“See now how it’s ourselves that are ruled by the Powers above us!
We plan this, but we do that.
If they want to make me Mayor I will stay, and Henchard must rave as he will.”
From this evening onward Lucetta was very uneasy.
If she had not been imprudence incarnate she would not have acted as she did when she met Henchard by accident a day or two later.
It was in the bustle of the market, when no one could readily notice their discourse.
“Michael,” said she, “I must again ask you what I asked you months ago—to return me any letters or papers of mine that you may have—unless you have destroyed them?
You must see how desirable it is that the time at Jersey should be blotted out, for the good of all parties.”
“Why, bless the woman!—I packed up every scrap of your handwriting to give you in the coach—but you never appeared.”
She explained how the death of her aunt had prevented her taking the journey on that day.
“And what became of the parcel then?” she asked.
He could not say—he would consider.
When she was gone he recollected that he had left a heap of useless papers in his former dining-room safe—built up in the wall of his old house—now occupied by Farfrae.
The letters might have been amongst them.
A grotesque grin shaped itself on Henchard’s face.
Had that safe been opened?
On the very evening which followed this there was a great ringing of bells in Casterbridge, and the combined brass, wood, catgut, and leather bands played round the town with more prodigality of percussion-notes than ever.
Farfrae was Mayor—the two-hundredth odd of a series forming an elective dynasty dating back to the days of Charles I—and the fair Lucetta was the courted of the town....But, Ah! the worm i’ the bud—Henchard; what he could tell!
He, in the meantime, festering with indignation at some erroneous intelligence of Farfrae’s opposition to the scheme for installing him in the little seed-shop, was greeted with the news of the municipal election (which, by reason of Farfrae’s comparative youth and his Scottish nativity—a thing unprecedented in the case—had an interest far beyond the ordinary).
The bell-ringing and the band-playing, loud as Tamerlane’s trumpet, goaded the downfallen Henchard indescribably: the ousting now seemed to him to be complete.
The next morning he went to the corn-yard as usual, and about eleven o’clock Donald entered through the green door, with no trace of the worshipful about him.
The yet more emphatic change of places between him and Henchard which this election had established renewed a slight embarrassment in the manner of the modest young man; but Henchard showed the front of one who had overlooked all this; and Farfrae met his amenities half-way at once.
“I was going to ask you,” said Henchard, “about a packet that I may possibly have left in my old safe in the dining-room.”
He added particulars.
“If so, it is there now,” said Farfrae. “I have never opened the safe at all as yet; for I keep ma papers at the bank, to sleep easy o’ nights.”
“It was not of much consequence—to me,” said Henchard. “But I’ll call for it this evening, if you don’t mind?”
It was quite late when he fulfilled his promise.
He had primed himself with grog, as he did very frequently now, and a curl of sardonic humour hung on his lip as he approached the house, as though he were contemplating some terrible form of amusement.
Whatever it was, the incident of his entry did not diminish its force, this being his first visit to the house since he had lived there as owner.
The ring of the bell spoke to him like the voice of a familiar drudge who had been bribed to forsake him; the movements of the doors were revivals of dead days.
Farfrae invited him into the dining-room, where he at once unlocked the iron safe built into the wall, HIS, Henchard’s safe, made by an ingenious locksmith under his direction.
Farfrae drew thence the parcel, and other papers, with apologies for not having returned them.
“Never mind,” said Henchard drily. “The fact is they are letters mostly....Yes,” he went on, sitting down and unfolding Lucetta’s passionate bundle, “here they be.
That ever I should see ‘em again!
I hope Mrs. Farfrae is well after her exertions of yesterday?”
“She has felt a bit weary; and has gone to bed airly on that account.”
Henchard returned to the letters, sorting them over with interest, Farfrae being seated at the other end of the dining-table.
“You don’t forget, of course,” he resumed, “that curious chapter in the history of my past which I told you of, and that you gave me some assistance in?
These letters are, in fact, related to that unhappy business.
Though, thank God, it is all over now.”
“What became of the poor woman?” asked Farfrae.
“Luckily she married, and married well,” said Henchard. “So that these reproaches she poured out on me do not now cause me any twinges, as they might otherwise have done....Just listen to what an angry woman will say!”
Farfrae, willing to humour Henchard, though quite uninterested, and bursting with yawns, gave well-mannered attention.
“‘For me,’” Henchard read, “‘there is practically no future.
A creature too unconventionally devoted to you—who feels it impossible that she can be the wife of any other man; and who is yet no more to you than the first woman you meet in the street—such am I.
I quite acquit you of any intention to wrong me, yet you are the door through which wrong has come to me.
That in the event of your present wife’s death you will place me in her position is a consolation so far as it goes—but how far does it go?
Thus I sit here, forsaken by my few acquaintance, and forsaken by you!’”
“That’s how she went on to me,” said Henchard, “acres of words like that, when what had happened was what I could not cure.”
“Yes,” said Farfrae absently, “it is the way wi’ women.”