Chapter Chapter 35 · Chapter XXXV

As Donald stated, Lucetta had retired early to her room because of

fatigue. She had, however, not gone to rest, but sat in the bedside

chair reading and thinking over the events of the day. At the ringing

of the door-bell by Henchard she wondered who it should be that would

call at that comparatively late hour. The dining-room was almost under

her bed-room; she could hear that somebody was admitted there, and

presently the indistinct murmur of a person reading became audible.

The usual time for Donald’s arrival upstairs came and passed, yet still

the reading and conversation went on. This was very singular. She could

think of nothing but that some extraordinary crime had been committed,

and that the visitor, whoever he might be, was reading an account of it

from a special edition of the _Casterbridge Chronicle_. At last she

left the room, and descended the stairs. The dining-room door was ajar,

and in the silence of the resting household the voice and the words

were recognizable before she reached the lower flight. She stood

transfixed. Her own words greeted her in Henchard’s voice, like spirits

from the grave.

Lucetta leant upon the banister with her cheek against the smooth

hand-rail, as if she would make a friend of it in her misery. Rigid in

this position, more and more words fell successively upon her ear. But

what amazed her most was the tone of her husband. He spoke merely in

the accents of a man who made a present of his time.

“One word,” he was saying, as the crackling of paper denoted that

Henchard was unfolding yet another sheet. “Is it quite fair to this

young woman’s memory to read at such length to a stranger what was

intended for your eye alone?”

“Well, yes,” said Henchard. “By not giving her name I make it an

example of all womankind, and not a scandal to one.”

“If I were you I would destroy them,” said Farfrae, giving more thought

to the letters than he had hitherto done. “As another man’s wife it

would injure the woman if it were known.”

“No, I shall not destroy them,” murmured Henchard, putting the letters

away. Then he arose, and Lucetta heard no more.

She went back to her bedroom in a semi-paralyzed state. For very fear

she could not undress, but sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. Would

Henchard let out the secret in his parting words? Her suspense was

terrible. Had she confessed all to Donald in their early acquaintance

he might possibly have got over it, and married her just the

same—unlikely as it had once seemed; but for her or any one else to

tell him now would be fatal.

The door slammed; she could hear her husband bolting it. After looking

round in his customary way he came leisurely up the stairs. The spark

in her eyes well-nigh went out when he appeared round the bedroom door.

Her gaze hung doubtful for a moment, then to her joyous amazement she

saw that he looked at her with the rallying smile of one who had just

been relieved of a scene that was irksome. She could hold out no

longer, and sobbed hysterically.

When he had restored her Farfrae naturally enough spoke of Henchard.

“Of all men he was the least desirable as a visitor,” he said; “but it

is my belief that he’s just a bit crazed. He has been reading to me a

long lot of letters relating to his past life; and I could do no less

than indulge him by listening.”

This was sufficient. Henchard, then, had not told. Henchard’s last

words to Farfrae, in short, as he stood on the doorstep, had been

these: “Well—I’m obliged to ’ee for listening. I may tell more about

her some day.”

Finding this, she was much perplexed as to Henchard’s motives in

opening the matter at all; for in such cases we attribute to an enemy a

power of consistent action which we never find in ourselves or in our

friends; and forget that abortive efforts from want of heart are as

possible to revenge as to generosity.

Next morning Lucetta remained in bed, meditating how to parry this

incipient attack. The bold stroke of telling Donald the truth, dimly

conceived, was yet too bold; for she dreaded lest in doing so he, like

the rest of the world, should believe that the episode was rather her

fault than her misfortune. She decided to employ persuasion—not with

Donald but with the enemy himself. It seemed the only practicable

weapon left her as a woman. Having laid her plan she rose, and wrote to

him who kept her on these tenterhooks:—

“I overheard your interview with my husband last night, and saw the

drift of your revenge. The very thought of it crushes me! Have pity on

a distressed woman! If you could see me you would relent. You do not

know how anxiety has told upon me lately. I will be at the Ring at the

time you leave work—just before the sun goes down. Please come that

way. I cannot rest till I have seen you face to face, and heard from

your mouth that you will carry this horse-play no further.”

To herself she said, on closing up her appeal: “If ever tears and

pleadings have served the weak to fight the strong, let them do so

now!”

With this view she made a toilette which differed from all she had ever

attempted before. To heighten her natural attraction had hitherto been

the unvarying endeavour of her adult life, and one in which she was no

novice. But now she neglected this, and even proceeded to impair the

natural presentation. Beyond a natural reason for her slightly drawn

look, she had not slept all the previous night, and this had produced

upon her pretty though slightly worn features the aspect of a

countenance ageing prematurely from extreme sorrow. She selected—as

much from want of spirit as design—her poorest, plainest and longest

discarded attire.

To avoid the contingency of being recognized she veiled herself, and

slipped out of the house quickly. The sun was resting on the hill like

a drop of blood on an eyelid by the time she had got up the road

opposite the amphitheatre, which she speedily entered. The interior was

shadowy, and emphatic of the absence of every living thing.

She was not disappointed in the fearful hope with which she awaited

him. Henchard came over the top, descended and Lucetta waited

breathlessly. But having reached the arena she saw a change in his

bearing: he stood still at a little distance from her; she could not

think why.

Nor could any one else have known. The truth was that in appointing

this spot, and this hour, for the rendezvous, Lucetta had unwittingly

backed up her entreaty by the strongest argument she could have used

outside words, with this man of moods, glooms, and superstitions. Her

figure in the midst of the huge enclosure, the unusual plainness of her

dress, her attitude of hope and appeal, so strongly revived in his soul

the memory of another ill-used woman who had stood there and thus in

bygone days, and had now passed away into her rest, that he was

unmanned, and his heart smote him for having attempted reprisals on one

of a sex so weak. When he approached her, and before she had spoken a

word, her point was half gained.

His manner as he had come down had been one of cynical carelessness;

but he now put away his grim half-smile, and said, in a kindly subdued

tone, “Goodnight t’ye. Of course I’m glad to come if you want me.”

“O, thank you,” she said apprehensively.

“I am sorry to see ’ee looking so ill,” he stammered with unconcealed

compunction.

She shook her head. “How can you be sorry,” she asked, “when you

deliberately cause it?”

“What!” said Henchard uneasily. “Is it anything I have done that has

pulled you down like that?”

“It is all your doing,” she said. “I have no other grief. My happiness

would be secure enough but for your threats. O Michael! don’t wreck me

like this! You might think that you have done enough! When I came here

I was a young woman; now I am rapidly becoming an old one. Neither my

husband nor any other man will regard me with interest long.”

Henchard was disarmed. His old feeling of supercilious pity for

womankind in general was intensified by this suppliant appearing here

as the double of the first. Moreover that thoughtless want of foresight

which had led to all her trouble remained with poor Lucetta still; she

had come to meet him here in this compromising way without perceiving

the risk. Such a woman was very small deer to hunt; he felt ashamed,

lost all zest and desire to humiliate Lucetta there and then, and no

longer envied Farfrae his bargain. He had married money, but nothing

more. Henchard was anxious to wash his hands of the game.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” he said gently. “I am sure I shall

be very willing. My reading of those letters was only a sort of

practical joke, and I revealed nothing.”

“To give me back the letters and any papers you may have that breathe

of matrimony or worse.”

“So be it. Every scrap shall be yours.... But, between you and me,

Lucetta, he is sure to find out something of the matter, sooner or

later.”

“Ah!” she said with eager tremulousness; “but not till I have proved

myself a faithful and deserving wife to him, and then he may forgive me

everything!”

Henchard silently looked at her: he almost envied Farfrae such love as

that, even now. “H’m—I hope so,” he said. “But you shall have the

letters without fail. And your secret shall be kept. I swear it.”

“How good you are!—how shall I get them?”

He reflected, and said he would send them the next morning. “Now don’t

doubt me,” he added. “I can keep my word.”