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Mayor of Casterbridge (version 3)

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<h2>XXVIII.</h2> The next morning Henchard went to the Town Hall below Lucetta’s house, to attend Petty Sessions, being still a magistrate for the year by virtue of his late position as Mayor. In passing he looked up at her windows, but nothing of her was to be seen. Henchard as a Justice of the Peace may at first seem to be an even greater incongruity than Shallow and Silence themselves. But his rough and ready perceptions, his sledge-hammer directness, had often served him better than nice legal knowledge in despatching such simple business as fell to his hands in this Court. To-day Dr. Chalkfield, the Mayor for the year, being absent, the corn-merchant took the big chair, his eyes still abstractedly stretching out of the window to the ashlar front of High-Place Hall. There was one case only, and the offender stood before him. She was an old woman of mottled countenance, attired in a shawl of that nameless tertiary hue which comes, but cannot be made—a hue neither tawny, russet, hazel, nor ash; a sticky black bonnet that seemed to have been worn in the country of the Psalmist where the clouds drop fatness; and an apron that had been white in time so comparatively recent as still to contrast visibly with the rest of her clothes. The steeped aspect of the woman as a whole showed her to be no native of the country-side or even of a country-town. She looked cursorily at Henchard and the second magistrate, and Henchard looked at her, with a momentary pause, as if she had reminded him indistinctly of somebody or something which passed from his mind as quickly as it had come. “Well, and what has she been doing?” he said, looking down at the charge sheet. “She is charged, sir, with the offence of disorderly female and nuisance,” whispered Stubberd. “Where did she do that?” said the other magistrate. “By the church, sir, of all the horrible places in the world!—I caught her in the act, your worship.” “Stand back then,” said Henchard, “and let’s hear what you’ve got to say.” Stubberd was sworn in, the magistrate’s clerk dipped his pen, Henchard being no note-taker himself, and the constable began— “Hearing a’ illegal noise I went down the street at twenty-five minutes past eleven P.M. on the night of the fifth instinct, Hannah Dominy. When I had— “Don’t go so fast, Stubberd,” said the clerk. The constable waited, with his eyes on the clerk’s pen, till the latter stopped scratching and said, “yes.” Stubberd continued: “When I had proceeded to the spot I saw defendant at another spot, namely, the gutter.” He paused, watching the point of the clerk’s pen again. “Gutter, yes, Stubberd.” “Spot measuring twelve feet nine inches or thereabouts from where I—” Still careful not to outrun the clerk’s penmanship Stubberd pulled up again; for having got his evidence by heart it was immaterial to him whereabouts he broke off. “I object to that,” spoke up the old woman, “‘spot measuring twelve feet nine or thereabouts from where I,’ is not sound testimony!” The magistrates consulted, and the second one said that the bench was of opinion that twelve feet nine inches from a man on his oath was admissible. Stubberd, with a suppressed gaze of victorious rectitude at the old woman, continued: “Was standing myself. She was wambling about quite dangerous to the thoroughfare and when I approached to draw near she committed the nuisance, and insulted me.” “‘Insulted me.’ ...Yes, what did she say?” “She said, ‘Put away that dee lantern,’ she says.” “Yes.” “Says she, ‘Dost hear, old turmit-head? Put away that dee lantern. I have floored fellows a dee sight finer-looking than a dee fool like thee, you son of a bee, dee me if I haint,’ she says. “I object to that conversation!” interposed the old woman. “I was not capable enough to hear what I said, and what is said out of my hearing is not evidence.” There was another stoppage for consultation, a book was referred to, and finally Stubberd was allowed to go on again. The truth was that the old woman had appeared in court so many more times than the magistrates themselves, that they were obliged to keep a sharp look-out upon their procedure. However, when Stubberd had rambled on a little further Henchard broke out impatiently, “Come—we don’t want to hear any more of them cust dees and bees! Say the words out like a man, and don’t be so modest, Stubberd; or else leave it alone!” Turning to the woman, “Now then, have you any questions to ask him, or anything to say?” “Yes,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye; and the clerk dipped his pen. “Twenty years ago or thereabout I was selling of furmity in a tent at Weydon Fair——” “‘Twenty years ago’—well, that’s beginning at the beginning; suppose you go back to the Creation!” said the clerk, not without satire. But Henchard stared, and quite forgot what was evidence and what was not. “A man and a woman with a little child came into my tent,” the woman continued. “They sat down and had a basin apiece. Ah, Lord’s my life! I was of a more respectable station in the world then than I am now, being a land smuggler in a large way of business; and I used to season my furmity with rum for them who asked for’t. I did it for the man; and then he had more and more; till at last he quarrelled with his wife, and offered to sell her to the highest bidder. A sailor came in and bid five guineas, and paid the money, and led her away. And the man who sold his wife in that fashion is the man sitting there in the great big chair.” The speaker concluded by nodding her head at Henchard and folding her arms. Everybody looked at Henchard. His face seemed strange, and in tint as if it had been powdered over with ashes. “We don’t want to hear your life and adventures,” said the second magistrate sharply, filling the pause which followed. “You’ve been asked if you’ve anything to say bearing on the case.” “That bears on the case. It proves that he’s no better than I, and has no right to sit there in judgment upon me.” “’Tis a concocted story,” said the clerk. “So hold your tongue!” “No—’tis true.” The words came from Henchard. “’Tis as true as the light,” he said slowly. “And upon my soul it does prove that I’m no better than she! And to keep out of any temptation to treat her hard for her revenge, I’ll leave her to you.” The sensation in the court was indescribably great. Henchard left the chair, and came out, passing through a group of people on the steps and outside that was much larger than usual; for it seemed that the old furmity dealer had mysteriously hinted to the denizens of the lane in which she had been lodging since her arrival, that she knew a queer thing or two about their great local man Mr. Henchard, if she chose to tell it. This had brought them hither. “Why are there so many idlers round the Town Hall to-day?” said Lucetta to her servant when the case was over. She had risen late, and had just looked out of the window. “Oh, please, ma’am, ’tis this larry about Mr. Henchard. A woman has proved that before he became a gentleman he sold his wife for five guineas in a booth at a fair.” In all the accounts which Henchard had given her of the separation from his wife Susan for so many years, of his belief in her death, and so on, he had never clearly explained the actual and immediate cause of that separation. The story she now heard for the first time. A gradual misery overspread Lucetta’s face as she dwelt upon the promise wrung from her the night before. At bottom, then, Henchard was this. How terrible a contingency for a woman who should commit herself to his care. During the day she went out to the Ring and to other places, not coming in till nearly dusk. As soon as she saw Elizabeth-Jane after her return indoors she told her that she had resolved to go away from home to the seaside for a few days—to Port-Bredy; Casterbridge was so gloomy. Elizabeth, seeing that she looked wan and disturbed, encouraged her in the idea, thinking a change would afford her relief. She could not help suspecting that the gloom which seemed to have come over Casterbridge in Lucetta’s eyes might be partially owing to the fact that Farfrae was away from home. Elizabeth saw her friend depart for Port-Bredy, and took charge of High-Place Hall till her return. After two or three days of solitude and incessant rain Henchard called at the house. He seemed disappointed to hear of Lucetta’s absence and though he nodded with outward indifference he went away handling his beard with a nettled mien. The next day he called again. “Is she come now?” he asked. “Yes. She returned this morning,” replied his stepdaughter. “But she is not indoors. She has gone for a walk along the turnpike-road to Port-Bredy. She will be home by dusk.” After a few words, which only served to reveal his restless impatience, he left the house again. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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