When Farfrae got indoors that evening the tea-kettle was singing on the high hob of the semi-egg-shaped grate.
Lucetta, light as a sylph, ran forward and seized his hands, whereupon Farfrae duly kissed her.
“Oh!” she cried playfully, turning to the window. “See—the blinds are not drawn down, and the people can look in—what a scandal!”
When the candles were lighted, the curtains drawn, and the twain sat at tea, she noticed that he looked serious.
Without directly inquiring why she let her eyes linger solicitously on his face.
“Who has called?” he absently asked. “Any folk for me?”
“No,” said Lucetta. “What’s the matter, Donald?”
“Well—nothing worth talking of,” he responded sadly.
“Then, never mind it.
You will get through it, Scotchmen are always lucky.”
“No—not always!” he said, shaking his head gloomily as he contemplated a crumb on the table. “I know many who have not been so!
There was Sandy Macfarlane, who started to America to try his fortune, and he was drowned; and Archibald Leith, he was murdered!
And poor Willie Dunbleeze and Maitland Macfreeze—they fell into bad courses, and went the way of all such!”
“Why—you old goosey—I was only speaking in a general sense, of course!
You are always so literal.
Now when we have finished tea, sing me that funny song about high-heeled shoon and siller tags, and the one-and-forty wooers.”
“No, no.
I couldna sing to-night!
It’s Henchard—he hates me; so that I may not be his friend if I would.
I would understand why there should be a wee bit of envy; but I cannet see a reason for the whole intensity of what he feels.
Now, can you, Lucetta?
It is more like old-fashioned rivalry in love than just a bit of rivalry in trade.”
Lucetta had grown somewhat wan.
“No,” she replied.
“I give him employment—I cannet refuse it.
But neither can I blind myself to the fact that with a man of passions such as his, there is no safeguard for conduct!”
“What have you heard—O Donald, dearest?” said Lucetta in alarm.
The words on her lips were “anything about me?”—but she did not utter them.
She could not, however, suppress her agitation, and her eyes filled with tears.
“No, no—it is not so serious as ye fancy,” declared Farfrae soothingly; though he did not know its seriousness so well as she.
“I wish you would do what we have talked of,” mournfully remarked Lucetta. “Give up business, and go away from here.
We have plenty of money, and why should we stay?”
Farfrae seemed seriously disposed to discuss this move, and they talked thereon till a visitor was announced.
Their neighbour Alderman Vatt came in.
“You’ve heard, I suppose of poor Doctor Chalkfield’s death?
Yes—died this afternoon at five,” said Mr. Vatt.
Chalkfield was the Councilman who had succeeded to the Mayoralty in the preceding November.
Farfrae was sorry at the intelligence, and Mr. Vatt continued:
“Well, we know he’s been going some days, and as his family is well provided for we must take it all as it is.
Now I have called to ask ‘ee this—quite privately.
If I should nominate ‘ee to succeed him, and there should be no particular opposition, will ‘ee accept the chair?”
“But there are folk whose turn is before mine; and I’m over young, and may be thought pushing!” said Farfrae after a pause.
“Not at all.
I don’t speak for myself only, several have named it.
You won’t refuse?”
“We thought of going away,” interposed Lucetta, looking at Farfrae anxiously.
“It was only a fancy,” Farfrae murmured. “I wouldna refuse if it is the wish of a respectable majority in the Council.”
“Very well, then, look upon yourself as elected.
We have had older men long enough.”
When he was gone Farfrae said musingly,