The north road from Casterbridge is tedious and lonely, especially inwinter-time. Along a part of its course it connects with Long-Ash Lane,a monotonous track without a village or hamlet for many miles, and withvery seldom a turning. Unapprized wayfarers who are too old, or tooyoung, or in other respects too weak for the distance to be traversed,but who, nevertheless, have to walk it, say, as they look wistfullyahead, 'Once at the top of that hill, and I must surely see the end ofLong-Ash Lane!' But they reach the hilltop, and Long-Ash Lane stretchesin front as mercilessly as before.

Some few years ago a certain farmer was riding through this lane in thegloom of a winter evening. The farmer's friend, a dairyman, was ridingbeside him. A few paces in the rear rode the farmer's man. All threewere well horsed on strong, round-barrelled cobs; and to be well horsedwas to be in better spirits about Long-Ash Lane than poor pedestrianscould attain to during its passage.

But the farmer did not talk much to his friend as he rode along. Theenterprise which had brought him there filled his mind; for in truth itwas important. Not altogether so important was it, perhaps, whenestimated by its value to society at large; but if the true measure of adeed be proportionate to the space it occupies in the heart of him whoundertakes it, Farmer Charles Darton's business to-night could hold itsown with the business of kings.

He was a large farmer. His turnover, as it is called, was probablythirty thousand pounds a year. He had a great many draught horses, agreat many milch cows, and of sheep a multitude. This comfortableposition was, however, none of his own making. It had been created byhis father, a man of a very different stamp from the presentrepresentative of the line.

Darton, the father, had been a one-idea'd character, with a buttoned-uppocket and a chink-like eye brimming with commercial subtlety. In Dartonthe son, this trade subtlety had become transmuted into emotional, andthe harshness had disappeared; he would have been called a sad man butfor his constant care not to divide himself from lively friends by pipingnotes out of harmony with theirs. Contemplative, he allowed his mind tobe a quiet meeting-place for memories and hopes. So that, naturallyenough, since succeeding to the agricultural calling, and up to hispresent age of thirty-two, he had neither advanced nor receded as acapitalist--a stationary result which did not agitate one of hisunambitious, unstrategic nature, since he had all that he desired. Themotive of his expedition to-night showed the same absence of anxiousregard for Number One.

The party rode on in the slow, safe trot proper to night-time and badroads, Farmer Darton's head jigging rather unromantically up and downagainst the sky, and his motions being repeated with bolder emphasis byhis friend Japheth Johns; while those of the latter were travestied injerks still less softened by art in the person of the lad who attendedthem. A pair of whitish objects hung one on each side of the latter,bumping against him at each step, and still further spoiling the grace ofhis seat. On close inspection they might have been perceived to be openrush baskets--one containing a turkey, and the other some bottles ofwine.

'D'ye feel ye can meet your fate like a man, neighbour Darton?' askedJohns, breaking a silence which had lasted while five-and-twenty hedgerowtrees had glided by.

Mr. Darton with a half-laugh murmured, 'Ay--call it my fate! Hanging andwiving go by destiny.' And then they were silent again.

The darkness thickened rapidly, at intervals shutting down on the land ina perceptible flap, like the wave of a wing. The customary close of daywas accelerated by a simultaneous blurring of the air. With the fall ofnight had come a mist just damp enough to incommode, but not sufficientto saturate them. Countrymen as they were--born, as may be said, withonly an open door between them and the four seasons--they regarded themist but as an added obscuration, and ignored its humid quality.

They were travelling in a direction that was enlivened by no moderncurrent of traffic, the place of Darton's pilgrimage being anold-fashioned village--one of the Hintocks (several villages of thatname, with a distinctive prefix or affix, lying thereabout)--where thepeople make the best cider and cider-wine in all Wessex, and where thedunghills smell of pomace instead of stable refuse as elsewhere. Thelane was sometimes so narrow that the brambles of the hedge, which hungforward like anglers' rods over a stream, scratched their hats and curry-combed their whiskers as they passed. Yet this neglected lane had been ahighway to Queen Elizabeth's subjects and the cavalcades of the past. Itsday was over now, and its history as a national artery done for ever.

'Why I have decided to marry her,' resumed Darton (in a measured musicalvoice of confidence which revealed a good deal of his composition), as heglanced round to see that the lad was not too near, 'is not only that Ilike her, but that I can do no better, even from a fairly practical pointof view. That I might ha' looked higher is possibly true, though it isreally all nonsense. I have had experience enough in looking above me."No more superior women for me," said I--you know when. Sally is acomely, independent, simple character, with no make-up about her, who'llthink me as much a superior to her as I used to think--you know who Imean--was to me.'

'Ay,' said Johns. 'However, I shouldn't call Sally Hall simple. Primary,because no Sally is; secondary, because if some could be, this onewouldn't. 'Tis a wrong denomination to apply to a woman, Charles, andaffects me, as your best man, like cold water. 'Tis like recommending astage play by saying there's neither murder, villainy, nor harm of anysort in it, when that's what you've paid your half-crown to see.'

'Well; may your opinion do you good. Mine's a different one.' Andturning the conversation from the philosophical to the practical, Dartonexpressed a hope that the said Sally had received what he'd sent on bythe carrier that day.

Johns wanted to know what that was.

'It is a dress,' said Darton. 'Not exactly a wedding-dress; though shemay use it as one if she likes. It is rather serviceable thanshowy--suitable for the winter weather.'

'Good,' said Johns. 'Serviceable is a wise word in a bridegroom. Icommend ye, Charles.'

'For,' said Darton, 'why should a woman dress up like a rope-dancerbecause she's going to do the most solemn deed of her life except dying?'

'Faith, why? But she will, because she will, I suppose,' said DairymanJohns.

'H'm,' said Darton.

The lane they followed had been nearly straight for several miles, but itnow took a turn, and winding uncertainly for some distance forked intotwo. By night country roads are apt to reveal ungainly qualities whichpass without observation during day; and though Darton had travelled thisway before, he had not done so frequently, Sally having been wooed at thehouse of a relative near his own. He never remembered seeing at thisspot a pair of alternative ways looking so equally probable as these twodid now. Johns rode on a few steps.

'Don't be out of heart, sonny,' he cried. 'Here's a handpost. Enoch--comeand climm this post, and tell us the way.'

The lad dismounted, and jumped into the hedge where the post stood undera tree.

'Unstrap the baskets, or you'll smash up that wine!' cried Darton, as theyoung man began spasmodically to climb the post, baskets and all.

'Was there ever less head in a brainless world?' said Johns. 'Here,simple Nocky, I'll do it.' He leapt off, and with much puffing climbedthe post, striking a match when he reached the top, and moving the lightalong the arm, the lad standing and gazing at the spectacle.

'I have faced tantalization these twenty years with a temper as mild asmilk!' said Japheth; 'but such things as this don't come short ofdevilry!' And flinging the match away, he slipped down to the ground.

'What's the matter?' asked Darton.

'Not a letter, sacred or heathen--not so much as would tell us the way tothe great fireplace--ever I should sin to say it! Either the moss andmildew have eat away the words, or we have arrived in a land where thenatyves have lost the art o' writing, and should ha' brought our compasslike Christopher Columbus.'

'Let us take the straightest road,' said Darton placidly; 'I shan't besorry to get there--'tis a tiresome ride. I would have driven if I hadknown.'

'Nor I neither, sir,' said Enoch. 'These straps plough my shoulder likea zull. If 'tis much further to your lady's home, Maister Darton, Ishall ask to be let carry half of these good things in my innerds--hee,hee!'

'Don't you be such a reforming radical, Enoch,' said Johns sternly.'Here, I'll take the turkey.'

This being done, they went forward by the right-hand lane, which ascendeda hill, the left winding away under a plantation. The pit-a-pat of theirhorses' hoofs lessened up the slope; and the ironical directing-poststood in solitude as before, holding out its blank arms to the rawbreeze, which brought a snore from the wood as if Skrymir the Giant weresleeping there.