The Mayor of Casterbridge

Chapter 15

At first Miss Newson's budding beauty was not regarded with

much interest by anybody in Casterbridge. Donald Farfrae's

gaze, it is true, was now attracted by the Mayor's so-called

step-daughter, but he was only one. The truth is that she

was but a poor illustrative instance of the prophet Baruch's

sly definition: "The virgin that loveth to go gay."

When she walked abroad she seemed to be occupied with an

inner chamber of ideas, and to have slight need for visible

objects. She formed curious resolves on checking gay

fancies in the matter of clothes, because it was

inconsistent with her past life to blossom gaudily the

moment she had become possessed of money. But nothing is

more insidious than the evolution of wishes from mere

fancies, and of wants from mere wishes. Henchard gave

Elizabeth-Jane a box of delicately-tinted gloves one spring

day. She wanted to wear them to show her appreciation of

his kindness, but she had no bonnet that would harmonize.

As an artistic indulgence she thought she would have such a

bonnet. When she had a bonnet that would go with the gloves

she had no dress that would go with the bonnet. It was now

absolutely necessary to finish; she ordered the requisite

article, and found that she had no sunshade to go with the

dress. In for a penny in for a pound; she bought the

sunshade, and the whole structure was at last complete.

Everybody was attracted, and some said that her bygone

simplicity was the art that conceals art, the "delicate

imposition" of Rochefoucauld; she had produced an effect, a

contrast, and it had been done on purpose. As a matter of

fact this was not true, but it had its result; for as soon

as Casterbridge thought her artful it thought her worth

notice. "It is the first time in my life that I have been

so much admired," she said to herself; "though perhaps it is

by those whose admiration is not worth having."

But Donald Farfrae admired her, too; and altogether the time

was an exciting one; s*x had never before asserted itself in

her so strongly, for in former days she had perhaps been too

impersonally human to be distinctively feminine. After an

unprecedented success one day she came indoors, went

upstairs, and leant upon her bed face downwards quite

forgetting the possible creasing and damage. "Good Heaven,"

she whispered, "can it be? Here am I setting up as the town

beauty!"

When she had thought it over, her usual fear of exaggerating

appearances engendered a deep sadness. "There is something

wrong in all this," she mused. "If they only knew what an

unfinished girl I am--that I can't talk Italian, or use

globes, or show any of the accomplishments they learn at

boarding schools, how they would despise me! Better sell all

this finery and buy myself grammar-books and dictionaries

and a history of all the philosophies!"

She looked from the window and saw Henchard and Farfrae in

the hay-yard talking, with that impetuous cordiality on the

Mayor's part, and genial modesty on the younger man's, that

was now so generally observable in their intercourse.

Friendship between man and man; what a rugged strength there

was in it, as evinced by these two. And yet the seed that

was to lift the foundation of this friendship was at that

moment taking root in a c***k of its structure.

It was about six o'clock; the men were dropping off homeward

one by one. The last to leave was a round-shouldered,

blinking young man of nineteen or twenty, whose mouth fell

ajar on the slightest provocation, seemingly because there

was no chin to support it. Henchard called aloud to him as

he went out of the gate, "Here--Abel Whittle!"

Whittle turned, and ran back a few steps. "Yes, sir," he

said, in breathless deprecation, as if he knew what was

coming next.

"Once more--be in time to-morrow morning. You see what's to

be done, and you hear what I say, and you know I'm not going

to be trifled with any longer."

"Yes, sir." Then Abel Whittle left, and Henchard and

Farfrae; and Elizabeth saw no more of them.

Now there was good reason for this command on Henchard's

part. Poor Abel, as he was called, had an inveterate habit

of over-sleeping himself and coming late to his work. His

anxious will was to be among the earliest; but if his

comrades omitted to pull the string that he always tied

round his great toe and left hanging out the window for that

purpose, his will was as wind. He did not arrive in time.

As he was often second hand at the hay-weighing, or at the

crane which lifted the sacks, or was one of those who had to

accompany the waggons into the country to fetch away stacks

that had been purchased, this affliction of Abel's was

productive of much inconvenience. For two mornings in the

present week he had kept the others waiting nearly an hour;

hence Henchard's threat. It now remained to be seen what

would happen to-morrow.

Six o'clock struck, and there was no Whittle. At half-past

six Henchard entered the yard; the waggon was horsed that

Abel was to accompany; and the other man had been waiting

twenty minutes. Then Henchard swore, and Whittle coming up

breathless at that instant, the corn-factor turned on him,

and declared with an oath that this was the last time; that

if he were behind once more, by God, he would come and drag

him out o' bed.

"There is sommit wrong in my make, your worshipful!" said

Abel, "especially in the inside, whereas my poor dumb brain

gets as dead as a clot afore I've said my few scrags of

prayers. Yes--it came on as a stripling, just afore I'd got

man's wages, whereas I never enjoy my bed at all, for no

sooner do I lie down than I be asleep, and afore I be awake

I be up. I've fretted my gizzard green about it, maister,

but what can I do? Now last night, afore I went to bed, I

only had a scantling o' cheese and--"

"I don't want to hear it!" roared Henchard. "To-morrow the

waggons must start at four, and if you're not here, stand

clear. I'll mortify thy flesh for thee!"

"But let me clear up my points, your worshipful----"

Henchard turned away.

"He asked me and he questioned me, and then 'a wouldn't hear

my points!" said Abel, to the yard in general. "Now, I

shall twitch like a moment-hand all night to-night for fear

o' him!"

The journey to be taken by the waggons next day was a long

one into Blackmoor Vale, and at four o'clock lanterns were

moving about the yard. But Abel was missing. Before either

of the other men could run to Abel's and warn him Henchard

appeared in the garden doorway. "Where's Abel Whittle? Not

come after all I've said? Now I'll carry out my word, by my

blessed fathers--nothing else will do him any good! I'm

going up that way."

Henchard went off, entered Abel's house, a little cottage in

Back Street, the door of which was never locked because the

inmates had nothing to lose. Reaching Whittle's bedside the

corn-factor shouted a bass note so vigorously that Abel

started up instantly, and beholding Henchard standing over

him, was galvanized into spasmodic movements which had not

much relation to getting on his clothes.

"Out of bed, sir, and off to the granary, or you leave my

employ to-day! 'Tis to teach ye a lesson. March on; never

mind your breeches!"

The unhappy Whittle threw on his sleeve waistcoat, and

managed to get into his boots at the bottom of the stairs,

while Henchard thrust his hat over his head. Whittle then

trotted on down Back Street, Henchard walking sternly

behind.

Just at this time Farfrae, who had been to Henchard's house

to look for him, came out of the back gate, and saw

something white fluttering in the morning gloom, which he

soon perceived to be part of Abel's shirt that showed below

his waistcoat.

"For maircy's sake, what object's this?" said Farfrae,

following Abel into the yard, Henchard being some way in the

rear by this time.

"Ye see, Mr. Farfrae," gibbered Abel with a resigned smile

of terror, "he said he'd mortify my flesh if so be I didn't

get up sooner, and now he's a-doing on't! Ye see it can't be

helped, Mr. Farfrae; things do happen queer sometimes! Yes--

I'll go to Blackmoor Vale half naked as I be, since he do

command; but I shall kill myself afterwards; I can't outlive

the disgrace, for the women-folk will be looking out of

their winders at my mortification all the way along, and

laughing me to scorn as a man 'ithout breeches! You know how

I feel such things, Maister Farfrae, and how forlorn

thoughts get hold upon me. Yes--I shall do myself harm--I

feel it coming on!"

"Get back home, and slip on your breeches, and come to wark

like a man! If ye go not, you'll ha'e your death standing

there!"

"I'm afeard I mustn't! Mr. Henchard said----"

"I don't care what Mr. Henchard said, nor anybody else! 'Tis

simple foolishness to do this. Go and dress yourself

instantly Whittle."

"Hullo, hullo!" said Henchard, coming up behind. "Who's

sending him back?"

All the men looked towards Farfrae.

"I am," said Donald. "I say this joke has been carried far

enough."

"And I say it hasn't! Get up in the waggon, Whittle."

"Not if I am manager," said Farfrae. "He either goes home,

or I march out of this yard for good."

Henchard looked at him with a face stern and red. But he

paused for a moment, and their eyes met. Donald went up to

him, for he saw in Henchard's look that he began to regret

this.

"Come," said Donald quietly, "a man o' your position should

ken better, sir! It is tyrannical and no worthy of you."

"'Tis not tyrannical!" murmured Henchard, like a sullen boy.

"It is to make him remember!" He presently added, in a tone

of one bitterly hurt: "Why did you speak to me before them

like that, Farfrae? You might have stopped till we were

alone. Ah--I know why! I've told ye the secret o' my life--

fool that I was to do't--and you take advantage of me!"

"I had forgot it," said Farfrae simply.

Henchard looked on the ground, said nothing more, and turned

away. During the day Farfrae learnt from the men that

Henchard had kept Abel's old mother in coals and snuff all

the previous winter, which made him less antagonistic to the

corn-factor. But Henchard continued moody and silent, and

when one of the men inquired of him if some oats should be

hoisted to an upper floor or not, he said shortly, "Ask Mr.

Farfrae. He's master here!"

Morally he was; there could be no doubt of it. Henchard,

who had hitherto been the most admired man in his circle,

was the most admired no longer. One day the daughters of a

deceased farmer in Durnover wanted an opinion of the value

of their haystack, and sent a messenger to ask Mr. Farfrae

to oblige them with one. The messenger, who was a child,

met in the yard not Farfrae, but Henchard.

"Very well," he said. "I'll come."

"But please will Mr. Farfrae come?" said the child.

"I am going that way....Why Mr. Farfrae?" said Henchard,

with the fixed look of thought. "Why do people always want

Mr. Farfrae?"

"I suppose because they like him so--that's what they say."

"Oh--I see--that's what they say--hey? They like him because

he's cleverer than Mr. Henchard, and because he knows more;

and, in short, Mr. Henchard can't hold a candle to him--

hey?"

"Yes--that's just it, sir--some of it."

"Oh, there's more? Of course there's more! What besides?

Come, here's a sixpence for a fairing."

"'And he's better tempered, and Henchard's a fool to him,'

they say. And when some of the women were a-walking home

they said, 'He's a diment--he's a chap o' wax--he's the

best--he's the horse for my money,' says they. And they

said, 'He's the most understanding man o' them two by long

chalks. I wish he was the master instead of Henchard,' they

said."

"They'll talk any nonsense," Henchard replied with covered

gloom. "Well, you can go now. And I am coming to value the

hay, d'ye hear?--I." The boy departed, and Henchard

murmured, "Wish he were master here, do they?"

He went towards Durnover. On his way he overtook Farfrae.

They walked on together, Henchard looking mostly on the

ground.

"You're no yoursel' the day?" Donald inquired.

"Yes, I am very well," said Henchard.

"But ye are a bit down--surely ye are down? Why, there's

nothing to be angry about! 'Tis splendid stuff that we've

got from Blackmoor Vale. By the by, the people in Durnover

want their hay valued."

"Yes. I am going there."

"I'll go with ye."

As Henchard did not reply Donald practised a piece of music

sotto voce, till, getting near the bereaved people's

door, he stopped himself with--

"Ah, as their father is dead I won't go on with such as

that. How could I forget?"

"Do you care so very much about hurting folks' feelings?"

observed Henchard with a half sneer. "You do, I know--

especially mine!"

"I am sorry if I have hurt yours, sir," replied Donald,

standing still, with a second expression of the same

sentiment in the regretfulness of his face. "Why should you

say it--think it?"

The cloud lifted from Henchard's brow, and as Donald

finished the corn-merchant turned to him, regarding his

breast rather than his face.

"I have been hearing things that vexed me," he said. "'Twas

that made me short in my manner--made me overlook what you

really are. Now, I don't want to go in here about this hay--

Farfrae, you can do it better than I. They sent for 'ee,

too. I have to attend a meeting of the Town Council at

eleven, and 'tis drawing on for't."

They parted thus in renewed friendship, Donald forbearing to

ask Henchard for meanings that were not very plain to him.

On Henchard's part there was now again repose; and yet,

whenever he thought of Farfrae, it was with a dim dread; and

he often regretted that he had told the young man his whole

heart, and confided to him the secrets of his life.