by me; and we'll talk."

Elizabeth drew up silently to the head of the sofa, but with

obvious pleasure. It could be seen that though in years she

was younger than her entertainer in manner and general

vision she seemed more of the sage. Miss Templeman

deposited herself on the sofa in her former flexuous

position, and throwing her arm above her brow--somewhat in

the pose of a well-known conception of Titian's--talked up

at Elizabeth-Jane invertedly across her forehead and arm.

"I must tell you something," she said. "I wonder if you

have suspected it. I have only been mistress of a large

house and fortune a little while."

"Oh--only a little while?" murmured Elizabeth-Jane, her

countenance slightly falling.

"As a girl I lived about in garrison towns and elsewhere

with my father, till I was quite flighty and unsettled. He

was an officer in the army. I should not have mentioned

this had I not thought it best you should know the truth."

"Yes, yes." She looked thoughtfully round the room--at the

little square piano with brass inlayings, at the window-

curtains, at the lamp, at the fair and dark kings and queens

on the card-table, and finally at the inverted face of

Lucetta Templeman, whose large lustrous eyes had such an odd

effect upside down.

Elizabeth's mind ran on acquirements to an almost morbid

degree. "You speak French and Italian fluently, no doubt,"

she said. "I have not been able to get beyond a wretched

bit of Latin yet."

"Well, for that matter, in my native isle speaking French

does not go for much. It is rather the other way."

"Where is your native isle?"

It was with rather more reluctance that Miss Templeman said,

"Jersey. There they speak French on one side of the street

and English on the other, and a mixed tongue in the middle

of the road. But it is a long time since I was there. Bath

is where my people really belong to, though my ancestors in

Jersey were as good as anybody in England. They were the Le

Sueurs, an old family who have done great things in their

time. I went back and lived there after my father's death.

But I don't value such past matters, and am quite an English

person in my feelings and tastes."

Lucetta's tongue had for a moment outrun her discretion.

She had arrived at Casterbridge as a Bath lady, and there

were obvious reasons why Jersey should drop out of her life.

But Elizabeth had tempted her to make free, and a

deliberately formed resolve had been broken.

It could not, however, have been broken in safer company.

Lucetta's words went no further, and after this day she was

so much upon her guard that there appeared no chance of her

identification with the young Jersey woman who had been

Henchard's dear comrade at a critical time. Not the least

amusing of her safeguards was her resolute avoidance of a

French word if one by accident came to her tongue more

readily than its English equivalent. She shirked it with

the suddenness of the weak Apostle at the accusation, "Thy

speech bewrayeth thee!"

Expectancy sat visibly upon Lucetta the next morning. She

dressed herself for Mr. Henchard, and restlessly awaited his

call before mid-day; as he did not come she waited on

through the afternoon. But she did not tell Elizabeth that

the person expected was the girl's stepfather.

They sat in adjoining windows of the same room in Lucetta's

great stone mansion, netting, and looking out upon the

market, which formed an animated scene. Elizabeth could see

the crown of her stepfather's hat among the rest beneath,

and was not aware that Lucetta watched the same object with

yet intenser interest. He moved about amid the throng, at

this point lively as an ant-hill; elsewhere more reposeful,

and broken up by stalls of fruit and vegetables.

The farmers as a rule preferred the open carrefour for

their transactions, despite its inconvenient jostlings and

the danger from crossing vehicles, to the gloomy sheltered

market-room provided for them. Here they surged on this one

day of the week, forming a little world of leggings,

switches, and sample-bags; men of extensive stomachs,

sloping like mountain sides; men whose heads in walking

swayed as the trees in November gales; who in conversing

varied their attitudes much, lowering themselves by

spreading their knees, and thrusting their hands into the

pockets of remote inner jackets. Their faces radiated

tropical warmth; for though when at home their countenances

varied with the seasons, their market-faces all the year

round were glowing little fires.

All over-clothes here were worn as if they were an

inconvenience, a hampering necessity. Some men were well

dressed; but the majority were careless in that respect,

appearing in suits which were historical records of their

wearer's deeds, sun-scorchings, and daily struggles for many

years past. Yet many carried ruffled cheque-books in their

pockets which regulated at the bank hard by a balance of

never less than four figures. In fact, what these gibbous

human shapes specially represented was ready money--money

insistently ready--not ready next year like a nobleman's--

often not merely ready at the bank like a professional

man's, but ready in their large plump hands.

It happened that to-day there rose in the midst of them all

two or three tall apple-trees standing as if they grew on

the spot; till it was perceived that they were held by men

from the cider-districts who came here to sell them,

bringing the clay of their county on their boots.

Elizabeth-Jane, who had often observed them, said, "I wonder

if the same trees come every week?"

"What trees?" said Lucetta, absorbed in watching for

Henchard.

Elizabeth replied vaguely, for an incident checked her.

Behind one of the trees stood Farfrae, briskly discussing a

sample-bag with a farmer. Henchard had come up,

accidentally encountering the young man, whose face seemed

to inquire, "Do we speak to each other?"

She saw her stepfather throw a shine into his eye which

answered "No!" Elizabeth-Jane sighed.

"Are you particularly interested in anybody out there?" said

Lucetta.

"O, no," said her companion, a quick red shooting over her

face.

Luckily Farfrae's figure was immediately covered by the

apple-tree.

Lucetta looked hard at her. "Quite sure?" she said.

"O yes," said Elizabeth-Jane.

Again Lucetta looked out. "They are all farmers, I

suppose?" she said.

"No. There's Mr. Bulge--he's a wine merchant; there's

Benjamin Brownlet--a horse dealer; and Kitson, the pig

breeder; and Yopper, the auctioneer; besides maltsters, and

millers--and so on." Farfrae stood out quite distinctly now;

but she did not mention him.

The Saturday afternoon slipped on thus desultorily. The

market changed from the sample-showing hour to the idle hour

before starting homewards, when tales were told. Henchard

had not called on Lucetta though he had stood so near. He

must have been too busy, she thought. He would come on

Sunday or Monday.

The days came but not the visitor, though Lucetta repeated

her dressing with scrupulous care. She got disheartened.

It may at once be declared that Lucetta no longer bore

towards Henchard all that warm allegiance which had

characterized her in their first acquaintance, the then

unfortunate issue of things had chilled pure love

considerably. But there remained a conscientious wish to

bring about her union with him, now that there was nothing

to hinder it--to right her position--which in itself was a

happiness to sigh for. With strong social reasons on her

side why their marriage should take place there had ceased

to be any worldly reason on his why it should be postponed,

since she had succeeded to fortune.

Tuesday was the great Candlemas fair. At breakfast she said

to Elizabeth-Jane quite coolly: "I imagine your father may

call to see you to-day. I suppose he stands close by in the

market-place with the rest of the corn-dealers?"

She shook her head. "He won't come."

"Why?"

"He has taken against me," she said in a husky voice.

"You have quarreled more deeply than I know of."

Elizabeth, wishing to shield the man she believed to be her

father from any charge of unnatural dislike, said "Yes."

"Then where you are is, of all places, the one he will

avoid?"

Elizabeth nodded sadly.

Lucetta looked blank, twitched up her lovely eyebrows and

lip, and burst into hysterical sobs. Here was a disaster--

her ingenious scheme completely stultified.

"O, my dear Miss Templeman--what's the matter?" cried her

companion.

"I like your company much!" said Lucetta, as soon as she

could speak.

"Yes, yes--and so do I yours!" Elizabeth chimed in

soothingly.

"But--but--" She could not finish the sentence, which was,

naturally, that if Henchard had such a rooted dislike for

the girl as now seemed to be the case, Elizabeth-Jane would

have to be got rid of--a disagreeable necessity.

A provisional resource suggested itself. "Miss Henchard--

will you go on an errand for me as soon as breakfast is

over?--Ah, that's very good of you. Will you go and order--

" Here she enumerated several commissions at sundry shops,

which would occupy Elizabeth's time for the next hour or

two, at least.

"And have you ever seen the Museum?"

Elizabeth-Jane had not.

"Then you should do so at once. You can finish the morning

by going there. It is an old house in a back street--I

forget where--but you'll find out--and there are crowds of

interesting things--skeletons, teeth, old pots and pans,

ancient boots and shoes, birds' eggs--all charmingly

instructive. You'll be sure to stay till you get quite

hungry."

Elizabeth hastily put on her things and departed. "I wonder

why she wants to get rid of me to-day!" she said sorrowfully

as she went. That her absence, rather than her services or

instruction, was in request, had been readily apparent to

Elizabeth-Jane, simple as she seemed, and difficult as it

was to attribute a motive for the desire.

She had not been gone ten minutes when one of Lucetta's

servants was sent to Henchard's with a note. The contents

were briefly:--

DEAR MICHAEL,--You will be standing in view of my house to-

day for two or three hours in the course of your business,

so do please call and see me. I am sadly disappointed that

you have not come before, for can I help anxiety about my

own equivocal relation to you?--especially now my aunt's

fortune has brought me more prominently before society? Your

daughter's presence here may be the cause of your neglect;

and I have therefore sent her away for the morning. Say you

come on business--I shall be quite alone.

LUCETTA.

When the messenger returned her mistress gave directions

that if a gentleman called he was to be admitted at once,

and sat down to await results.

Sentimentally she did not much care to see him--his delays

had wearied her, but it was necessary; and with a sigh she

arranged herself picturesquely in the chair; first this way,

then that; next so that the light fell over her head. Next

she flung herself on the couch in the cyma-recta curve which

so became her, and with her arm over her brow looked towards

the door. This, she decided, was the best position after

all, and thus she remained till a man's step was heard on

the stairs. Whereupon Lucetta, forgetting her curve (for

Nature was too strong for Art as yet), jumped up and ran and

hid herself behind one of the window-curtains in a freak of

timidity. In spite of the waning of passion the situation

was an agitating one--she had not seen Henchard since his

(supposed) temporary parting from her in Jersey.

She could hear the servant showing the visitor into the

room, shutting the door upon him, and leaving as if to go

and look for her mistress. Lucetta flung back the curtain

with a nervous greeting. The man before her was not

Henchard.