Chapter 18 - Page 2

where I shall take
the packet-boat. Can you meet me with the letters and other
trifles? I shall be in the coach which changes horses at the
Antelope Hotel at half-past five Wednesday evening; I shall
be wearing a Paisley shawl with a red centre, and thus may
easily be found. I should prefer this plan of receiving
them to having them sent.--I remain still, yours; ever,

LUCETTA

Henchard breathed heavily. "Poor thing--better you had not
known me! Upon my heart and soul, if ever I should be left
in a position to carry out that marriage with thee, I
OUGHT to do it--I ought to do it, indeed!"

The contingency that he had in his mind was, of course, the
death of Mrs. Henchard.

As requested, he sealed up Lucetta's letters, and put the
parcel aside till the day she had appointed; this plan of
returning them by hand being apparently a little ruse of
the young lady for exchanging a word or two with him on past
times. He would have preferred not to see her; but deeming
that there could be no great harm in acquiescing thus far,
he went at dusk and stood opposite the coach-office.

The evening was chilly, and the coach was late. Henchard
crossed over to it while the horses were being changed; but
there was no Lucetta inside or out. Concluding that
something had happened to modify her arrangements he gave
the matter up and went home, not without a sense of relief.
Meanwhile Mrs. Henchard was weakening visibly. She could
not go out of doors any more. One day, after much thinking
which seemed to distress her, she said she wanted to write
something. A desk was put upon her bed with pen and paper,
and at her request she was left alone. She remained writing
for a short time, folded her paper carefully, called
Elizabeth-Jane to bring a taper and wax, and then, still
refusing assistance, sealed up the sheet, directed it, and
locked it in her desk. She had directed it in these words:--

"MR. MICHAEL HENCHARD. NOT TO BE OPENED TILL ELIZABETH-
JANE'S WEDDING-DAY."

The latter sat up with her mother to the utmost of her
strength night after night. To learn to take the universe
seriously there is no quicker way than to watch--to be a
"waker," as the country-people call it. Between the hours
at which the last toss-pot went by and the first sparrow
shook himself, the silence in Casterbridge--barring the rare
sound of the watchman--was broken in Elizabeth's ear only by
the time-piece in the bedroom ticking frantically against
the clock on the stairs; ticking harder and harder till it
seemed to clang like a gong; and all this while the subtle-
souled girl asking herself why she was born, why sitting in
a room, and blinking at the candle; why things around her