Now the group outside the window had within the last few minutes been
reinforced by new arrivals, some of them respectable shopkeepers and
their assistants, who had come out for a whiff of air after putting up
the shutters for the night; some of them of a lower class. Distinct
from either there appeared a stranger—a young man of remarkably
pleasant aspect—who carried in his hand a carpet-bag of the smart
floral pattern prevalent in such articles at that time.
He was ruddy and of a fair countenance, bright-eyed, and slight in
build. He might possibly have passed by without stopping at all, or at
most for half a minute to glance in at the scene, had not his advent
coincided with the discussion on corn and bread, in which event this
history had never been enacted. But the subject seemed to arrest him,
and he whispered some inquiries of the other bystanders, and remained
listening.
When he heard Henchard’s closing words, “It can’t be done,” he smiled
impulsively, drew out his pocketbook, and wrote down a few words by the
aid of the light in the window. He tore out the leaf, folded and
directed it, and seemed about to throw it in through the open sash upon
the dining-table; but, on second thoughts, edged himself through the
loiterers, till he reached the door of the hotel, where one of the
waiters who had been serving inside was now idly leaning against the
doorpost.
“Give this to the Mayor at once,” he said, handing in his hasty note.
Elizabeth-Jane had seen his movements and heard the words, which
attracted her both by their subject and by their accent—a strange one
for those parts. It was quaint and northerly.