Chapter 42

But the emotional conviction that he was in Somebody's hand
began to die out of Henchard's breast as time slowly removed
into distance the event which had given that feeling birth.
The apparition of Newson haunted him. He would surely
return.

Yet Newson did not arrive. Lucetta had been borne along
the churchyard path; Casterbridge had for the last time
turned its regard upon her, before proceeding to its work as
if she had never lived. But Elizabeth remained undisturbed
in the belief of her relationship to Henchard, and now
shared his home. Perhaps, after all, Newson was gone for
ever.

In due time the bereaved Farfrae had learnt the, at least,
proximate cause of Lucetta's illness and death, and his
first impulse was naturally enough to wreak vengeance in the
name of the law upon the perpetrators of the mischief. He
resolved to wait till the funeral was over ere he moved in
the matter. The time having come he reflected. Disastrous
as the result had been, it was obviously in no way foreseen
or intended by the thoughtless crew who arranged the motley
procession. The tempting prospect of putting to the blush
people who stand at the head of affairs--that supreme and
piquant enjoyment of those who writhe under the heel of the
same--had alone animated them, so far as he could see; for
he knew nothing of Jopp's incitements. Other considerations
were also involved. Lucetta had confessed everything to him
before her death, and it was not altogether desirable to
make much ado about her history, alike for her sake, for
Henchard's, and for his own. To regard the event as an
untoward accident seemed, to Farfrae, truest consideration
for the dead one's memory, as well as best philosophy.

Henchard and himself mutually forbore to meet. For
Elizabeth's sake the former had fettered his pride
sufficiently to accept the small seed and root business
which some of the Town Council, headed by Farfrae, had
purchased to afford him a new opening. Had he been only
personally concerned Henchard, without doubt, would have
declined assistance even remotely brought about by the man
whom he had so fiercely assailed. But the sympathy of the
girl seemed necessary to his very existence; and on her
account pride itself wore the garments of humility.

Here they settled themselves; and on each day of their lives
Henchard anticipated her every wish with a watchfulness in
which paternal regard was heightened by a burning jealous
dread of rivalry. Yet that Newson would ever now return to
Casterbridge to claim her as a daughter there was
little reason to suppose. He was a wanderer and a
stranger, almost an alien; he had not seen his daughter for
several years; his affection for her