Perhaps the only inhabitants of the town to whom this looming2 choice of the Scotchman's gave unmixed satisfaction were the members of the philosophic3 party, which included Longways, Christopher Coney, Billy Wills, Mr. Buzzford, and the like. The Three Mariners4 having been, years before, the house in which they had witnessed the young man and woman's first and humble5 appearance on the Casterbridge stage, they took a kindly6 interest in their career, not unconnected, perhaps, with visions of festive7 treatment at their hands hereafter. Mrs. Stannidge, having rolled into the large parlour one evening and said that it was a wonder such a man as Mr. Farfrae, "a pillow of the town," who might have chosen one of the daughters of the professional men or private residents, should stoop so low, Coney ventured to disagree with her.
"No, ma'am, no wonder at all. 'Tis she that's a stooping to he--that's my opinion. A widow man--whose first wife was no credit to him--what is it for a young perusing8 woman that's her own mistress and well liked? But as a neat patching up of things I see much good in it. When a man have put up a tomb of best marble-stone to the other one, as he've done, and weeped his fill, and thought it all over, and said to hisself, 'T'other took me in, I knowed this one first; she's a sensible piece for a partner, and there's no faithful woman in high life now';--well, he may do worse than not to take her, if she's tender-inclined."
Thus they talked at the Mariners. But we must guard against a too liberal use of the conventional declaration that a great sensation was caused by the prospective9 event, that all the gossips' tongues were set wagging thereby10, and soon, even though such a declaration might lend some eclat11 to the career of our poor only heroine. When all has been said about busy rumourers, a superficial and temporary thing is the interest of anybody in affairs which do not directly touch them. It would be a truer representation to say that Casterbridge (ever excepting the nineteen young ladies) looked up for a moment at the news, and withdrawing its attention, went on labouring and victualling, bringing up its children, and burying its dead, without caring a tittle for Farfrae's domestic plans.
Not a hint of the matter was thrown out to her stepfather by Elizabeth herself or by Farfrae either. Reasoning on the cause of their reticence12 he concluded that, estimating him by his past, the throbbing13 pair were afraid to broach14 the subject, and looked upon him as an irksome obstacle whom they would be heartily15 glad to get out of the way. Embittered16 as he was against society, this moody17 view of himself took deeper and deeper hold of Henchard, till the daily necessity of facing mankind, and of them particularly Elizabeth-Jane, became well-nigh more than he could endure. His health declined; he became morbidly18 sensitive. He wished he could escape those who did not want him, and hide his head for ever.
But what if he were mistaken in his views, and there were no necessity that his own absolute separation from her should be involved in the incident of her marriage?
He proceeded to draw a picture of the alternative--himself living like a fangless19 lion about the back rooms of a house in which his stepdaughter was mistress, an inoffensive old man, tenderly smiled on by Elizabeth, and good-naturedly tolerated by her husband. It was terrible to his pride to think of descending20 so low; and yet, for the girl's sake he might put up with anything; even from Farfrae; even snubbings and masterful tongue-scourgings. The privilege of being in the house she occupied would almost outweigh21 the personal humiliation22.
Whether this were a dim possibility or the reverse, the courtship--which it evidently now was--had an absorbing interest for him.
Elizabeth, as has been said, often took her walks on the Budmouth Road, and Farfrae as often made it convenient to create an accidental meeting with her there. Two miles out, a quarter of a mile from the highway, was the prehistoric23 fort called Mai Dun, of huge dimensions and many ramparts, within or upon whose enclosures a human being as seen from the road, was but an insignificant24 speck25. Hitherward Henchard often resorted, glass in hand, and scanned the hedgeless Via--for it was the original track laid out by the legions of the Empire--to a distance of two or three miles, his object being to read the progress of affairs between Farfrae and his charmer.
One day Henchard was at this spot when a masculine figure came along the road from Budmouth, and lingered. Applying his telescope to his eye Henchard expected that Farfrae's features would be disclosed as usual. But the lenses revealed that today the man was not Elizabeth-Jane's lover.
It was one clothed as a merchant captain, and as he turned in the scrutiny26 of the road he revealed his face. Henchard lived a lifetime the moment he saw it. The face was Newson's.
Henchard dropped the glass, and for some seconds made no other movement. Newson waited, and Henchard waited--if that could be called a waiting which was a transfixture. But Elizabeth-Jane did not come. Something or other had caused her to neglect her customary walk that day. Perhaps Farfrae and she had chosen another road for variety's sake. But what did that amount to? She might be here tomorrow, and in any case Newson, if bent27 on a private meeting and a revelation of the truth to her, would soon make his opportunity.
Then he would tell her not only of his paternity, but of the ruse28 by which he had been once sent away. Elizabeth's strict nature would cause her for the first time to despise her stepfather, would root out his image as that of an archdeceiver, and Newson would reign29 in her heart in his stead.
But Newson did not see anything of her that morning. Having stood still awhile he at last retraced30 his steps, and Henchard felt like a condemned31 man who has a few hours' respite32. When he reached his own house he found her there.
"O father!" she said innocently. "I have had a letter--a strange one--not signed. Somebody has asked me to meet him, either on the Budmouth Road at noon today, or in the evening at Mr. Farfrae's. He says he came to see me some time ago, but a trick was played him, so that he did not see me. I don't understand it; but between you and me I think Donald is at the bottom of the mystery, and that it is a relation of his who wants to pass an opinion on his choice. But I did not like to go till I had seen you. Shall I go?"
Henchard replied heavily, "Yes; go."
The question of his remaining in Casterbridge was for ever disposed of by this closing in of Newson on the scene. Henchard was not the man to stand the certainty of condemnation33 on a matter so near his heart. And being an old hand at bearing anguish34 in silence, and haughty35 withal, he resolved to make as light as he could of his intentions, while immediately taking his measures.
He surprised the young woman whom he had looked upon as his all in this world by saying to her, as if he did not care about her more: "I am going to leave Casterbridge, Elizabeth-Jane."
"Leave Casterbridge!" she cried, "and leave--me?"
"Yes, this little shop can be managed by you alone as well as by us both; I don't care about shops and streets and folk--I would rather get into the country by myself, out of sight, and follow my own ways, and leave you to yours."
She looked down and her tears fell silently. It seemed to her that this resolve of his had come on account of her attachment36 and its probable result. She showed her devotion to Farfrae, however, by mastering her emotion and speaking out.
"I am sorry you have decided37 on this," she said with difficult firmness. "For I thought it probable--possible-that I might marry Mr. Farfrae some little time hence, and I did not know that you disapproved38 of the step!"
"I approve of anything you desire to do, Izzy," said Henchard huskily. "If I did not approve it would be no matter! I wish to go away. My presence might make things awkward in the future, and, in short, it is best that I go."
Nothing that her affection could urge would induce him to reconsider his determination; for she could not urge what she did not know--that when she should learn he was not related to her other than as a step-parent she would refrain from despising him, and that when she knew what he had done to keep her in ignorance she would refrain from hating him. It was his conviction that she would not so refrain; and there existed as yet neither word nor event which could argue it away.
"Then," she said at last, "you will not be able to come to my wedding; and that is not as it ought to be."
"I don't want to see it--I don't want to see it!" he exclaimed; adding more softly, "but think of me sometimes in your future life--you'll do that, Izzy?--think of me when you are living as the wife of the richest, the foremost man in the town, and don't let my sins, WHEN YOU KNOW THEM ALL, cause 'ee to quite forget that though I loved 'ee late I loved 'ee well."
"It is because of Donald!" she sobbed40.
"I don't forbid you to marry him," said Henchard. "Promise not to quite forget me when----" He meant when Newson should come.
She promised mechanically, in her agitation41; and the same evening at dusk Henchard left the town, to whose development he had been one of the chief stimulants42 for many years. During the day he had bought a new tool-basket, cleaned up his old hay-knife and wimble, set himself up in fresh leggings, kneenaps and corduroys, and in other ways gone back to the working clothes of his young manhood, discarding for ever the shabby-genteel suit of cloth and rusty43 silk hat that since his decline had characterized him in the Casterbridge street as a man who had seen better days.
He went secretly and alone, not a soul of the many who had known him being aware of his departure. Elizabeth-Jane accompanied him as far as the second bridge on the highway-for the hour of her appointment with the unguessed visitor at Farfrae's had not yet arrived--and parted from him with unfeigned wonder and sorrow, keeping him back a minute or two before finally letting him go. She watched his form diminish across the moor44, the yellow rush-basket at his back moving up and down with each tread, and the creases45 behind his knees coming and going alternately till she could no longer see them. Though she did not know it Henchard formed at this moment much the same picture as he had presented when entering Casterbridge for the first time nearly a quarter of a century before; except, to be sure, that the serious addition to his years had considerably46 lessened47 the spring to his stride, that his state of hopelessness had weakened him, and imparted to his shoulders, as weighted by the basket, a perceptible bend.
He went on till he came to the first milestone48, which stood in the bank, half way up a steep hill. He rested his basket on the top of the stone, placed his elbows on it, and gave way to a convulsive twitch49, which was worse than a sob39, because it was so hard and so dry.
"If I had only got her with me--if I only had!" he said. "Hard work would be nothing to me then! But that was not to be. I--Cain--go alone as I deserve--an outcast and a vagabond. But my punishment is not greater than I can bear!"
He sternly subdued50 his anguish, shouldered his basket, and went on.
Elizabeth, in the meantime, had breathed him a sigh, recovered her equanimity51, and turned her face to Casterbridge. Before she had reached the first house she was met in her walk by Donald Farfrae. This was evidently not their first meeting that day; they joined hands without ceremony, and Farfrae anxiously asked, "And is he gone-and did you tell him?--I mean of the other matter--not of ours."
"He is gone; and I told him all I knew of your friend. Donald, who is he?"
"Well, well, dearie; you will know soon about that. And Mr. Henchard will hear of it if he does not go far."
"He will go far--he's bent upon getting out of sight and sound!"
She walked beside her lover, and when they reached the Crossways, or Bow, turned with him into Corn Street instead of going straight on to her own door. At Farfrae's house they stopped and went in.
Farfrae flung open the door of the ground-floor sittingroom, saying, "There he is waiting for you," and Elizabeth entered. In the arm-chair sat the broad-faced genial52 man who had called on Henchard on a memorable53 morning between one and two years before this time, and whom the latter had seen mount the coach and depart within half-an-hour of his arrival. It was Richard Newson. The meeting with the light-hearted father from whom she had been separated halfa-dozen years, as if by death, need hardly be detailed54. It was an affecting one, apart from the question of paternity. Henchard's departure was in a moment explained. When the true facts came to be handled the difficulty of restoring her to her old belief in Newson was not so great as might have seemed likely, for Henchard's conduct itself was a proof that those facts were true. Moreover, she had grown up under Newson's paternal55 care; and even had Henchard been her father in nature, this father in early domiciliation might almost have carried the point against him, when the incidents of her parting with Henchard had a little worn off.
Newson's pride in what she had grown up to be was more than he could express. He kissed her again and again.
"I've saved you the trouble to come and meet me--ha-ha!" said Newson. "The fact is that Mr. Farfrae here, he said, 'Come up and stop with me for a day or two, Captain Newson, and I'll bring her round.' 'Faith,' says I, 'so I will'; and here I am."
"Well, Henchard is gone," said Farfrae, shutting the door. "He has done it all voluntarily, and, as I gather from Elizabeth, he has been very nice with her. I was got rather uneasy; but all is as it should be, and we will have no more deefficulties at all."
"Now, that's very much as I thought," said Newson, looking into the face of each by turns. "I said to myself, ay, a hundred times, when I tried to get a peep at her unknown to herself--'Depend upon it, 'tis best that I should live on quiet for a few days like this till something turns up for the better.' I now know you are all right, and what can I wish for more?"
"Well, Captain Newson, I will be glad to see ye here every day now, since it can do no harm," said Farfrae. "And what I've been thinking is that the wedding may as well be kept under my own roof, the house being large, and you being in lodgings56 by yourself--so that a great deal of trouble and expense would be saved ye?--and 'tis a convenience when a couple's married not to hae far to go to get home!"
"With all my heart," said Captain Newson; "since, as ye say, it can do no harm, now poor Henchard's gone; though I wouldn't have done it otherwise, or put myself in his way at all; for I've already in my lifetime been an intruder into his family quite as far as politeness can be expected to put up with. But what do the young woman say herself about it? Elizabeth, my child, come and hearken to what we be talking about, and not bide57 staring out o' the window as if ye didn't hear.'
"Donald and you must settle it," murmured Elizabeth, still keeping up a scrutinizing58 gaze at some small object in the street.
"Well, then," continued Newson, turning anew to Farfrae with a face expressing thorough entry into the subject, "that's how we'll have it. And, Mr. Farfrae, as you provide so much, and houseroom, and all that, I'll do my part in the drinkables, and see to the rum and schiedam--maybe a dozen jars will be sufficient?--as many of the folk will be ladies, and perhaps they won't drink hard enough to make a high average in the reckoning? But you know best. I've provided for men and shipmates times enough, but I'm as ignorant as a child how many glasses of grog a woman, that's not a drinking woman, is expected to consume at these ceremonies?"
"Oh, none--we'll no want much of that--O no!" said Farfrae, shaking his head with appalled59 gravity. "Do you leave all to me."
When they had gone a little further in these particulars Newson, leaning back in his chair and smiling reflectively at the ceiling, said, "I've never told ye, or have I, Mr. Farfrae, how Henchard put me off the scent60 that time?"
He expressed ignorance of what the Captain alluded61 to.
"Ah, I thought I hadn't. I resolved that I would not, I remember, not to hurt the man's name. But now he's gone I can tell ye. Why, I came to Casterbridge nine or ten months before that day last week that I found ye out. I had been here twice before then. The first time I passed through the town on my way westward62, not knowing Elizabeth lived here. Then hearing at some place--I forget where--that a man of the name of Henchard had been mayor here, I came back, and called at his house one morning. The old rascal63!--he said Elizabeth-Jane had died years ago."
Elizabeth now gave earnest heed64 to his story.
"Now, it never crossed my mind that the man was selling me a packet," contiued Newson. "And, if you'll believe me, I was that upset, that I went back to the coach that had brought me, and took passage onward65 without lying in the town halfan-hour. Ha-ha!--'twas a good joke, and well carried out, and I give the man credit for't!"
Elizabeth-Jane was amazed at the intelligence. "A joke?--O no!" she cried. "Then he kept you from me, father, all those months, when you might have been here?"
The father admitted that such was the case.
"He ought not to have done it!" said Farfrae.
Elizabeth sighed. "I said I would never forget him. But O! I think I ought to forget him now!"
Newson, like a good many rovers and sojourners among strange men and strange moralities, failed to perceive the enormity of Henchard's crime, notwithstanding that he himself had been the chief sufferer therefrom. Indeed, the attack upon the absent culprit waxing serious, he began to take Henchard's part.
"Well, 'twas not ten words that he said, after all," Newson pleaded. "And how could he know that I should be such a simpleton as to believe him? 'Twas as much my fault as his, poor fellow!"
"No," said Elizabeth-Jane firmly, in her revulsion of feeling. "He knew your disposition--you always were so trusting, father; I've heard my mother say so hundreds of times--and he did it to wrong you. After weaning me from you these five years by saying he was my father, he should not have done this."
Thus they conversed66; and there was nobody to set before Elizabeth any extenuation67 of the absent one's deceit. Even had he been present Henchard might scarce have pleaded it, so little did he value himself or his good name.
"Well, well--never mind--it is all over and past," said Newson good-naturedly. "Now, about this wedding again."
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1
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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5
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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eclat
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| n.显赫之成功，荣誉 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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fangless
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| Fangless | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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41
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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42
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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46
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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47
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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49
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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50
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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52
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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53
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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54
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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55
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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56
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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60
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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extenuation
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| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
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