“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?”