He thought it over as he wimbled his bonds, and the piece of news acted as a reviviscent breath to that old view of his—of Donald Farfrae as his triumphant rival who rode rough-shod over him.
“A fellow of his age going to be Mayor, indeed!” he murmured with a corner-drawn smile on his mouth. “But ‘tis her money that floats en upward.
Ha-ha—how cust odd it is!
Here be I, his former master, working for him as man, and he the man standing as master, with my house and my furniture and my what-you-may-call wife all his own.”
He repeated these things a hundred times a day.
During the whole period of his acquaintance with Lucetta he had never wished to claim her as his own so desperately as he now regretted her loss.
It was no mercenary hankering after her fortune that moved him, though that fortune had been the means of making her so much the more desired by giving her the air of independence and sauciness which attracts men of his composition.
It had given her servants, house, and fine clothing—a setting that invested Lucetta with a startling novelty in the eyes of him who had known her in her narrow days.
He accordingly lapsed into moodiness, and at every allusion to the possibility of Farfrae’s near election to the municipal chair his former hatred of the Scotchman returned.
Concurrently with this he underwent a moral change.
It resulted in his significantly saying every now and then, in tones of recklessness,
“Only a fortnight more!”—“Only a dozen days!” and so forth, lessening his figures day by day.
“Why d’ye say only a dozen days?” asked Solomon Longways as he worked beside Henchard in the granary weighing oats.
“Because in twelve days I shall be released from my oath.”
“What oath?”
“The oath to drink no spirituous liquid.
In twelve days it will be twenty-one years since I swore it, and then I mean to enjoy myself, please God!”
Elizabeth-Jane sat at her window one Sunday, and while there she heard in the street below a conversation which introduced Henchard’s name.
She was wondering what was the matter, when a third person who was passing by asked the question in her mind.
“Michael Henchard have busted out drinking after taking nothing for twenty-one years!”
Elizabeth-Jane jumped up, put on her things, and went out.
33.
At this date there prevailed in Casterbridge a convivial custom—scarcely recognized as such, yet none the less established.
On the afternoon of every Sunday a large contingent of the Casterbridge journeymen—steady churchgoers and sedate characters—having attended service, filed from the church doors across the way to the Three Mariners Inn.
The rear was usually brought up by the choir, with their bass-viols, fiddles, and flutes under their arms.
The great point, the point of honour, on these sacred occasions was for each man to strictly limit himself to half-a-pint of liquor.
This scrupulosity was so well understood by the landlord that the whole company was served in cups of that measure.
They were all exactly alike—straight-sided, with two leafless lime-trees done in eel-brown on the sides—one towards the drinker’s lips, the other confronting his comrade.
To wonder how many of these cups the landlord possessed altogether was a favourite exercise of children in the marvellous.
Forty at least might have been seen at these times in the large room, forming a ring round the margin of the great sixteen-legged oak table, like the monolithic circle of Stonehenge in its pristine days.
Outside and above the forty cups came a circle of forty smoke-jets from forty clay pipes; outside the pipes the countenances of the forty church-goers, supported at the back by a circle of forty chairs.
The conversation was not the conversation of week-days, but a thing altogether finer in point and higher in tone.
They invariably discussed the sermon, dissecting it, weighing it, as above or below the average—the general tendency being to regard it as a scientific feat or performance which had no relation to their own lives, except as between critics and the thing criticized.
The bass-viol player and the clerk usually spoke with more authority than the rest on account of their official connection with the preacher.
Now the Three Mariners was the inn chosen by Henchard as the place for closing his long term of dramless years.
He had so timed his entry as to be well established in the large room by the time the forty church-goers entered to their customary cups.
The flush upon his face proclaimed at once that the vow of twenty-one years had lapsed, and the era of recklessness begun anew.
He was seated on a small table, drawn up to the side of the massive oak board reserved for the churchmen, a few of whom nodded to him as they took their places and said,
“How be ye, Mr. Henchard?
Quite a stranger here.”
Henchard did not take the trouble to reply for a few moments, and his eyes rested on his stretched-out legs and boots.
“Yes,” he said at length; “that’s true.
I’ve been down in spirit for weeks; some of ye know the cause.
I am better now, but not quite serene.
I want you fellows of the choir to strike up a tune; and what with that and this brew of Stannidge’s, I am in hopes of getting altogether out of my minor key.”
“With all my heart,” said the first fiddle. “We’ve let back our strings, that’s true, but we can soon pull ‘em up again.
Sound A, neighbours, and give the man a stave.”
“I don’t care a curse what the words be,” said Henchard. “Hymns, ballets, or rantipole rubbish; the Rogue’s March or the cherubim’s warble—‘tis all the same to me if ‘tis good harmony, and well put out.”
“Well—heh, heh—it may be we can do that, and not a man among us that have sat in the gallery less than twenty year,” said the leader of the band. “As ‘tis Sunday, neighbours, suppose we raise the Fourth Psa’am, to Samuel Wakely’s tune, as improved by me?”
“Hang Samuel Wakely’s tune, as improved by thee!” said Henchard. “Chuck across one of your psalters—old Wiltshire is the only tune worth singing—the psalm-tune that would make my blood ebb and flow like the sea when I was a steady chap.