“Ah, now, I never feel like it,” said Farfrae.

“Then pray to God that you never may, young man.  While in this state I was taken pity on by a woman—­a young lady I should call her, for she was of good family, well bred, and well educated—­the daughter of some harum-scarum military officer who had got into difficulties, and had his pay sequestrated.  He was dead now, and her mother too, and she was as lonely as I. This young creature was staying at the boarding-house where I happened to have my lodging; and when I was pulled down she took upon herself to nurse me.  From that she got to have a foolish liking for me.  Heaven knows why, for I wasn’t worth it.  But being together in the same house, and her feeling warm, we got naturally intimate.  I won’t go into particulars of what our relations were.  It is enough to say that we honestly meant to marry.  There arose a scandal, which did me no harm, but was of course ruin to her.  Though, Farfrae, between you and me, as man and man, I solemnly declare that philandering with womankind has neither been my vice nor my virtue.  She was terribly careless of appearances, and I was perhaps more, because o’ my dreary state; and it was through this that the scandal arose.  At last I was well, and came away.  When I was gone she suffered much on my account, and didn’t forget to tell me so in letters one after another; till latterly, I felt I owed her something, and thought that, as I had not heard of Susan for so long, I would make this other one the only return I could make, and ask her if she would run the risk of Susan being alive (very slight as I believed) and marry me, such as I was.  She jumped for joy, and we should no doubt soon have been married—­but, behold, Susan appears!”

Donald showed his deep concern at a complication so far beyond the degree of his simple experiences.

“Now see what injury a man may cause around him!  Even after that wrong-doing at the fair when I was young, if I had never been so selfish as to let this giddy girl devote herself to me over at Jersey, to the injury of her name, all might now be well.  Yet, as it stands, I must bitterly disappoint one of these women; and it is the second.  My first duty is to Susan—­there’s no doubt about that.”

“They are both in a very melancholy position, and that’s true!” murmured Donald.

“They are!  For myself I don’t care—­’twill all end one way.  But these two.”  Henchard paused in reverie.  “I feel I should like to treat the second, no less than the first, as kindly as a man can in such a case.”

“Ah, well, it cannet be helped!” said the other, with philosophic woefulness.  “You mun write to the young lady, and in your letter you must put it plain and honest that it turns out she cannet be your wife, the first having come back; that ye cannet see her more; and that—­ye wish her weel.”

“That won’t do.  ’Od seize it, I must do a little more than that!  I must—­though she did always brag about her rich uncle or rich aunt, and her expectations from ’em—­I must send a useful sum of money to her, I suppose—­just as a little recompense, poor girl....Now, will you help me in this, and draw up an explanation to her of all I’ve told ye, breaking it as gently as you can?  I’m so bad at letters.”