Part 40 (2/2)

”'For me,'” Henchard read, ”'there is practically no future. A creature too unconventionally devoted to you--who feels it impossible that she can be the wife of any other man; and who is yet no more to you than the first woman you meet in the street--such am I. I quite acquit you of any intention to wrong me, yet you are the door through which wrong has come to me. That in the event of your present wife's death you will place me in her position is a consolation so far as it goes--but how far does it go? Thus I sit here, forsaken by my few acquaintance, and forsaken by you!'”

”That's how she went on to me,” said Henchard, ”acres of words like that, when what had happened was what I could not cure.”

”Yes,” said Farfrae absently, ”it is the way wi' women.” But the fact was that he knew very little of the s.e.x; yet detecting a sort of resemblance in style between the effusions of the woman he wors.h.i.+pped and those of the supposed stranger, he concluded that Aphrodite ever spoke thus, whosesoever the personality she a.s.sumed.

Henchard unfolded another letter, and read it through likewise, stopping at the subscription as before. ”Her name I don't give,” he said blandly.

”As I didn't marry her, and another man did, I can scarcely do that in fairness to her.”

”Tr-rue, tr-rue,” said Farfrae. ”But why didn't you marry her when your wife Susan died?” Farfrae asked this and the other questions in the comfortably indifferent tone of one whom the matter very remotely concerned.

”Ah--well you may ask that!” said Henchard, the new-moon-shaped grin adumbrating itself again upon his mouth. ”In spite of all her protestations, when I came forward to do so, as in generosity bound, she was not the woman for me.”

”She had already married another--maybe?”

Henchard seemed to think it would be sailing too near the wind to descend further into particulars, and he answered ”Yes.”

”The young lady must have had a heart that bore transplanting very readily!”

”She had, she had,” said Henchard emphatically.

He opened a third and fourth letter, and read. This time he approached the conclusion as if the signature were indeed coming with the rest. But again he stopped short. The truth was that, as may be divined, he had quite intended to effect a grand catastrophe at the end of this drama by reading out the name, he had come to the house with no other thought.

But sitting here in cold blood he could not do it.

Such a wrecking of hearts appalled even him. His quality was such that he could have annihilated them both in the heat of action; but to accomplish the deed by oral poison was beyond the nerve of his enmity.

35.

As Donald stated, Lucetta had retired early to her room because of fatigue. She had, however, not gone to rest, but sat in the bedside chair reading and thinking over the events of the day. At the ringing of the door-bell by Henchard she wondered who it should be that would call at that comparatively late hour. The dining-room was almost under her bed-room; she could hear that somebody was admitted there, and presently the indistinct murmur of a person reading became audible.

The usual time for Donald's arrival upstairs came and pa.s.sed, yet still the reading and conversation went on. This was very singular. She could think of nothing but that some extraordinary crime had been committed, and that the visitor, whoever he might be, was reading an account of it from a special edition of the Casterbridge Chronicle. At last she left the room, and descended the stairs. The dining-room door was ajar, and in the silence of the resting household the voice and the words were recognizable before she reached the lower flight. She stood transfixed.

Her own words greeted her in Henchard's voice, like spirits from the grave.

Lucetta leant upon the banister with her cheek against the smooth hand-rail, as if she would make a friend of it in her misery. Rigid in this position, more and more words fell successively upon her ear. But what amazed her most was the tone of her husband. He spoke merely in the accents of a man who made a present of his time.

”One word,” he was saying, as the crackling of paper denoted that Henchard was unfolding yet another sheet. ”Is it quite fair to this young woman's memory to read at such length to a stranger what was intended for your eye alone?”

”Well, yes,” said Henchard. ”By not giving her name I make it an example of all womankind, and not a scandal to one.”

”If I were you I would destroy them,” said Farfrae, giving more thought to the letters than he had hitherto done. ”As another man's wife it would injure the woman if it were known.

”No, I shall not destroy them,” murmured Henchard, putting the letters away. Then he arose, and Lucetta heard no more.

She went back to her bedroom in a semi-paralyzed state. For very fear she could not undress, but sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. Would Henchard let out the secret in his parting words? Her suspense was terrible. Had she confessed all to Donald in their early acquaintance he might possibly have got over it, and married her just the same--unlikely as it had once seemed; but for her or any one else to tell him now would be fatal.

The door slammed; she could hear her husband bolting it. After looking round in his customary way he came leisurely up the stairs. The spark in her eyes well-nigh went out when he appeared round the bedroom door. Her gaze hung doubtful for a moment, then to her joyous amazement she saw that he looked at her with the rallying smile of one who had just been relieved of a scene that was irksome. She could hold out no longer, and sobbed hysterically.

<script>