It was the eve of harvest. Prices being low Farfrae was buying. As was usual, after reckoning too surely on famine weather the local farmers had flown to the other extreme, and (in Farfrae's opinion) were selling off too recklessly-calculating with just a trifle too much certainty upon an abundant yield. So he went on buying old corn at its comparatively ridiculous price: for the produce of the previous year, though not large, had been of excellent quality.

When Henchard had squared his affairs in a disastrous¹ way, and got rid of his burdensome purchases at a monstrous² loss, the harvest began. There were three days of excellent weather, and then--"What if that curst conjuror³ should be right after all!" said Henchard.

The fact was, that no sooner had the sickles⁴ begun to play than the atmosphere suddenly felt as if cress would grow in it without other nourishment⁵. It rubbed people's cheeks like damp flannel⁶ when they walked abroad. There was a gusty⁷, high, warm wind; isolated⁸ raindrops starred the window-panes at remote distances: the sunlight would flap out like a quickly opened fan, throw the pattern of the window upon the floor of the room in a milky⁹, colourless shine, and withdraw as suddenly as it had appeared.

From that day and hour it was clear that there was not to be so successful an ingathering after all. If Henchard had only waited long enough he might at least have avoided loss though he had not made a profit. But the momentum¹¹ of his character knew no patience. At this turn of the scales he remained silent. The movements of his mind seemed to tend to the thought that some power was working against him.

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