The Mayor of Casterbridge
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.
XVI.
On this account Henchard’s manner towards Farfrae insensibly became
more reserved. He was courteous—too courteous—and Farfrae was quite
surprised at the good breeding which now for the first time showed
itself among the qualities of a man he had hitherto thought
undisciplined, if warm and sincere. The corn-factor seldom or never
again put his arm upon the young man’s shoulder so as to nearly weigh
him down with the pressure of mechanized friendship. He left off coming
to Donald’s lodgings and shouting into the passage. “Hoy, Farfrae, boy,
come and have some dinner with us! Don’t sit here in solitary
confinement!” But in the daily routine of their business there was
little change.
Thus their lives rolled on till a day of public rejoicing was suggested
to the country at large in celebration of a national event that had
recently taken place.
For some time Casterbridge, by nature slow, made no response. Then one
day Donald Farfrae broached the subject to Henchard by asking if he
would have any objection to lend some rick-cloths to himself and a few
others, who contemplated getting up an entertainment of some sort on
the day named, and required a shelter for the same, to which they might
charge admission at the rate of so much a head.
“Have as many cloths as you like,” Henchard replied.
When his manager had gone about the business Henchard was fired with
emulation. It certainly had been very remiss of him, as Mayor, he
thought, to call no meeting ere this, to discuss what should be done on
this holiday. But Farfrae had been so cursed quick in his movements as
to give old-fashioned people in authority no chance of the initiative.
However, it was not too late; and on second thoughts he determined to
take upon his own shoulders the responsibility of organizing some
amusements, if the other Councilmen would leave the matter in his
hands. To this they quite readily agreed, the majority being fine old
crusted characters who had a decided taste for living without worry.
So Henchard set about his preparations for a really brilliant
thing—such as should be worthy of the venerable town. As for Farfrae’s
little affair, Henchard nearly forgot it; except once now and then
when, on it coming into his mind, he said to himself, “Charge admission
at so much a head—just like a Scotchman!—who is going to pay anything a
head?” The diversions which the Mayor intended to provide were to be
entirely free.
He had grown so dependent upon Donald that he could scarcely resist
calling him in to consult. But by sheer self-coercion he refrained. No,
he thought, Farfrae would be suggesting such improvements in his damned
luminous way that in spite of himself he, Henchard, would sink to the
position of second fiddle, and only scrape harmonies to his manager’s
talents.
Everybody applauded the Mayor’s proposed entertainment, especially when
it became known that he meant to pay for it all himself.