never expected this—I did not!’ he said. ‘It’s Providence! Should any one go against it? No; I’ll not go to America; I’ll stay and be your man!’
His hand, which had lain lifeless in Henchard’s, returned the latter’s grasp.
‘Done,’ said Henchard.
‘Done,’ said Donald Farfrae.
The face of Mr Henchard beamed forth a satisfaction that was almost fierce in its strength. ‘Now you are my friend!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come back to my house; let’s clinch it at once by clear terms, so as to be comfortable in our minds.’ Farfrae caught up his bag and retraced the North-West Avenue in Henchard’s company as he had come. Henchard was all confidence now.
‘I am the most distant fellow in the world when I don’t care for a man,’ he said. ‘But when a man takes my fancy he takes it strong. Now I am sure you can eat another breakfast? You couldn’t have eaten much so early, even if they had anything at that place to gi’e thee, which they hadn’t; so come to my house and we will have a solid, staunch tuck-in, and settle terms in black-and-white if you like; though my word’s my bond. I can always make a good meal in the morning. I’ve got a splendid cold pigeon-pie going just now. You can have some home-brewed if you want to, you know.’
‘It is too airly in the morning for that,’ said Farfrae with a smile.
‘Well, of course, I didn’t know. I don’t drink it because of my oath; but I am obliged to brew for my work-people.’
Thus talking they returned, and entered Henchard’s premises by the back way or traffic entrance. Here the matter was settled over the breakfast, at which Henchard heaped the young Scotchman’s plate to a prodigal fulness. He would not rest satisfied till Farfrae had written for his luggage from Bristol, and despatched the letter to the post-office. When it was done this man of strong impulses declared that his new friend should take up his abode in his house—at least till some suitable lodgings could be found.
He then took Farfrae round and showed him the places, and the stores of grain, and other stock; and finally entered the offices where the younger of them has already been discovered by Elizabeth.
* The reader will scarcely need to be reminded that time and progress have obliterated from the town that suggested these descriptions many or most of the old-fashioned features here enumerated.
While she still sat under the Scotchman’s eyes a man came up to the door, reaching it as Henchard opened the door of the inner office to admit Elizabeth. The new-comer stepped forward like the quicker cripple at Bethesda, and entered in her stead. She could hear his words to Henchard: ‘Joshua Jopp, sir—by appointment—the new manager.’
‘The new manager!—he’s in his office,’ said Henchard bluntly.
‘In his office!’ said the man, with a stultified air.
‘I mentioned Thursday,’ said Henchard; ‘and as you did not keep your appointment, I have engaged another manager. At first I thought he must be you. Do you think I can wait when business is in question?’
‘You said Thursday or Saturday, sir,’ said the new-comer, pulling out a letter.
‘Well, you are too late,’ said the corn-factor. ‘I can say no more.’
‘You as good as engaged me,’ murmured the man.
‘Subject to an interview,’ said Henchard. ‘I am sorry for you—very sorry indeed. But it can’t be helped.’
There was no more to be said, and the man came out, encountering Elizabeth-Jane in his passage. She could see that his mouth twitched with anger, and that bitter disappointment was written in his face everywhere.
Elizabeth-Jane now entered, and stood before the master of the premises. His dark pupils—which always seemed to have a red spark of light in them, though this could hardly be a physical fact—turned indifferently round under his dark brows until they rested on her figure. ‘Now then, what is it, my young woman?’ he said blandly. ‘Can I speak to you—not on business, sir?’ said she.
‘Yes—I suppose.’ He looked at her more thoughtfully.
‘I am sent to tell you, sir,’ she innocently went on, ‘that a distant relative of yours by marriage, Susan Newson, a sailor’s widow, is in the town; and to ask whether you would wish to see her.’
The rich rouge-et-noir of his countenance underwent a slight change. ‘Oh—Susan is—still alive?’ he asked with difficulty.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are you her daughter?’
‘Yes sir—her only daughter.’
‘What—do you call yourself—your Christian name?’
‘Elizabeth-Jane, sir.’
‘Newson?’
‘Elizabeth-Jane Newson.’
This at once suggested to Henchard that the transaction of his early married life at Weydon Fair was unrecorded in the family history. It was more than he could have expected. His wife had behaved kindly to him in return for his unkindness, and had never proclaimed her wrong to her child or to the world.
‘I am—a good deal interested in your news,’ he said. ‘And as this is not a matter of business, but pleasure, suppose we go indoors.’
It was with a gentle delicacy of manner, surprising to Elizabeth, that he showed her out of the office and through the outer room, where Donald Farfrae was overhauling bins and samples with the inquiring inspection of a beginner in charge. Henchard preceded her through the door in the wall to the suddenly changed scene of the garden and flowers, and onward into the house. The dining-room to which he introduced her still exhibited the remnants of the lavish breakfast laid for Farfrae. It was furnished to profusion with heavy mahogany furniture of the deepest red-Spanish hues. Pembroke tables, with leaves hanging so low that they well-nigh touched the floor, stood against the walls on legs and feet shaped like those of an elephant, and on one lay three huge folio volumes—a Family Bible, a ‘Josephus’, and a ‘Whole Duty of man’. In the chimney corner was a fire-grate with a fluted semicircular back, having urns and festoons cast in relief thereon; and the chairs were of the kind which, since that day, has cast lustre upon the names of Chippendale and Sheraton, though, in point of fact, their patterns may have been such as those illustrious carpenters never saw or heard of.
‘Sit down—Elizabeth-Jane—sit down,’ he said, with a shake in his voice as he uttered her name; and sitting down himself he allowed his hands to hang between his knees, while he looked upon the carpet. ‘Your mother, then, is quite well?’
‘She is rather worn out, sir, with travelling.’
‘A sailor’s widow—when did he die?’
‘Father was lost last spring.’
Henchard winced at the word ‘father’, thus applied. ‘Do you and she come from abroad—America or Australia?’ he asked.
‘No. We have been in England some years. I was twelve when we came here from Canada.’
‘Ah; exactly.’ By such conversation he discovered the circumstances which had enveloped his wife and her child in such total obscurity that he had long ago believed them to be in their graves. These things being clear, he returned to the present. ‘And where is your mother staying?’
‘At the Three Mariners.’
‘And you are her daughter Elizabeth-Jane?’ repeated Henchard. He arose, came close to her, and glanced in her face. ‘I think,’ he said, suddenly turning away with a wet eye, ‘you shall take a