Henchard seemed to think it would be sailing too near the wind to descend further into particulars, and he answered “Yes.”

“The young lady must have had a heart that bore transplanting very readily!”

“She had, she had,” said Henchard emphatically.

He opened a third and fourth letter, and read.  This time he approached the conclusion as if the signature were indeed coming with the rest.  But again he stopped short.  The truth was that, as may be divined, he had quite intended to effect a grand catastrophe at the end of this drama by reading out the name, he had come to the house with no other thought.  But sitting here in cold blood he could not do it.

Such a wrecking of hearts appalled even him.  His quality was such that he could have annihilated them both in the heat of action; but to accomplish the deed by oral poison was beyond the nerve of his enmity.

35.

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.