The Mayor of Casterbridge

Chapter 5

A few score yards brought them to the spot where the town

band was now shaking the window-panes with the strains of

"The Roast Beef of Old England."

The building before whose doors they had pitched their

music-stands was the chief hotel in Casterbridge--namely,

the King's Arms. A spacious bow-window projected into the

street over the main portico, and from the open sashes came

the babble of voices, the jingle of glasses, and the drawing

of corks. The blinds, moreover, being left unclosed, the

whole interior of this room could be surveyed from the top

of a flight of stone steps to the road-waggon office

opposite, for which reason a knot of idlers had gathered

there.

"We might, perhaps, after all, make a few inquiries about--

our relation Mr. Henchard," whispered Mrs. Newson who, since

her entry into Casterbridge, had seemed strangely weak and

agitated, "And this, I think, would be a good place for

trying it--just to ask, you know, how he stands in the town--

if he is here, as I think he must be. You, Elizabeth-Jane,

had better be the one to do it. I'm too worn out to do

anything--pull down your fall first."

She sat down upon the lowest step, and Elizabeth-Jane obeyed

her directions and stood among the idlers.

"What's going on to-night?" asked the girl, after singling

out an old man and standing by him long enough to acquire a

neighbourly right of converse.

"Well, ye must be a stranger sure," said the old man,

without taking his eyes from the window. "Why, 'tis a great

public dinner of the gentle-people and such like leading

volk--wi' the Mayor in the chair. As we plainer fellows

bain't invited, they leave the winder-shutters open that we

may get jist a sense o't out here. If you mount the steps

you can see em. That's Mr. Henchard, the Mayor, at the end

of the table, a facing ye; and that's the Council men right

and left....Ah, lots of them when they begun life were no

more than I be now!"

"Henchard!" said Elizabeth-Jane, surprised, but by no means

suspecting the whole force of the revelation. She ascended

to the top of the steps.

Her mother, though her head was bowed, had already caught

from the inn-window tones that strangely riveted her

attention, before the old man's words, "Mr. Henchard, the

Mayor," reached her ears. She arose, and stepped up to her

daughter's side as soon as she could do so without showing

exceptional eagerness.

The interior of the hotel dining-room was spread out before

her, with its tables, and glass, and plate, and inmates.

Facing the window, in the chair of dignity, sat a man about

forty years of age; of heavy frame, large features, and

commanding voice; his general build being rather coarse than

compact. He had a rich complexion, which verged on

swarthiness, a flashing black eye, and dark, bushy brows and

hair. When he indulged in an occasional loud laugh at some

remark among the guests, his large mouth parted so far back

as to show to the rays of the chandelier a full score or

more of the two-and-thirty sound white teeth that he

obviously still could boast of.

That laugh was not encouraging to strangers, and hence it

may have been well that it was rarely heard. Many theories

might have been built upon it. It fell in well with

conjectures of a temperament which would have no pity for

weakness, but would be ready to yield ungrudging admiration

to greatness and strength. Its producer's personal

goodness, if he had any, would be of a very fitful cast--an

occasional almost oppressive generosity rather than a mild

and constant kindness.

Susan Henchard's husband--in law, at least--sat before them,

matured in shape, stiffened in line, exaggerated in traits;

disciplined, thought-marked--in a word, older. Elizabeth,

encumbered with no recollections as her mother was, regarded

him with nothing more than the keen curiosity and interest

which the discovery of such unexpected social standing in

the long-sought relative naturally begot. He was dressed in

an old-fashioned evening suit, an expanse of frilled shirt

showing on his broad breast; jewelled studs, and a heavy

gold chain. Three glasses stood at his right hand; but, to

his wife's surprise, the two for wine were empty, while the

third, a tumbler, was half full of water.

When last she had seen him he was sitting in a corduroy

jacket, fustian waistcoat and breeches, and tanned leather

leggings, with a basin of hot furmity before him. Time, the

magician, had wrought much here. Watching him, and thus

thinking of past days, she became so moved that she shrank

back against the jamb of the waggon-office doorway to which

the steps gave access, the shadow from it conveniently

hiding her features. She forgot her daughter till a touch

from Elizabeth-Jane aroused her. "Have you seen him,

mother?" whispered the girl.

"Yes, yes," answered her companion hastily. "I have seen

him, and it is enough for me! Now I only want to go--pass

away--die."

"Why--O what?" She drew closer, and whispered in her

mother's ear, "Does he seem to you not likely to befriend

us? I thought he looked a generous man. What a gentleman he

is, isn't he? and how his diamond studs shine! How strange

that you should have said he might be in the stocks, or in

the workhouse, or dead! Did ever anything go more by

contraries! Why do you feel so afraid of him? I am not at

all;I'll call upon him--he can but say he don't own such

remote kin."

"I don't know at all--I can't tell what to set about. I

feel so down."

"Don't be that, mother, now we have got here and all! Rest

there where you be a little while--I will look on and find

out more about him."

"I don't think I can ever meet Mr. Henchard. He is not how

I thought he would be--he overpowers me! I don't wish to see

him any more."

"But wait a little time and consider."

Elizabeth-Jane had never been so much interested in anything

in her life as in their present position, partly from the

natural elation she felt at discovering herself akin to a

coach; and she gazed again at the scene. The younger guests

were talking and eating with animation; their elders were

searching for titbits, and sniffing and grunting over their

plates like sows nuzzling for acorns. Three drinks seemed

to be sacred to the company--port, sherry, and rum; outside

which old-established trinity few or no palates ranged.

A row of ancient rummers with ground figures on their sides,

and each primed with a spoon, was now placed down the table,

and these were promptly filled with grog at such high

temperatures as to raise serious considerations for the

articles exposed to its vapours. But Elizabeth-Jane noticed

that, though this filling went on with great promptness up

and down the table, nobody filled the Mayor's glass, who

still drank large quantities of water from the tumbler

behind the clump of crystal vessels intended for wine and

spirits.

"They don't fill Mr. Henchard's wine-glasses," she ventured

to say to her elbow acquaintance, the old man.

"Ah, no; don't ye know him to be the celebrated abstaining

worthy of that name? He scorns all tempting liquors; never

touches nothing. O yes, he've strong qualities that way. I

have heard tell that he sware a gospel oath in bygone times,

and has bode by it ever since. So they don't press him,

knowing it would be unbecoming in the face of that: for yer

gospel oath is a serious thing."

Another elderly man, hearing this discourse, now joined in

by inquiring, "How much longer have he got to suffer from

it, Solomon Longways?"

"Another two year, they say. I don't know the why and the

wherefore of his fixing such a time, for 'a never has told

anybody. But 'tis exactly two calendar years longer, they

say. A powerful mind to hold out so long!"

"True....But there's great strength in hope. Knowing that

in four-and-twenty months' time ye'll be out of your

bondage, and able to make up for all you've suffered, by

partaking without stint--why, it keeps a man up, no doubt."

"No doubt, Christopher Coney, no doubt. And 'a must need

such reflections--a lonely widow man," said Longways.

"When did he lose his wife?" asked Elizabeth.

"I never knowed her. 'Twas afore he came to Casterbridge,"

Solomon Longways replied with terminative emphasis, as if

the fact of his ignorance of Mrs. Henchard were sufficient

to deprive her history of all interest. "But I know that

'a's a banded teetotaller, and that if any of his men be

ever so little overtook by a drop he's down upon 'em as

stern as the Lord upon the jovial Jews."

"Has he many men, then?" said Elizabeth-Jane.

"Many! Why, my good maid, he's the powerfullest member of

the Town Council, and quite a principal man in the country

round besides. Never a big dealing in wheat, barley, oats,

hay, roots, and such-like but Henchard's got a hand in it.

Ay, and he'll go into other things too; and that's where he

makes his mistake. He worked his way up from nothing when

'a came here; and now he's a pillar of the town. Not but

what he's been shaken a little to-year about this bad corn

he has supplied in his contracts. I've seen the sun rise

over Durnover Moor these nine-and-sixty year, and though Mr.

Henchard has never cussed me unfairly ever since I've worked

for'n, seeing I be but a little small man, I must say that I

have never before tasted such rough bread as has been made

from Henchard's wheat lately. 'Tis that growed out that ye

could a'most call it malt, and there's a list at bottom o'

the loaf as thick as the sole of one's shoe."

The band now struck up another melody, and by the time it

was ended the dinner was over, and speeches began to be

made. The evening being calm, and the windows still open,

these orations could be distinctly heard. Henchard's voice

arose above the rest; he was telling a story of his hay-

dealing experiences, in which he had outwitted a sharper who

had been bent upon outwitting him.

"Ha-ha-ha!" responded his audience at the upshot of the

story; and hilarity was general till a new voice arose with,

"This is all very well; but how about the bad bread?"

It came from the lower end of the table, where there sat a

group of minor tradesmen who, although part of the company,

appeared to be a little below the social level of the

others; and who seemed to nourish a certain independence of

opinion and carry on discussions not quite in harmony with

those at the head; just as the west end of a church is

sometimes persistently found to sing out of time and tune

with the leading spirits in the chancel.

This interruption about the bad bread afforded infinite

satisfaction to the loungers outside, several of whom were

in the mood which finds its pleasure in others'

discomfiture; and hence they echoed pretty freely, "Hey! How

about the bad bread, Mr. Mayor?" Moreover, feeling none of

the restraints of those who shared the feast, they could

afford to add, "You rather ought to tell the story o' that,

sir!"

The interruption was sufficient to compel the Mayor to

notice it.

"Well, I admit that the wheat turned out badly," he said.

"But I was taken in in buying it as much as the bakers who

bought it o' me."

"And the poor folk who had to eat it whether or no," said

the inharmonious man outside the window.

Henchard's face darkened. There was temper under the thin

bland surface--the temper which, artificially intensified,

had banished a wife nearly a score of years before.

"You must make allowances for the accidents of a large

business," he said. "You must bear in mind that the weather

just at the harvest of that corn was worse than we have

known it for years. However, I have mended my arrangements

on account o't. Since I have found my business too large to

be well looked after by myself alone, I have advertised for

a thorough good man as manager of the corn department. When

I've got him you will find these mistakes will no longer

occur--matters will be better looked into."

"But what are you going to do to repay us for the past?"

inquired the man who had before spoken, and who seemed to be

a baker or miller. "Will you replace the grown flour we've

still got by sound grain?"

Henchard's face had become still more stern at these

interruptions, and he drank from his tumbler of water as if

to calm himself or gain time. Instead of vouchsafing a

direct reply, he stiffly observed--

"If anybody will tell me how to turn grown wheat into

wholesome wheat I'll take it back with pleasure. But it

can't be done."

Henchard was not to be drawn again. Having said this, he

sat down.