The pain she experienced from the almost absolute obliviousness to her existence that was shown by the pair of them became at times half dissipated by her sense of its humourousness.  When Lucetta had pricked her finger they were as deeply concerned as if she were dying; when she herself had been seriously sick or in danger they uttered a conventional word of sympathy at the news, and forgot all about it immediately.  But, as regarded Henchard, this perception of hers also caused her some filial grief; she could not help asking what she had done to be neglected so, after the professions of solicitude he had made.  As regarded Farfrae, she thought, after honest reflection, that it was quite natural.  What was she beside Lucetta?—­as one of the “meaner beauties of the night,” when the moon had risen in the skies.

She had learnt the lesson of renunciation, and was as familiar with the wreck of each day’s wishes as with the diurnal setting of the sun.  If her earthly career had taught her few book philosophies it had at least well practised her in this.  Yet her experience had consisted less in a series of pure disappointments than in a series of substitutions.  Continually it had happened that what she had desired had not been granted her, and that what had been granted her she had not desired.  So she viewed with an approach to equanimity the new cancelled days when Donald had been her undeclared lover, and wondered what unwished-for thing Heaven might send her in place of him.

26.

It chanced that on a fine spring morning Henchard and Farfrae met in the chestnut-walk which ran along the south wall of the town.  Each had just come out from his early breakfast, and there was not another soul near.  Henchard was reading a letter from Lucetta, sent in answer to a note from him, in which she made some excuse for not immediately granting him a second interview that he had desired.

Donald had no wish to enter into conversation with his former friend on their present constrained terms; neither would he pass him in scowling silence.  He nodded, and Henchard did the same.  They receded from each other several paces when a voice cried “Farfrae!” It was Henchard’s, who stood regarding him.

“Do you remember,” said Henchard, as if it were the presence of the thought and not of the man which made him speak, “do you remember my story of that second woman—­who suffered for her thoughtless intimacy with me?”

“I do,” said Farfrae.

“Do you remember my telling ’ee how it all began and how it ended?

“Yes.”

“Well, I have offered to marry her now that I can; but she won’t marry me.  Now what would you think of her—­I put it to you?”

“Well, ye owe her nothing more now,” said Farfrae heartily.

“It is true,” said Henchard, and went on.

That he had looked up from a letter to ask his questions completely shut out from Farfrae’s mind all vision of Lucetta as the culprit.  Indeed, her present position was so different from that of the young woman of Henchard’s story as of itself to be sufficient to blind him absolutely to her identity.  As for Henchard, he was reassured by Farfrae’s words and manner against a suspicion which had crossed his mind.  They were not those of a conscious rival.