The Mayor of Casterbridge

Chapter 20

Of all the enigmas which ever confronted a girl there can

have been seldom one like that which followed Henchard's

announcement of himself to Elizabeth as her father. He had

done it in an ardour and an agitation which had half carried

the point of affection with her; yet, behold, from the next

morning onwards his manner was constrained as she had never

seen it before.

The coldness soon broke out into open chiding. One grievous

failing of Elizabeth's was her occasional pretty and

picturesque use of dialect words--those terrible marks of

the beast to the truly genteel.

It was dinner-time--they never met except at meals--and she

happened to say when he was rising from table, wishing to

show him something, "If you'll bide where you be a minute,

father, I'll get it."

"'Bide where you be,'" he echoed sharply, "Good God, are you

only fit to carry wash to a pig-trough, that ye use such

words as those?"

She reddened with shame and sadness.

"I meant 'Stay where you are,' father," she said, in a low,

humble voice. "I ought to have been more careful."

He made no reply, and went out of the room.

The sharp reprimand was not lost upon her, and in time it

came to pass that for "fay" she said "succeed"; that she no

longer spoke of "dumbledores" but of "humble bees"; no

longer said of young men and women that they "walked

together," but that they were "engaged"; that she grew to

talk of "greggles" as "wild hyacinths"; that when she had

not slept she did not quaintly tell the servants next

morning that she had been "hag-rid," but that she had

"suffered from indigestion."

These improvements, however, are somewhat in advance of the

story. Henchard, being uncultivated himself, was the

bitterest critic the fair girl could possibly have had of

her own lapses--really slight now, for she read

omnivorously. A gratuitous ordeal was in store for her in

the matter of her handwriting. She was passing the dining-

room door one evening, and had occasion to go in for

something. It was not till she had opened the door that she

knew the Mayor was there in the company of a man with whom

he transacted business.

"Here, Elizabeth-Jane," he said, looking round at her, "just

write down what I tell you--a few words of an agreement for

me and this gentleman to sign. I am a poor tool with a

pen."

"Be jowned, and so be I," said the gentleman.

She brought forward blotting-book, paper, and ink, and sat

down.

"Now then--'An agreement entered into this sixteenth day of

October'--write that first."

She started the pen in an elephantine march across the

sheet. It was a splendid round, bold hand of her own

conception, a style that would have stamped a woman as

Minerva's own in more recent days. But other ideas reigned

then: Henchard's creed was that proper young girls wrote

ladies'-hand--nay, he believed that bristling characters

were as innate and inseparable a part of refined womanhood

as s*x itself. Hence when, instead of scribbling, like the

Princess Ida,--

"In such a hand as when a field of corn

Bows all its ears before the roaring East,"

Elizabeth-Jane produced a line of chain-shot and sand-bags,

he reddened in angry shame for her, and, peremptorily

saying, "Never mind--I'll finish it," dismissed her there

and then.

Her considerate disposition became a pitfall to her now.

She was, it must be admitted, sometimes provokingly and

unnecessarily willing to saddle herself with manual labours.

She would go to the kitchen instead of ringing, "Not to make

Phoebe come up twice." She went down on her knees, shovel in

hand, when the cat overturned the coal-scuttle; moreover,

she would persistently thank the parlour-maid for

everything, till one day, as soon as the girl was gone from

the room, Henchard broke out with, "Good God, why dostn't

leave off thanking that girl as if she were a goddess-born!

Don't I pay her a dozen pound a year to do things for 'ee?"

Elizabeth shrank so visibly at the exclamation that he

became sorry a few minutes after, and said that he did not

mean to be rough.

These domestic exhibitions were the small protruding

needlerocks which suggested rather than revealed what was

underneath. But his passion had less terror for her than

his coldness. The increasing frequency of the latter mood

told her the sad news that he disliked her with a growing

dislike. The more interesting that her appearance and

manners became under the softening influences which she

could now command, and in her wisdom did command, the more

she seemed to estrange him. Sometimes she caught him

looking at her with a louring invidiousness that she could

hardly bear. Not knowing his secret it was cruel mockery

that she should for the first time excite his animosity when

she had taken his surname.

But the most terrible ordeal was to come. Elizabeth had

latterly been accustomed of an afternoon to present a cup of

cider or ale and bread-and-cheese to Nance Mockridge, who

worked in the yard wimbling hay-bonds. Nance accepted this

offering thankfully at first; afterwards as a matter of

course. On a day when Henchard was on the premises he saw

his step-daughter enter the hay-barn on this errand; and, as

there was no clear spot on which to deposit the provisions,

she at once set to work arranging two trusses of hay as a

table, Mockridge meanwhile standing with her hands on her

hips, easefully looking at the preparations on her behalf.

"Elizabeth, come here!" said Henchard; and she obeyed.

"Why do you lower yourself so confoundedly?" he said with

suppressed passion. "Haven't I told you o't fifty times?

Hey? Making yourself a drudge for a common workwoman of such

a character as hers! Why, ye'll disgrace me to the dust!"

Now these words were uttered loud enough to reach Nance

inside the barn door, who fired up immediately at the slur

upon her personal character. Coming to the door she cried

regardless of consequences, "Come to that, Mr. Henchard, I

can let 'ee know she've waited on worse!"

"Then she must have had more charity than sense," said

Henchard.

"O no, she hadn't. 'Twere not for charity but for hire; and

at a public-house in this town!"

"It is not true!" cried Henchard indignantly.

"Just ask her," said Nance, folding her naked arms in such a

manner that she could comfortably scratch her elbows.

Henchard glanced at Elizabeth-Jane, whose complexion, now

pink and white from confinement, lost nearly all of the

former colour. "What does this mean?" he said to her.

"Anything or nothing?"

"It is true," said Elizabeth-Jane. "But it was only--"

"Did you do it, or didn't you? Where was it?"

"At the Three Mariners; one evening for a little while, when

we were staying there."

Nance glanced triumphantly at Henchard, and sailed into the

barn; for assuming that she was to be discharged on the

instant she had resolved to make the most of her victory.

Henchard, however, said nothing about discharging her.

Unduly sensitive on such points by reason of his own past,

he had the look of one completely ground down to the last

indignity. Elizabeth followed him to the house like a

culprit; but when she got inside she could not see him. Nor

did she see him again that day.

Convinced of the scathing damage to his local repute and

position that must have been caused by such a fact, though

it had never before reached his own ears, Henchard showed a

positive distaste for the presence of this girl not his own,

whenever he encountered her. He mostly dined with the

farmers at the market-room of one of the two chief hotels,

leaving her in utter solitude. Could he have seen how she

made use of those silent hours he might have found reason to

reserve his judgment on her quality. She read and took

notes incessantly, mastering facts with painful

laboriousness, but never flinching from her self-imposed

task. She began the study of Latin, incited by the Roman

characteristics of the town she lived in. "If I am not

well-informed it shall be by no fault of my own," she would

say to herself through the tears that would occasionally

glide down her peachy cheeks when she was fairly baffled by

the portentous obscurity of many of these educational works.

Thus she lived on, a dumb, deep-feeling, great-eyed

creature, construed by not a single contiguous being;

quenching with patient fortitude her incipient interest in

Farfrae, because it seemed to be one-sided, unmaidenly, and

unwise. True, that for reasons best known to herself, she

had, since Farfrae's dismissal, shifted her quarters from

the back room affording a view of the yard (which she had

occupied with such zest) to a front chamber overlooking the

street; but as for the young man, whenever he passed the

house he seldom or never turned his head.

Winter had almost come, and unsettled weather made her still

more dependent upon indoor resources. But there were

certain early winter days in Casterbridge--days of

firmamental exhaustion which followed angry south-westerly

tempests--when, if the sun shone, the air was like velvet.

She seized on these days for her periodical visits to the

spot where her mother lay buried--the still-used burial-

ground of the old Roman-British city, whose curious feature

was this, its continuity as a place of sepulture. Mrs.

Henchard's dust mingled with the dust of women who lay

ornamented with glass hair-pins and amber necklaces, and men

who held in their mouths coins of Hadrian, Posthumus, and

the Constantines.

Half-past ten in the morning was about her hour for seeking

this spot--a time when the town avenues were deserted as the

avenues of Karnac. Business had long since passed down them

into its daily cells, and Leisure had not arrived there. So

Elizabeth-Jane walked and read, or looked over the edge of

the book to think, and thus reached the churchyard.

There, approaching her mother's grave she saw a solitary

dark figure in the middle of the gravel-walk. This figure,

too, was reading; but not from a book: the words which

engrossed it being the inscription on Mrs. Henchard's

tombstone. The personage was in mourning like herself, was

about her age and size, and might have been her wraith or

double, but for the fact that it was a lady much more

beautifully dressed than she. Indeed, comparatively

indifferent as Elizabeth-Jane was to dress, unless for some

temporary whim or purpose, her eyes were arrested by the

artistic perfection of the lady's appearance. Her gait,

too, had a flexuousness about it, which seemed to avoid

angularity. It was a revelation to Elizabeth that human

beings could reach this stage of external development--she

had never suspected it. She felt all the freshness and

grace to be stolen from herself on the instant by the

neighbourhood of such a stranger. And this was in face of

the fact that Elizabeth could now have been writ handsome,

while the young lady was simply pretty.

Had she been envious she might have hated the woman; but she

did not do that--she allowed herself the pleasure of feeling

fascinated. She wondered where the lady had come from. The

stumpy and practical walk of honest homeliness which mostly

prevailed there, the two styles of dress thereabout, the

simple and the mistaken, equally avouched that this figure

was no Casterbridge woman's, even if a book in her hand

resembling a guide-book had not also suggested it.

The stranger presently moved from the tombstone of Mrs.

Henchard, and vanished behind the corner of the wall.

Elizabeth went to the tomb herself; beside it were two foot-

prints distinct in the soil, signifying that the lady had

stood there a long time. She returned homeward, musing on

what she had seen, as she might have mused on a rainbow or

the Northern Lights, a rare butterfly or a cameo.

Interesting as things had been out of doors, at home it

turned out to be one of her bad days. Henchard, whose two

years' mayoralty was ending, had been made aware that he was

not to be chosen to fill a vacancy in the list of aldermen;

and that Farfrae was likely to become one of the Council.

This caused the unfortunate discovery that she had played

the waiting-maid in the town of which he was Mayor to rankle

in his mind yet more poisonously. He had learnt by personal

inquiry at the time that it was to Donald Farfrae--that

treacherous upstart--that she had thus humiliated herself.

And though Mrs. Stannidge seemed to attach no great

importance to the incident--the cheerful souls at the Three

Mariners having exhausted its aspects long ago--such was

Henchard's haughty spirit that the simple thrifty deed was

regarded as little less than a social catastrophe by him.

Ever since the evening of his wife's arrival with her

daughter there had been something in the air which had

changed his luck. That dinner at the King's Arms with his

friends had been Henchard's Austerlitz: he had had his

successes since, but his course had not been upward. He was

not to be numbered among the aldermen--that Peerage of

burghers--as he had expected to be, and the consciousness of

this soured him to-day.

"Well, where have you been?" he said to her with offhand

laconism.

"I've been strolling in the Walks and churchyard, father,

till I feel quite leery." She clapped her hand to her mouth,

but too late.

This was just enough to incense Henchard after the other

crosses of the day. "I WON'T have you talk like that!"

he thundered. "'Leery,' indeed. One would think you worked

upon a farm! One day I learn that you lend a hand in public-

houses. Then I hear you talk like a clodhopper. I'm

burned, if it goes on, this house can't hold us two."

The only way of getting a single pleasant thought to go to

sleep upon after this was by recalling the lady she had seen

that day, and hoping she might see her again.

Meanwhile Henchard was sitting up, thinking over his jealous

folly in forbidding Farfrae to pay his addresses to this

girl who did not belong to him, when if he had allowed them

to go on he might not have been encumbered with her. At

last he said to himself with satisfaction as he jumped up

and went to the writing-table: "Ah! he'll think it means

peace, and a marriage portion--not that I don't want my

house to be troubled with her, and no portion at all!" He

wrote as follows:--

Sir,--On consideration, I don't wish to interfere with your

courtship of Elizabeth-Jane, if you care for her. I

therefore withdraw my objection; excepting in this--that the

business be not carried on in my house.--

Yours,

M. HENCHARD

Mr. Farfrae.

The morrow, being fairly fine, found Elizabeth-Jane again in

the churchyard, but while looking for the lady she was

startled by the apparition of Farfrae, who passed outside

the gate. He glanced up for a moment from a pocket-book in

which he appeared to be making figures as he went; whether

or not he saw her he took no notice, and disappeared.

Unduly depressed by a sense of her own superfluity she

thought he probably scorned her; and quite broken in spirit

sat down on a bench. She fell into painful thought on her

position, which ended with her saying quite loud, "O, I wish

I was dead with dear mother!"

Behind the bench was a little promenade under the wall where

people sometimes walked instead of on the gravel. The bench

seemed to be touched by something, she looked round, and a

face was bending over her, veiled, but still distinct, the

face of the young woman she had seen yesterday.

Elizabeth-Jane looked confounded for a moment, knowing she

had been overheard, though there was pleasure in her

confusion. "Yes, I heard you," said the lady, in a

vivacious voice, answering her look. "What can have

happened?"

"I don't--I can't tell you," said Elizabeth, putting her

hand to her face to hide a quick flush that had come.

There was no movement or word for a few seconds; then the

girl felt that the young lady was sitting down beside her.

"I guess how it is with you," said the latter. "That was

your mother." She waved her hand towards the tombstone.

Elizabeth looked up at her as if inquiring of herself

whether there should be confidence. The lady's manner was

so desirous, so anxious, that the girl decided there should

be confidence. "It was my mother," she said, "my only

friend."

"But your father, Mr. Henchard. He is living?"

"Yes, he is living," said Elizabeth-Jane.

"Is he not kind to you?"

"I've no wish to complain of him."

"There has been a disagreement?"

"A little."

"Perhaps you were to blame," suggested the stranger.

"I was--in many ways," sighed the meek Elizabeth. "I swept

up the coals when the servants ought to have done it; and I

said I was leery;--and he was angry with me."

The lady seemed to warm towards her for that reply. "Do you

know the impression your words give me?" she said

ingenuously. "That he is a hot-tempered man--a little

proud--perhaps ambitious; but not a bad man." Her anxiety

not to condemn Henchard while siding with Elizabeth was

curious.

"O no; certainly not BAD," agreed the honest girl. "And

he has not even been unkind to me till lately--since mother

died. But it has been very much to bear while it has

lasted. All is owing to my defects, I daresay; and my

defects are owing to my history."

"What is your history?"

Elizabeth-Jane looked wistfully at her questioner. She

found that her questioner was looking at her, turned her

eyes down; and then seemed compelled to look back again.

"My history is not gay or attractive," she said. "And yet I

can tell it, if you really want to know."

The lady assured her that she did want to know; whereupon

Elizabeth-Jane told the tale of her life as she understood

it, which was in general the true one, except that the sale

at the fair had no part therein.

Contrary to the girl's expectation her new friend was not

shocked. This cheered her; and it was not till she thought

of returning to that home in which she had been treated so

roughly of late that her spirits fell.

"I don't know how to return," she murmured. "I think of

going away. But what can I do? Where can I go?"

"Perhaps it will be better soon," said her friend gently.

"So I would not go far. Now what do you think of this: I

shall soon want somebody to live in my house, partly as

housekeeper, partly as companion; would you mind coming to

me? But perhaps--"

"O yes," cried Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes. "I would,

indeed--I would do anything to be independent; for then

perhaps my father might get to love me. But, ah!"

"What?"

"I am no accomplished person. And a companion to you must

be that."

"O, not necessarily."

"Not? But I can't help using rural words sometimes, when I

don't mean to."

"Never mind, I shall like to know them."

"And--O, I know I shan't do!"--she cried with a distressful

laugh. "I accidentally learned to write round hand instead

of ladies'-hand. And, of course, you want some one who can

write that?"

"Well, no."

"What, not necessary to write ladies'-hand?" cried the

joyous Elizabeth.

"Not at all."

"But where do you live?"

"In Casterbridge, or rather I shall be living here after

twelve o'clock to-day."

Elizabeth expressed her astonishment.

"I have been staying at Budmouth for a few days while my

house was getting ready. The house I am going into is that

one they call High-Place Hall--the old stone one looking

down the lane to the market. Two or three rooms are fit for

occupation, though not all: I sleep there to-night for the

first time. Now will you think over my proposal, and meet

me here the first fine day next week, and say if you are

still in the same mind?"

Elizabeth, her eyes shining at this prospect of a change

from an unbearable position, joyfully assented; and the two

parted at the gate of the churchyard.