Let him have this story, without, of course, any prejudice to the fact that the actual engagement between us is to be a long one.
Nobody else need know: you could go with me to Mr. Grower and just let me speak to ‘ee before him as if we were on such terms.
We’ll ask him to keep it secret.
He will willingly wait then.
At the fortnight’s end I shall be able to face him; and I can coolly tell him all is postponed between us for a year or two.
Not a soul in the town need know how you’ve helped me.
Since you wish to be of use, there’s your way.”
It being now what the people called the “pinking in” of the day, that is, the quarter-hour just before dusk, he did not at first observe the result of his own words upon her.
“If it were anything else,” she began, and the dryness of her lips was represented in her voice.
“But it is such a little thing!” he said, with a deep reproach. “Less than you have offered—just the beginning of what you have so lately promised!
I could have told him as much myself, but he would not have believed me.”
“It is not because I won’t—it is because I absolutely can’t,” she said, with rising distress.
“You are provoking!” he burst out. “It is enough to make me force you to carry out at once what you have promised.”
“I cannot!” she insisted desperately.
“Why?
When I have only within these few minutes released you from your promise to do the thing offhand.”
“Because—he was a witness!”
“Witness?
Of what?
“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——”