called her "The Ghost." Sometimes Henchard overheard this epithet when
they passed together along the Walks--as the avenues on the walls
were named--at which his face would darken with an expression of
destructiveness towards the speakers ominous to see; but he said
nothing.

He pressed on the preparations for his union, or rather reunion, with
this pale creature in a dogged, unflinching spirit which did credit
to his conscientiousness. Nobody would have conceived from his outward
demeanour that there was no amatory fire or pulse of romance acting as
stimulant to the bustle going on in his gaunt, great house; nothing
but three large resolves--one, to make amends to his neglected Susan,
another, to provide a comfortable home for Elizabeth-Jane under his
paternal eye; and a third, to castigate himself with the thorns which
these restitutory acts brought in their train; among them the lowering
of his dignity in public opinion by marrying so comparatively humble a
woman.

Susan Henchard entered a carriage for the first time in her life when
she stepped into the plain brougham which drew up at the door on the
wedding-day to take her and Elizabeth-Jane to church. It was a windless
morning of warm November rain, which floated down like meal, and lay
in a powdery form on the nap of hats and coats. Few people had
gathered round the church door though they were well packed within.
The Scotchman, who assisted as groomsman, was of course the only one
present, beyond the chief actors, who knew the true situation of the
contracting parties. He, however, was too inexperienced, too thoughtful,
too judicial, too strongly conscious of the serious side of the
business, to enter into the scene in its dramatic aspect. That required
the special genius of Christopher Coney, Solomon Longways, Buzzford, and