He could no longer parry the fierce attacks
of the latter by simple avoidance. As soon as their war of prices began
everybody was interested, and some few guessed the end. It was, in some
degree, Northern insight matched against Southern doggedness--the dirk
against the cudgel--and Henchard's weapon was one which, if it did not
deal ruin at the first or second stroke, left him afterwards well-nigh
at his antagonist's mercy.
Almost every Saturday they encountered each other amid the crowd of
farmers which thronged about the market-place in the weekly course of
their business. Donald was always ready, and even anxious, to say a few
friendly words, but the Mayor invariably gazed stormfully past him,
like one who had endured and lost on his account, and could in no sense
forgive the wrong; nor did Farfrae's snubbed manner of perplexity at all
appease him. The large farmers, corn-merchants, millers, auctioneers,
and others had each an official stall in the corn-market room, with
their names painted thereon; and when to the familiar series of
"Henchard," "Everdene," "Shiner," "Darton," and so on, was added one
inscribed "Farfrae," in staring new letters, Henchard was stung into
bitterness; like Bellerophon, he wandered away from the crowd, cankered
in soul.
From that day Donald Farfrae's name was seldom mentioned in Henchard's
house.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172