“If I must tell you–-. Don’t, don’t upbraid me!”
“Well! Let’s hear what you mean?”
“Witness of my marriage—Mr. Grower was!”
“Marriage?”
“Yes. With Mr. Farfrae. O Michael! I am already his wife. We were married this week at Port-Bredy. There were reasons against our doing it here. Mr. Grower was a witness because he happened to be at Port-Bredy at the time.”
Henchard stood as if idiotized. She was so alarmed at his silence that she murmured something about lending him sufficient money to tide over the perilous fortnight.
“Married him?” said Henchard at length. “My good—what, married him whilst—bound to marry me?”
“It was like this,” she explained, with tears in her eyes and quavers in her voice; “don’t—don’t be cruel! I loved him so much, and I thought you might tell him of the past— and that grieved me! And then, when I had promised you, I learnt of the rumour that you had—sold your first wife at a fair like a horse or cow! How could I keep my promise after hearing that? I could not risk myself in your hands; it would have been letting myself down to take your name after such a scandal. But I knew I should lose Donald if I did not secure him at once—for you would carry out your threat of telling him of our former acquaintance, as long as there was a chance of keeping me for yourself by doing so. But you will not do so now, will you, Michael? for it is too late to separate us.”
The notes of St. Peter’s bells in full peal had been wafted to them while he spoke, and now the genial thumping of the town band, renowned for its unstinted use of the drum-stick, throbbed down the street.
“Then this racket they are making is on account of it, I suppose?” said he.
“Yes—I think he has told them, or else Mr. Grower has….May I leave you now? My—he was detained at Port-Bredy to-day, and sent me on a few hours before him.”
“Then it is HIS WIFE’S life I have saved this afternoon.”
“Yes—and he will be for ever grateful to you.”
“I am much obliged to him….O you false woman!” burst from Henchard. “You promised me!”
“Yes, yes! But it was under compulsion, and I did not know all your past–-“
“And now I’ve a mind to punish you as you deserve! One word to this bran-new husband of how you courted me, and your precious happiness is blown to atoms!”
“Michael—pity me, and be generous!”
“You don’t deserve pity! You did; but you don’t now.”
“I’ll help you to pay off your debt.”
“A pensioner of Farfrae’s wife—not I! Don’t stay with me longer—I shall say something worse. Go home!”
She disappeared under the trees of the south walk as the band came round the corner, awaking the echoes of every stock and stone in celebration of her happiness. Lucetta took no heed, but ran up the back street and reached her own home unperceived.
30.
Farfrae’s words to his landlady had referred to the removal of his boxes and other effects from his late lodgings to Lucetta’s house. The work was not heavy, but it had been much hindered on account of the frequent pauses necessitated by exclamations of surprise at the event, of which the good woman had been briefly informed by letter a few hours earlier.
At the last moment of leaving Port-Bredy, Farfrae, like John Gilpin, had been detained by important customers, whom, even in the exceptional circumstances, he was not the man to neglect. Moreover, there was a convenience in Lucetta arriving first at her house. Nobody there as yet knew what had happened; and she was best in a position to break the news to the inmates, and give directions for her husband’s accommodation. He had, therefore, sent on his two-days’ bride in a hired brougham, whilst he went across the country to a certain group of wheat and barley ricks a few miles off, telling her the hour at which he might be expected the same evening. This accounted for her trotting out to meet him after their separation of four hours.
By a strenuous effort, after leaving Henchard she calmed herself in readiness to receive Donald at High-Place Hall when he came on from his lodgings. One supreme fact empowered her to this, the sense that, come what would, she had secured him. Half-an-hour after her arrival he walked in, and she met him with a relieved gladness, which a month’s perilous absence could not have intensified.
“There is one thing I have not done; and yet it is important,” she said earnestly, when she had finished talking about the adventure with the bull. “That is, broken the news of our marriage to my dear Elizabeth-Jane.”
“Ah, and you have not?” he said thoughtfully. “I gave her a lift from the barn homewards; but I did not tell her either; for I thought she might have heard of it in the town, and was keeping back her congratulations from shyness, and all that.”
“She can hardly have heard of it. But I’ll find out; I’ll go to her now. And, Donald, you don’t mind her living on with me just the same as before? She is so quiet and unassuming.”
“O no, indeed I don’t,” Farfrae answered with, perhaps, a faint awkwardness. “But I wonder if she would care to?”
“O yes!” said Lucetta eagerly. “I am sure she would like to. Besides, poor thing, she has no other home.”
Farfrae looked at her and saw that she did not suspect the secret of her more reserved friend. He liked her all the better for the blindness. “Arrange as you like with her by all means,” he said. “It is I who have come to your house, not you to mine.”
“I’ll run and speak to her,” said Lucetta.
When she got upstairs to Elizabeth-Jane’s room the latter had taken off her out-door things, and was resting over a book. Lucetta found in a moment that she had not yet learnt the news.
“I did not come down to you, Miss Templeman,” she said simply. “I was coming to ask if you had quite recovered from your fright, but I found you had a visitor. What are the bells ringing for, I wonder? And the band, too, is playing. Somebody must be married; or else they are practising for Christmas.”
Lucetta uttered a vague “Yes,” and seating herself by the other young woman looked musingly at her. “What a lonely creature you are,” she presently said; “never knowing what’s going on, or what people are talking about everywhere with keen interest. You should get out, and gossip about as other women do, and then you wouldn’t be obliged to ask me a question of that kind. Well, now, I have something to tell you.
Elizabeth-Jane said she was so glad, and made herself receptive.
“I must go rather a long way back,” said Lucetta, the difficulty of explaining herself satisfactorily to the pondering one beside her growing more apparent at each syllable. “You remember that trying case of conscience I told you of some time ago—about the first lover and the second lover?” She let out in jerky phrases a leading word or two of the story she had told.
“O yes—I remember the story of YOUR FRIEND,” said Elizabeth drily, regarding the irises of Lucetta’s eyes as though to catch their exact shade. “The two lovers—the old one and the new: how she wanted to marry the second, but felt she ought to marry the first; so that she neglected the better course to follow the evil, like the poet Ovid I’ve just been construing: ‘Video meliora proboque, deteriora sequor.’”
“O no; she didn’t follow evil exactly!” said Lucetta hastily.
“But you said that she—or as I may say you”—answered Elizabeth, dropping the mask, “were in honour and conscience bound to marry the first?”
Lucetta’s blush at being seen through came and went again before she replied anxiously, “You will never breathe this, will you, Elizabeth-Jane?”
“Certainly not, if you say not.
“Then I will tell you that the case is more complicated— worse, in fact—than it seemed in my story. I and the first man were thrown together in a strange way, and felt that we ought to be united, as the world had talked of us. He was a widower, as he supposed. He had not heard of his first wife for many years. But the wife returned, and we parted. She is now dead, and the husband comes paying me addresses again, saying, ‘Now we’ll complete our purposes.’ But, Elizabeth-Jane, all this amounts to a new courtship of me by him; I was absolved from all vows by the return of the other woman.”