hours earlier, had enticed Farfrae into a deadly wrestle stood
now in the darkness of late night-time on a lonely road, inviting him
to come a particular way, where an assailant might have confederates,
instead of going his purposed way, where there might be a better
opportunity of guarding himself from attack. Henchard could almost feel
this view of things in course of passage through Farfrae's mind.

"I have to go to Mellstock," said Farfrae coldly, as he loosened his
reins to move on.

"But," implored Henchard, "the matter is more serious than your business
at Mellstock. It is--your wife! She is ill. I can tell you particulars
as we go along."

The very agitation and abruptness of Henchard increased Farfrae's
suspicion that this was a ruse to decoy him on to the next wood, where
might be effectually compassed what, from policy or want of nerve,
Henchard had failed to do earlier in the day. He started the horse.

"I know what you think," deprecated Henchard running after, almost bowed
down with despair as he perceived the image of unscrupulous villainy
that he assumed in his former friend's eyes. "But I am not what you
think!" he cried hoarsely. "Believe me, Farfrae; I have come entirely on
your own and your wife's account. She is in danger. I know no more; and
they want you to come. Your man has gone the other way in a mistake. O
Farfrae! don't mistrust me--I am a wretched man; but my heart is true to
you still!"

Farfrae, however, did distrust him utterly. He knew his wife was
with child, but he had left her not long ago in perfect health; and
Henchard's treachery was more credible than his story. He had in his
time heard bitter ironies from Henchard's lips, and there might be
ironies now. He quickened the horse's pace, and had soon risen into the
high country lying between there and Mellstock, Henchard's spasmodic run
after him lending yet more substance to his thought of evil purposes.

The gig and its driver lessened against the sky in Henchard's eyes;
his exertions for Farfrae's good had been in vain. Over this repentant
sinner, at least, there was to be no joy in heaven. He cursed himself
like a less scrupulous Job, as a vehement man will do when he loses
self-respect, the last mental prop under poverty. To this he had come
after a time of emotional darkness of which the adjoining woodland shade
afforded inadequate illustration. Presently he began to walk back again
along the way by which he had arrived.