“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!”