 brougham which drew up at the door on the wedding-day to
take her and Elizabeth-Jane to church. It was a windless morning of warm
November rain, which floated down like meal, and lay in a powdery form on the
nap of hats and coats. Few people had gathered round the church door though they
were well packed within. The Scotchman, who assisted as groomsman, was of course
the only one present, beyond the chief actors, who knew the true situation of
the contracting parties. He, however, was too inexperienced, too thoughtful, too
judicial, too strongly conscious of the serious side of the business, to enter
into the scene in its dramatic aspect. That required the special genius of
Christopher Coney, Solomon Longways, Buzzford, and their fellows. But they knew
nothing of the secret; though, as the time for coming out of church drew on,
they gathered on the pavement adjoining, and expounded the subject according to
their lights.
    »Tis five-and-forty years since I had my settlement in this here town,« said
Coney; »but daze me if ever I see a man wait so long before to take so little!
There's a chance even for thee after this, Nance Mockridge.« The remark was
addressed to a woman who stood behind his shoulder - the same who had exhibited
Henchard's bad bread in public when Elizabeth and her mother entered
Casterbridge.
    »Be cust if I'd marry any such as he, or thee either,« replied that lady.
»As for thee, Christopher, we know what ye be, and the less said the better. And
as for he - well, there - (lowering her voice) 'tis said 'a was a poor parish
'prentice - I wouldn't say it for all the world - but 'a was a poor parish
'prentice, that began life wi' no more belonging to 'en than a carrion crow.«
    »And now he's worth ever so much a minute,« murmured Longways. »When a man
is said to be worth so much a minute, he's a man to be considered!«
    Turning, he saw a circular disc reticulated with creases, and recognized the
smiling countenance of the fat woman who had asked for another song at the Three
Mariners. »Well, Mother Cuxsom,« he said, »how's this? Here's Mrs. Newson, a
mere skellinton, has got another husband to keep her, while a woman of your
tonnage have not.«
