The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy - Chapter 36/45 (read by Bruce Pirie)

XXXVI. Returning from her appointment, Lusetta saw a man waiting by the lamp nearest to her own door. When she stopped to go in, he came and spoke to her. It was Jop. He begged her pardon for addressing her, but he had heard that Mr. Farfray had been applied to by a neighboring corn merchant to recommend a working partner. If so, he wished to offer himself. He could give good security, and had stated as much to Mr. Farfray in a letter, but he would feel much obliged if Lusetta would say a word in his favor to her husband. It is a thing I know nothing about, said Lusetta coldly. But you can testify to my trustworthiness better than anybody, ma'am, said Jop. I was in Jersey several years, and knew you there by sight. Indeed, she replied, but I knew nothing of you. I think, ma'am, that a word or two from you would secure from me what I covet very much, he persisted. She steadily refused to have anything to do with the affair, and, cutting him short, because of her anxiety to get indoors before her husband should miss her, left him on the pavement. He watched her till she had vanished, and then went home. When he got there, he sat down in the fireless chimney corner, looking at the iron dogs and the wood laid across them for heating the morning kettle. A movement upstairs disturbed him, and Hanchard came down from his bedroom, where he seemed to have been rummaging boxes. I wish, said Hanchard, you would do me a service, Jop, now—tonight, I mean, if you can. Leave this at Mrs. Farfray's for her. I should take it myself, of course, but I don't wish to be seen there. He handed a package in brown paper, sealed. Hanchard had been as good as his word. Immediately on coming indoors he had searched over his few belongings, and every scrap of Lucetta's writing that he possessed was here. Jop indifferently expressed his willingness. Well, how have ye got on to-day? his lodger asked. Any prospect of an opening? I am afraid not, said Jop, who had not told the other of his application to Farfray. There never will be in Casterbridge, declared Hanchard decisively. You must roam further afield. He said good-night to Jop, and returned to his own part of the house. Jop sat on till his eyes were attracted by the shadow of the candle-snuff on the wall, and looking at the original he found that it had formed itself into a head like a red-hot cauliflower. Hanchard's packet next met his gaze. He knew there had been something of the nature of wooing between Hanchard and the now Mrs. Farfray, and his vague ideas on the subject narrowed themselves down to these. Hanchard had a parcel belonging to Mrs. Farfray, and he had reasons for not returning that parcel to her in person. What could be inside it? So he went, on and on, till, animated by resentment at Lucetta's haughtiness, as he thought it, and curiosity to learn if there were any weak sides to this transaction with Hanchard, he examined the package. The pen and all its relations being awkward tools in Hanchard's hands, he had affixed the seals without an impression, it never occurring to him that the efficacy of such a fastening depended on this. Jop was far less of a tyro. He lifted one of the seals with his pen-knife, peeped in at the end thus opened, saw that the bundle consisted of letters, and having satisfied himself thus far, sealed up the end again by simply softening the wax with the candle, and went off with the parcel, as requested. His path was by the riverside at the foot of the town. Coming into the light at the bridge which stood at the end of High Street, he beheld lounging thereon Mother Cuxham and Nance Mockridge. He be just going down Mixon Laneway to look into Peter's Finger afore creeping to bed, said Mrs. Cuxham. There's a fiddle and tambourine going on there. Lord what's all the world, do ye come along too, Jop, t'won't hinder ye five minutes. Jop had mostly kept himself out of this company, but present circumstances made him somewhat more reckless than usual, and without many words he decided to go to his destination that way. Though the upper part of Durnever was mainly composed of a curious conjuries of barns and farmsteads, there was a less picturesque side to the parish. This was Mixon Lane, now in great part pulled down. Mixon Lane was the adolem of all the surrounding villages. It was the hiding-place of those who were in distress and in debt and trouble of every kind. Farm labourers and other peasants who combined a little poaching with their farming, and a little brawling and bibbing with their poaching, found themselves sooner or later in Mixon Lane. Rural mechanics too idle to mechanize, rural servants too rebellious to serve, drifted or were forced into Mixon Lane. The lane and its surrounding thicket of thatched cottages stretched out like a spit into the moist and misty lowland. Much that was sad, much that was low, some things that were baneful, could be seen in Mixon Lane. Vice ran freely in and out certain of the doors in the neighbourhood, recklessness dwelt under the roof with the crooked chimney, shame in some bow-windows, theft in times of privation in the thatched and mud-walled houses by the sallows. Even slaughter had not been altogether unknown here. In a block of cottages up an alley there might have been erected an altar to disease in years gone by. Such was Mixon Lane in the times when Hanchard and Farfray were mayors. Yet this mildewed leaf in the sturdy and flourishing castor-bridge plant lay close to the open country. Not a hundred yards from a row of noble elms and commanding a view across the moor of airy uplands and cornfields and mansions of the great. A brook divided the moor from the tenements, and to outward view there was no way across it, no way to the houses but roundabout by the road. But under every householder's stairs there was kept a mysterious plank nine inches wide, which plank was a secret bridge. If you, as one of those refugee householders, came in from business after dark, and this was the business time here, you stealthily crossed the moor, approached the border of the aforesaid brook, and whistled opposite the house to which you belonged. A shape thereupon made its appearance on the other side, bearing the bridge on end against the sky. It was lowered, you crossed, and a hand helped you to land yourself, together with the pheasants and hares gathered from neighboring manors. You sold them slyly the next morning, and the day after you stood before the magistrates with the eyes of all your sympathizing neighbors concentrated on your back. You disappeared for a time, then you were again found quietly living in Mixon Lane. Walking along the lane at dusk, the stranger was struck by two or three peculiar features therein. One was an intermittent rumbling from the back premises of the inn halfway up. This meant a skittle alley. Another was the extensive prevalence of whistling in the various domiciles, a piped note of some kind coming from nearly every open door. Another was the frequency of white aprons over dingy gowns among the women around the doorways. A white apron is a suspicious festure in situations where spotlessness is difficult. Moreover, the industry and cleanliness which the white apron expressed were belied by the postures and gaits of the women who wore it, their knuckles being mostly on their hips, an attitude which lent them the aspect of two-handled mugs, and their shoulders against door-posts, while there was a curious alacrity in the turn of each honest woman's head upon her neck and in the twirl of her honest eyes, at any noise resembling a masculine footfall along the lane. Yet amid so much that was bad, needy respectability also found a home. Under some of the roofs abode pure and virtuous souls whose presence there was due to the iron hand of necessity, and to that alone. Families from decayed villages, families of that once bulky but now nearly extinct section of village society called liviers or life-holders, copy-holders and others, whose roof-trees had fallen for some reason or other, compelling them to quit the rural spot that had been their home for generations, came here, unless they chose to lie under a hedge by the wayside. The inn called Peter's Finger was the church of Mixon Lane. It was centrally situated as such places should be, and bore about the same social relation to the three mariners as the latter bore to the king's arms. At first sight the inn was so respectable as to be puzzling. The front door was kept shut, and the step was so clean that evidently but few persons entered over its sanded surface. But at the corner of the public house was an alley, a mere slit, dividing it from the next building. Halfway up the alley was a narrow door, shiny and paintless from the rub of infinite hands and shoulders. This was the actual entrance to the inn. A pedestrian would be seen abstractedly passing along Mixon Lane, and then in a moment he would vanish, causing the gazer to blink like Ashton at the disappearance of Ravenswood. That abstracted pedestrian had edged into the slit by the adroit fillip of his person sideways. From the slit he edged into the tavern by a similar exercise of skill. The company at the three mariners were persons of quality in comparison with the company which gathered here, though it must be admitted that the lowest fringe of the mariners' party touched the crest of Peter's at points. Waifs and strays of all sorts loitered about here. The landlady was a virtuous woman who years ago had been unjustly sent to jail as an accessory to something or other after the fact. She underwent her twelve-month, and had worn a martyr's countenance ever since, except at times of meeting the constable who apprehended her, when she winked her eye. To this house Jop and his acquaintances had arrived. The settles on which they sat down were thin and tall, their tops being guided by pieces of twine to hooks in the ceiling, for when the guests grew boisterous the settles would rock and overturn without some such security. The thunder of bowls echoed from the backyard, swingles hung behind the blower of the chimney, and ex-poachers and ex-gamekeepers, whom squires had persecuted without a cause, sat elbowing each other. Men who in past times had met in fights under the moon, till lapse of sentences on the one part and loss of favor and expulsion from service on the other, brought them here together to a common level, where they sat calmly discussing old times. "'Dust mind how you could jerk a trout ashore with a bramble and not ruffle the stream, Charl,' a deposed keeper was saying. "'Twas at that I caught he once, if you can mind." "'That I can. But the worst lorry for me was that pheasant business at Yalbury Wood. Your wife swore false that time, Joe. Oh, by Gad, she did. There's no denying it.' "'How was that?' asked Jop. "'By, Joe closed to me, and we rolled down together close to his garden hedge. Hearing the noise, outran his wife with the oven-pile, and it being dark under the trees, she couldn't see which was uppermost. "'Where beest thee, Joe, under or top?' she screeched. "'Oh, under, by Gad,' says he. She then began to rap down upon my skull, back, and ribs with the pile, till we'd roll over again. "'Where beest thou, dear Joe, under or top?' she'd scream again. "'By, George, t'was through her I was took. And then, when we got up in hall, she sware that the cock-pheasant was one of her rearing. When t'was not your bird at all, Joe, t'was Squire Brown's bird—that's whose t'was, one that we'd picked off as we passed his wood an hour afore. It did hurt my feelings to be so wronged. Ah, well, t'is over now.' "'I might have had ye days afore that,' said the keeper. "'I was within a few yards of ye dozens of times, with a sight more of birds than that poor one.' "'Yes, t'is not our greatest doings that the world gets wind of,' said the firmity-woman, who, lately settled in this purlieu, sat among the rest. Having travelled a great deal in her time, she spoke with cosmopolitan largeness of idea. It was she who presently asked Job what was the parcel he kept so snugly under his arm. "'Ah, therein lies a grand secret,' said Job. "'It is the passion of love—to think that a woman should love one man so well, and hate another so unmercifully.' "'Who's the object of your meditation, sir?' "'One that stands high in this town. I'd like to shame her. Upon my life t'would be as good as a play to read her love-letters, the proud piece of silk and wax-work, for t'is her love-letters that I've got here.' "'Love-letters! Then let's hear them, good soul,' said Mother Cuxom. "'Lord, do ye mind, Richard, what fools we used to be when we were younger? Getting a school-boy to write hours for us, and giving him a penny, do ye mind? Not to tell other folks what he'd put inside, do ye mind?' By this time Job had pushed his finger under the seals, and unfastened the letters, tumbling them over, and picking up one here and there at random, which he read aloud. These passages soon began to uncover the secret which Lucetta had so earnestly hoped to keep buried, though the epistles, being allusive only, did not make it altogether plain. "'Mrs. Farfray wrote that,' said Nance Mockridge. "'Tis a humbling thing for us, as respectable women, that one of the same sex could do it. And now she's avowed herself to another man.' "'So much the better for her,' said the aged Firmity Woman. "'Ah, I saved her from a real bad marriage, and she's never been the one to thank me.' "'I say, what a good foundation for a scimity-ride,' said Nance. "'True,' said Mrs. Cuxom, reflecting, ''tis as good a ground for a scimity-ride as ever I knowed, and it ought not to be wasted. The last one seen in Casterbridge must have been ten years ago, if a day.' At this moment there was a shrill whistle, and the landlady said to the man who had been called Charles, "'Tis Jim coming in. Would ye go and let down the bridge for me?' Without replying, Charles and his comrade Joe rose, and, receiving a lantern from her, went out at the back door and down the garden path, which ended abruptly at the edge of the stream already mentioned. Beyond the stream was the open moor, from which a clammy breeze smote upon their faces as they advanced. Picking up the board that had lain in readiness, one of them lowered it across the water, and the instant its further end touched the ground, footsteps entered upon it, and there appeared from the shade a stalwart man with straps round his knees, a double-barreled gun under his arm, and some birds slung up behind him. They asked him if he had had much luck. "'Not much,' he said indifferently. "'All safe inside?' Receiving a reply in the affirmative, he went on inwards. The others withdrawing the bridge and beginning to retreat in his rear. Before, however, they had entered the house, a cry of, "'Ahoy!' from the moor led them to pause. The cry was repeated. They pushed the lantern into an outhouse and went back to the brink of the stream. "'Ahoy! Is this the way to Casterbridge?' said some one from the other side. "'Not in particular,' said Charles. "'There's a river afore ye.' "'I don't care. Here's forth through it,' said the man in the moor. "'I've had travelling enough for to-day.' "'Stop a minute, then,' said Charles, finding that the man was no enemy. "'Joe, bring the plank and lantern. Here's somebody that's lost his way. You should have kept along the turnpike road, friend, and not have stroke across here.' "'I should, as I see now. But I saw a light here, and says I to myself, that's an outlying house, depend on it.' The plank was now lowered, and the stranger's form shaped itself from the darkness. He was a middle-aged man, with hair and whiskers prematurely gray, and a broad and genial face. He had crossed on the plank without hesitation, and seemed to see nothing odd in the transit. He thanked them, and walked between them up the garden. "'What place is this?' he asked, when they reached the door. "'A public house.' "'Ah! Perhaps it will suit me to put up at. Now, then, come in and whet your whistle, at my expense, for the lift-over you have given me.' They followed him into the inn, where the increased light exhibited him as one who would stand higher, in an estimate, by the eye, than in one by the ear. He was dressed with a certain clumsy richness, his coat being furred, and his head covered by a cap of sealskin, which, though the nights were chilly, must have been warm for the day-time, spring being somewhat advanced. In his hand he carried a small mahogany case, strapped and clamped with brass. Apparently surprised at the kind of company which confronted him through the kitchen door, he at once abandoned his idea of putting up at the house, but, taking the situation lightly, he called for glasses of the best, paid for them as he stood in the passage, and turned to proceed on his way by the front door. This was barred, and while the landlady was unfastening it, the conversation about the skimmington was continued in the sitting-room, and reached his ears. "'What do they mean by a skimity ride?' he asked. "'Oh, sir,' said the landlady, swinging her long earrings with deprecating modesty, "'tis a old foolish thing they do in these parts, when a man's wife is, well, not too particularly his own, but as a respectable householder I don't encourage it. Still, are they going to do it shortly? "'It is a good sight to see, I suppose?' "'Well, sir,' she simpered, and then, bursting into naturalness and glancing from the corner of her eye, "'tis the funniest thing under the sun, and it costs money. "'Ah, I remember hearing of some such thing. Now I shall be in Casterbridge for two or three weeks to come, and should not mind seeing the performance. Wait a moment.' He turned back, entered the sitting-room, and said, "'Here, good folks, I should like to see the old custom you were talking of, and I don't mind being something towards it. Take that.' He threw a sovereign on the table, and returned to the landlady at the door, of whom, having inquired the way into the town, he took his leave. "'There were more where that one came from,' said Charles, when the sovereign had been taken up and handed to the landlady for safe-keeping. "'By George, we ought to have got a few more while we had him here.' "'No, no,' answered the landlady, "'this is a respectable house, thank God, and I'll have nothing done but what's honourable.' "'Well,' said Jop, "'now we'll consider the business begun, and we'll soon get it in train.' "'We will,' said Nance, "'a good laugh warms my heart more than a cordial, and that's the truth on it.' Jop gathered up the letters, and it being now somewhat late, he did not attempt to call it farfrays with them that night. He reached home, sealed them up as before, and delivered the parcel at its address next morning. In an hour its contents were reduced to ashes by Lucetta, who, poor soul, was inclined to fall down on her knees in thankfulness that at last no evidence remained of the unlucky episode with Henshard in her past. For though hers had been rather the laxity of inadvertence than of intention, that episode, if known, was not the less likely to operate fatally between herself and her husband. End of chapter 36