going on tonight?’ asked the girl, after singling out an old man and standing by him long enough to acquire a neighbourly right to 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 swore a gospel oath in by-gone 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 oaths 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,’ says 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
