said ’a was a poor parish ’prentice—I wouldn’t say it for all the world—but ’a was a poor parish ’prentice, that began life wi’ no more belonging to ’en than a carrion crow.’
‘And now he’s worth ever so much a minute,’ murmured Longways. ‘When a man is said to be worth so much a minute, he’s a man to be considered!’
Turning, he saw a circular disc reticulated with creases, and recognized the smiling countenance of the fat woman who had asked for another song at the Three Mariners. ‘Well, Mother Cuxsom,’ he said, ‘how’s this? Here’s Mrs Newson, a mere skellinton, has got another husband to keep her, while a woman of your tonnage have not.’
‘I have not. Nor another to beat me … Ah, yes, Cuxsom’s gone, and so shall leather breeches!’
‘Yes; with the blessing of God leather breeches shall go.’
‘Tisn’t worth my old while to think of another husband,’ continued Mrs Cuxsom. ‘And yet I’ll lay my life I’m as respectable born as she.’
‘True; your mother was a very good woman—I can mind her. She were rewarded by the Agricultural Society for having begot the greatest number of healthy children without parish assistance, and other virtuous marvels.’
‘’Twas that that kept us so low upon the ground—that great hungry family.’
‘Ay. Where the pigs be many the wash runs thin.’
‘And dostn’t mind how mother would sing, Christopher?’ continued Mrs Cuxsom, kindling at the retrospection; ‘and how we went with her to the party at Mellstock, do ye mind?—at old Dame Ledlow’s, farmer Shiner’s aunt, do ye mind?—she we used to call Toad-skin, because her face were so yaller and freckled, do ye mind?’
‘I do, hee-hee, I do!’ said Christopher Coney.
‘And well do I—for I was getting up husband-high at that time—one-half girl, and t’other half woman, as one may say. And canst mind’—she prodded Solomon’s shoulder with her finger-tip, while her eyes twinkled between the crevices of their lids—‘canst mind the sherry-wine, and zilver-snuffers, and Joan Dummett was took bad when we were coming home, and Jack Griggs was forced to carry her through the mud; and how ’a let her fall in Dairyman Sweetapple’s cow-barton, and we had to clane her gown wi’ grass—never such a mess as ’a were in?’
‘Ay—that I do—hee-hee, such doggery as there was in them ancient days, to be sure! Ah, the miles I used to walk then; and now I can hardly step over a furrow!’
Their reminiscences were cut short by the appearance of the reunited pair—Henchard looking round upon the idlers with that ambiguous gaze of his, which at one moment seemed to mean satisfaction, and at another fiery disdain.
‘Well—there’s a difference between ’em, though he do call himself a teetotaller,’ said Nance Mockridge. ‘She’ll wish her cake dough afore she’s done of him. There’s a bluebeardy look about ’en; and ’twill out in time.’
‘Stuff—he’s well enough! Some folk want their luck buttered. If I had a choice as wide as the ocean sea I wouldn’t wish for a better man. A poor twanking woman like her—’tis a godsend for her, and hardly a pair of jumps or nightrail to her name.’
The plain little brougham drove off in the mist, and the idlers dispersed. ‘Well, we hardly know how to look at things in these times!’ said Solomon. ‘There was a man dropped down dead yesterday, not so very many miles from here; and what wi’ that, and this moist weather, ’tis scarce worth one’s while to begin any work o’ consequence today. I’m in such a low key with drinking nothing but small table ninepenny this last week or two that I shall call and warm up the Mar’ners as I pass along.’
‘I don’t know but that I may as well go with ’ee, Solomon,’ said Christopher: ‘I’m as clammy as a cockle-snail.’
A Martinmas summer of Mrs Henchard’s life set in with her entry into her husband’s large house and respectable social orbit; and it was as bright as such summers well can be. Lest she should pine for deeper affection than he could give he made a point of showing some semblance of it in external action. Among other things he had the iron railings, that had smiled sadly in dull rust for the last eighty years, painted a bright green, and the heavy-barred, small-paned Georgian sash windows enlivened with three coats of white. He was as kind to her as a man, mayor, and churchwarden could possibly be. The house was large, the rooms lofty, and the landings wide; and the two unassuming women scarcely made a perceptible addition to its contents.
To Elizabeth-Jane the time was a most triumphant one. The freedom she experienced, the indulgence with which she was treated, went beyond her expectations. The reposeful, easy, affluent life to which her mother’s marriage had introduced her was, in truth, the beginning of a great change in Elizabeth. She found she could have nice personal possessions and ornaments for the asking, and, as the medieval saying puts it, ‘Take, have, and keep, are pleasant words.’ With peace of mind came development, and with development beauty. Knowledge—the result of great natural insight—she did not lack; learning, accomplishments—those, alas, she had not; but as the winter and spring passed by her thin face and figure filled out in rounder and softer curves; the lines and contractions upon her young brow went away; the muddiness of skin which she had looked upon as her lot by nature departed with a change to abundance of good things, and a bloom came upon her cheek. Perhaps, too, her grey, thoughtful eyes revealed an arch gaiety sometimes; but this was infrequent; the sort of wisdom which looked from their pupils did not readily keep company with these lighter moods. Like all people who have known rough times, light-heartedness seemed to her too irrational and inconsequent to be indulged in expect as a reckless dram now and then; for she had been too early habituated to anxious reasoning to drop the habit suddenly. She felt none of these ups and downs of spirit which beset so many people without cause; never—to paraphrase a recent poet—never a gloom in Elizabeth-Jane’s soul but she well knew how it came there; and her present cheerfulness was fairly proportionate to her solid guarantees for the same.
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