The Mayor of Casterbridge Thomas Hardy (best books for 8th graders .TXT) š
- Author: Thomas Hardy
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āMike,ā she said, āIāve lived with thee a couple of years, and had nothing but temper! Now Iām no more to āee; Iāll try my luck elsewhere. āTwill be better for me and Elizabeth-Jane, both. So goodbye!ā
Seizing the sailorās arm with her right hand, and mounting the little girl on her left, she went out of the tent sobbing bitterly.
A stolid look of concern filled the husbandās face, as if, after all, he had not quite anticipated this ending; and some of the guests laughed.
āIs she gone?ā he said.
āFaith, ay! sheās gone clane enough,ā 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.
āWhere do the sailor live?ā asked a spectator, when they had vainly gazed around.
āGod knows that,ā replied the man who had seen high life. āHeās without doubt a stranger here.ā
āHe came in about five minutes ago,ā said the furmity woman, joining the rest with her hands on her hips. āAnd then āa stepped back, and then āa looked in again. Iām not a penny the better for him.ā
āServes the husband well be-right,ā said the staylace vendor. āA comely respectable body like herā āwhat can a man want more? I glory in the womanās sperrit. Iād haā done it myselfā āod send if I wouldnāt, if a husband had behaved so to me! Iād go, and āa might call, and call, till his keacorn was raw; but Iād never come backā āno, not till the great trumpet, would I!ā
āWell, the woman will be better off,ā said another of a more deliberative turn. āFor seafaring natures be very good shelter for shorn lambs, and the man do seem to have plenty of money, which is what sheās not been used to lately, by all showings.ā
āMark meā āIāll not go after her!ā said the trusser, returning doggedly to his seat. āLet her go! If sheās up to such vagaries she must suffer for āem. Sheād no business to take the maidā āātis my maid; and if it were the doing again she shouldnāt have her!ā
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.
IIThe 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 aboutā āat the benchesā āat the table supported by trestlesā āat his basket of toolsā āat the stove where the furmity had been boiledā āat the empty basinsā āat some shed grains of wheatā āat 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 wifeās 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 sailorās banknotes 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. āI must get out of this as soon as I can,ā he said deliberately at last, with the air of one who could not catch his thoughts without pronouncing them. āSheās goneā āto be sure she isā āgone with that sailor who bought her, and little Elizabeth-Jane. We walked here, and I had the furmity, and rum in itā āand sold her. Yes, thatās whatās happened and here am I. Now, what am I to doā āam I sober enough to walk, I wonder?ā He stood up, found that he was in fairly good condition for progress, unencumbered. Next he shouldered his tool basket, and found he could carry it. Then lifting the tent door he emerged into the open air.
Here the man looked around with gloomy curiosity. The freshness of the September morning inspired and braced him as he stood. He and his family had been weary when they arrived the night before, and they had observed but little of the place; so that he now beheld it as a new thing. It exhibited itself as the top
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