Chương Chương 15 · Chapter XV

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 stepdaughter, 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; sex 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 chink 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.