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 the good she would have done she did not, and the evil that she would not, that she did—exactly like the Apostle Paul.”
“O no; she didn’t do 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.”
“Have you not lately renewed your promise?” said the younger with quiet surmise. She had divined Man Number One.
“That was wrung from me by a threat.”