took a kindly interest in their career, not unconnected, perhaps, with visions of festive 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 perusing 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 prospective event, that all the gossips’ tongues were set wagging thereby, and so-on, even though such a declaration might lend some eclat 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 reticence he concluded that, estimating him by his past, the throbbing pair were afraid to broach the subject, and looked upon him as an irksome obstacle whom they would be heartily glad to get out of the way.  Embittered as he was against society, this moody 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 morbidly 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 fangless 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 descending 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 outweigh the personal humiliation.