The Mayor of Casterbridge

Chapter 10

While she still sat under the Scotchman's eyes a man came up

to the door, reaching it as Henchard opened the door of the

inner office to admit Elizabeth. The newcomer stepped

forward like the quicker cripple at Bethesda, and entered in

her stead. She could hear his words to Henchard: "Joshua

Jopp, sir--by appointment--the new manager."

"The new manager!--he's in his office," said Henchard

bluntly.

"In his office!" said the man, with a stultified air.

"I mentioned Thursday," said Henchard; "and as you did not

keep your appointment, I have engaged another manager. At

first I thought he must be you. Do you think I can wait

when business is in question?"

"You said Thursday or Saturday, sir," said the newcomer,

pulling out a letter.

"Well, you are too late," said the corn-factor. "I can say

no more."

"You as good as engaged me," murmured the man.

"Subject to an interview," said Henchard. "I am sorry for

you--very sorry indeed. But it can't be helped."

There was no more to be said, and the man came out,

encountering Elizabeth-Jane in his passage. She could see

that his mouth twitched with anger, and that bitter

disappointment was written in his face everywhere.

Elizabeth-Jane now entered, and stood before the master of

the premises. His dark pupils--which always seemed to have

a red spark of light in them, though this could hardly be a

physical fact--turned indifferently round under his dark

brows until they rested on her figure. "Now then, what is

it, my young woman?" he said blandly.

"Can I speak to you--not on business, sir?" said she.

"Yes--I suppose." He looked at her more thoughtfully.

"I am sent to tell you, sir," she innocently went on, "that

a distant relative of yours by marriage, Susan Newson, a

sailor's widow, is in the town, and to ask whether you would

wish to see her."

The rich rouge-et-noir of his countenance underwent a

slight change. "Oh--Susan is--still alive?" he asked with

difficulty.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you her daughter?"

"Yes, sir--her only daughter."

"What--do you call yourself--your Christian name?"

"Elizabeth-Jane, sir."

"Newson?"

"Elizabeth-Jane Newson."

This at once suggested to Henchard that the transaction of

his early married life at Weydon Fair was unrecorded in the

family history. It was more than he could have expected.

His wife had behaved kindly to him in return for his

unkindness, and had never proclaimed her wrong to her child

or to the world.

"I am--a good deal interested in your news," he said. "And

as this is not a matter of business, but pleasure, suppose

we go indoors."

It was with a gentle delicacy of manner, surprising to

Elizabeth, that he showed her out of the office and through

the outer room, where Donald Farfrae was overhauling bins

and samples with the inquiring inspection of a beginner in

charge. Henchard preceded her through the door in the wall

to the suddenly changed scene of the garden and flowers, and

onward into the house. The dining-room to which he

introduced her still exhibited the remnants of the lavish

breakfast laid for Farfrae. It was furnished to profusion

with heavy mahogany furniture of the deepest red-Spanish

hues. Pembroke tables, with leaves hanging so low that they

well-nigh touched the floor, stood against the walls on legs

and feet shaped like those of an elephant, and on one lay

three huge folio volumes--a Family Bible, a "Josephus," and

a "Whole Duty of Man." In the chimney comer was a fire-grate

with a fluted semicircular back, having urns and festoons

cast in relief thereon, and the chairs were of the kind

which, since that day, has cast lustre upon the names of

Chippendale and Sheraton, though, in point of fact, their

patterns may have been such as those illustrious carpenters

never saw or heard of.

"Sit down--Elizabeth-Jane--sit down," he said, with a shake

in his voice as he uttered her name, and sitting down

himself he allowed his hands to hang between his knees while

he looked upon the carpet. "Your mother, then, is quite

well?"

"She is rather worn out, sir, with travelling."

"A sailor's widow--when did he die?"

"Father was lost last spring."

Henchard winced at the word "father," thus applied. "Do you

and she come from abroad--America or Australia?" he asked.

"No. We have been in England some years. I was twelve when

we came here from Canada."

"Ah; exactly." By such conversation he discovered the

circumstances which had enveloped his wife and her child in

such total obscurity that he had long ago believed them to

be in their graves. These things being clear, he returned

to the present. "And where is your mother staying?"

"At the Three Mariners."

"And you are her daughter Elizabeth-Jane?" repeated

Henchard. He arose, came close to her, and glanced in her

face. "I think," he said, suddenly turning away with a wet

eye, "you shall take a note from me to your mother. I

should like to see her....She is not left very well off by

her late husband?" His eye fell on Elizabeth's clothes,

which, though a respectable suit of black, and her very

best, were decidedly old-fashioned even to Casterbridge

eyes.

"Not very well," she said, glad that he had divined this

without her being obliged to express it.

He sat down at the table and wrote a few lines, next taking

from his pocket-book a five-pound note, which he put in the

envelope with the letter, adding to it, as by an

afterthought, five shillings. Sealing the whole up

carefully, he directed it to "Mrs. Newson, Three Mariners

Inn," and handed the packet to Elizabeth.

"Deliver it to her personally, please," said Henchard.

"Well, I am glad to see you here, Elizabeth-Jane--very glad.

We must have a long talk together--but not just now."

He took her hand at parting, and held it so warmly that she,

who had known so little friendship, was much affected, and

tears rose to her aerial-grey eyes. The instant that she

was gone Henchard's state showed itself more distinctly;

having shut the door he sat in his dining-room stiffly

erect, gazing at the opposite wall as if he read his history

there.

"Begad!" he suddenly exclaimed, jumping up. "I didn't think

of that. Perhaps these are impostors--and Susan and the

child dead after all!"

However, a something in Elizabeth-Jane soon assured him

that, as regarded her, at least, there could be little

doubt. And a few hours would settle the question of her

mother's identity; for he had arranged in his note to see

her that evening.

"It never rains but it pours!" said Henchard. His keenly

excited interest in his new friend the Scotchman was now

eclipsed by this event, and Donald Farfrae saw so little of

him during the rest of the day that he wondered at the

suddenness of his employer's moods.

In the meantime Elizabeth had reached the inn. Her mother,

instead of taking the note with the curiosity of a poor

woman expecting assistance, was much moved at sight of it.

She did not read it at once, asking Elizabeth to describe

her reception, and the very words Mr. Henchard used.

Elizabeth's back was turned when her mother opened the

letter. It ran thus:--

"Meet me at eight o'clock this evening, if you can, at the

Ring on the Budmouth road. The place is easy to find. I

can say no more now. The news upsets me almost. The girl

seems to be in ignorance. Keep her so till I have seen you.

M. H."

He said nothing about the enclosure of five guineas. The

amount was significant; it may tacitly have said to her that

he bought her back again. She waited restlessly for the

close of the day, telling Elizabeth-Jane that she was

invited to see Mr. Henchard; that she would go alone. But

she said nothing to show that the place of meeting was not

at his house, nor did she hand the note to Elizabeth.