heard in full resonance of his lips before, “you are sure to be much sought after for your position, wealth, talents, and beauty. But will ye resist the temptation to be one of those ladies with lots of admirers—ay—and be content to have only a homely one?”
“And he the speaker?” said she, laughing. “Very well, sir, what next?”
“Ah! I’m afraid that what I feel will make me forget my manners!”
“Then I hope you’ll never have any, if you lack them only for that cause.” After some broken words which Henchard lost she added, “Are you sure you won’t be jealous?”
Farfrae seemed to assure her that he would not, by taking her hand.
“You are convinced, Donald, that I love nobody else,” she presently said. “But I should wish to have my own way in some things.”
“In everything! What special thing did you mean?”
“If I wished not to live always in Casterbridge, for instance, upon finding that I should not be happy here?”
Henchard did not hear the reply; he might have done so and much more, but he did not care to play the eavesdropper. They went on towards the scene of activity, where the sheaves were being handed, a dozen a minute, upon the carts and waggons which carried them away.
Lucetta insisted on parting from Farfrae when they drew near the workpeople. He had some business with them and, thought he entreated her to wait a few minutes, she was inexorable, and tripped off homeward alone.
Henchard thereupon left the field and followed her. His state of mind was such that on reaching Lucetta’s door he did not knock but opened it, and walked straight up to her sitting-room, expecting to find her there. But the room was empty, and he perceived that in his haste he had somehow passed her on the way hither. He had not to wait many minutes, however, for he soon heard her dress rustling in the hall, followed by a soft closing of the door. In a moment she appeared.
The light was so low that she did not notice Henchard at first. As soon as she saw him she uttered a little cry, almost of terror.
“How can you frighten me so?” she exclaimed, with a flushed face. “It is past ten o’clock, and you have no right to surprise me here at such a time.”
“I don’t know that I’ve not the right. At any rate I have the excuse. Is it so necessary that I should stop to think of manners and customs?”
“It is too late for propriety, and might injure me.”
“I called an hour ago, and you would not see me, and I thought you were in when I called now. It is you, Lucetta, who are doing wrong. It is not proper in ‘ee to throw me over like this. I have a little matter to remind you of, which you seem to forget.”
She sank into a chair, and turned pale.
“I don’t want to hear it—I don’t want to hear it!” she said through her hands, as he, standing close to the edge of her gown, began to allude to the Jersey days.
“But you ought to hear it,” said he.
“It came to nothing; and through you. Then why not leave me the freedom that I gained with such sorrow! Had I found that you proposed to marry me for pure love I might have felt bound now. But I soon learnt that you had planned it out of mere charity—almost as an unpleasant duty—because I had nursed you, and compromised myself, and you thought you must repay me. After that I did not care for you so deeply as before.”
“Why did you come here to find me, then?”
“I thought I ought to marry you for conscience’ sake, since you were free, even though I—did not like you so well.”
“And why then don’t you think so now?”
She was silent. It was only too obvious that conscience had ruled well enough till new love had intervened and usurped that rule. In feeling this she herself forgot for the moment her partially justifying argument—that having discovered Henchard’s infirmities of temper, she had some excuse for not risking her happiness in his hands after once escaping them. The only thing she could say was, “I was a poor girl then; and now my circumstances have altered, so I am hardly the same person.”
“That’s true. And it makes the case awkward for me. But I don’t want to touch your money. I am quite willing that every penny of your property shall remain to your personal use. Besides, that argument has nothing in it. The man you are thinking of is no better than I.”
“If you were as good as he you would leave me!” she cried passionately.
This unluckily aroused Henchard. “You cannot in honour refuse me,” he said. “And unless you give me your promise this very night to be my wife, before a witness, I’ll reveal our intimacy—in common fairness to other men!”
A look of resignation settled upon her. Henchard saw its bitterness; and had Lucetta’s heart been given to any other man in the world than Farfrae he would probably have had pity upon her at that moment. But the supplanter was the upstart (as Henchard called him) who had mounted into prominence upon his shoulders, and he could bring himself to show no mercy.
Without another word she rang the bell, and directed that Elizabeth-Jane should be fetched from her room. The latter appeared, surprised in the midst of her lucubrations. As soon as she saw Henchard she went across to him dutifully.
“Elizabeth-Jane,” he said, taking her hand, “I want you to hear this.” And turning to Lucetta: “Will you, or will you not, marry me?
“If you—wish it, I must agree!”
“You say yes?”
