The Mayor of Casterbridge | Page 6

after all, he had
not quite anticipated this ending; and some of the guests laughed.
"Is she gone?" he said.
"Faith, ay! she's gone clane enough," said some rustics near the door.
He rose and walked to the entrance with the careful tread of one
conscious of his alcoholic load. Some others followed, and they stood
looking into the twilight. The difference between the peacefulness of
inferior nature and the wilful hostilities of mankind was very apparent
at this place. In contrast with the harshness of the act just ended within
the tent was the sight of several horses crossing their necks and rubbing
each other lovingly as they waited in patience to be harnessed for the
homeward journey. Outside the fair, in the valleys and woods, all was
quiet. The sun had recently set, and the west heaven was hung with
rosy cloud, which seemed permanent, yet slowly changed. To watch it
was like looking at some grand feat of stagery from a darkened
auditorium. In presence of this scene after the other there was a natural
instinct to abjure man as the blot on an otherwise kindly universe; till it
was remembered that all terrestrial conditions were intermittent, and
that mankind might some night be innocently sleeping when these quiet

objects were raging loud.
"Where do the sailor live?" asked a spectator, when they had vainly
gazed around.
"God knows that," replied the man who had seen high life. "He's
without doubt a stranger here."
"He came in about five minutes ago," said the furmity woman, joining
the rest with her hands on her hips. "And then 'a stepped back, and then
'a looked in again. I'm not a penny the better for him."
"Serves the husband well be-right," said the staylace vendor. "A
comely respectable body like her--what can a man want more? I glory
in the woman's sperrit. I'd ha' done it myself--od send if I wouldn't, if a
husband had behaved so to me! I'd go, and 'a might call, and call, till
his keacorn was raw; but I'd never come back--no, not till the great
trumpet, would I!"
"Well, the woman will be better off," said another of a more
deliberative turn. "For seafaring natures be very good shelter for shorn
lambs, and the man do seem to have plenty of money, which is what
she's not been used to lately, by all showings."
"Mark me--I'll not go after her!" said the trusser, returning doggedly to
his seat. "Let her go! If she's up to such vagaries she must suffer for 'em.
She'd no business to take the maid--'tis my maid; and if it were the
doing again she shouldn't have her!"
Perhaps from some little sense of having countenanced an indefensible
proceeding, perhaps because it was late, the customers thinned away
from the tent shortly after this episode. The man stretched his elbows
forward on the table leant his face upon his arms, and soon began to
snore. The furmity seller decided to close for the night, and after seeing
the rum-bottles, milk, corn, raisins, etc., that remained on hand, loaded
into the cart, came to where the man reclined. She shook him, but could
not wake him. As the tent was not to be struck that night, the fair
continuing for two or three days, she decided to let the sleeper, who

was obviously no tramp, stay where he was, and his basket with him.
Extinguishing the last candle, and lowering the flap of the tent, she left
it, and drove away.

2.
The morning sun was streaming through the crevices of the canvas
when the man awoke. A warm glow pervaded the whole atmosphere of
the marquee, and a single big blue fly buzzed musically round and
round it. Besides the buzz of the fly there was not a sound. He looked
about--at the benches--at the table supported by trestles--at his basket
of tools--at the stove where the furmity had been boiled--at the empty
basins--at some shed grains of wheat--at the corks which dotted the
grassy floor. Among the odds and ends he discerned a little shining
object, and picked it up. It was his wife's ring.
A confused picture of the events of the previous evening seemed to
come back to him, and he thrust his hand into his breast-pocket. A
rustling revealed the sailor's bank-notes thrust carelessly in.
This second verification of his dim memories was enough; he knew
now they were not dreams. He remained seated, looking on the ground
for some time. "I must get out of this as soon as I can," he said
deliberately at last, with the air of one who could not catch his thoughts
without pronouncing them. "She's gone--to be sure she is--gone with
that sailor who bought her, and little Elizabeth-Jane. We