We go back for a moment to the preceding night, to account for
Henchard’s attitude.
At the hour when Elizabeth-Jane was contemplating her stealthy
reconnoitring excursion to the abode of the lady of her fancy, he had
been not a little amazed at receiving a letter by hand in Lucetta’s
well-known characters. The self-repression, the resignation of her
previous communication had vanished from her mood; she wrote with some
of the natural lightness which had marked her in their early
acquaintance.
HIGH-PLACE HALL
MY DEAR MR. HENCHARD,—Don’t be surprised. It is for your good and mine,
as I hope, that I have come to live at Casterbridge—for how long I
cannot tell. That depends upon another; and he is a man, and a
merchant, and a Mayor, and one who has the first right to my
affections.
Seriously, _mon ami_, I am not so light-hearted as I may seem to be
from this. I have come here in consequence of hearing of the death
of your wife—whom you used to think of as dead so many years
before! Poor woman, she seems to have been a sufferer, though
uncomplaining, and though weak in intellect not an imbecile. I am
glad you acted fairly by her. As soon as I knew she was no more, it
was brought home to me very forcibly by my conscience that I ought
to endeavour to disperse the shade which my _étourderie_ flung over
my name, by asking you to carry out your promise to me. I hope you
are of the same mind, and that you will take steps to this end. As,
however, I did not know how you were situated, or what had happened
since our separation, I decided to come and establish myself here
before communicating with you.
You probably feel as I do about this. I shall be able to see you in
a day or two. Till then, farewell.—Yours,