“So that, Michael, I must ask you to overlook those letters with which I pestered you day after day in the heat of my feelings.  They were written whilst I thought your conduct to me cruel; but now I know more particulars of the position you were in I see how inconsiderate my reproaches were.

“Now you will, I am sure, perceive that the one condition which will make any future happiness possible for me is that the past connection between our lives be kept secret outside this isle.  Speak of it I know you will not; and I can trust you not to write of it.  One safe-guard more remains to be mentioned—­that no writings of mine, or trifling articles belonging to me, should be left in your possession through neglect or forgetfulness.  To this end may I request you to return to me any such you may have, particularly the letters written in the first abandonment of feeling.

“For the handsome sum you forwarded to me as a plaster to the wound I heartily thank you.

“I am now on my way to Bristol, to see my only relative.  She is rich, and I hope will do something for me.  I shall return through Casterbridge and Budmouth, 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:—­