was empty, and he perceived that in his haste he had
somehow passed her on the way hither. He had not to wait many minutes,
however, for he soon heard her dress rustling in the hall, followed by a
soft closing of the door. In a moment she appeared.

The light was so low that she did not notice Henchard at first. As soon
as she saw him she uttered a little cry, almost of terror.

"How can you frighten me so?" she exclaimed, with a flushed face. "It
is past ten o'clock, and you have no right to surprise me here at such a
time."

"I don't know that I've not the right. At any rate I have the excuse. Is
it so necessary that I should stop to think of manners and customs?"

"It is too late for propriety, and might injure me."

"I called an hour ago, and you would not see me, and I thought you were
in when I called now. It is you, Lucetta, who are doing wrong. It is
not proper in 'ee to throw me over like this. I have a little matter to
remind you of, which you seem to forget."

She sank into a chair, and turned pale.

"I don't want to hear it--I don't want to hear it!" she said through her
hands, as he, standing close to the edge of her gown, began to allude to
the Jersey days.

"But you ought to hear it," said he.

"It came to nothing; and through you. Then why not leave me the freedom
that I gained with such sorrow! Had I found that you proposed to marry
me for pure love I might have felt bound now. But I soon learnt that
you had planned it out of mere charity--almost as an unpleasant
duty--because I had nursed you, and compromised myself, and you thought
you must repay me. After that I did not care for you so deeply as
before."

"Why did you come here to find me, then?"

"I thought I ought to marry you for conscience' sake, since you were
free, even though I--did not like you so well."

"And why then don't you think so now?"

She was silent. It was only too obvious that conscience had ruled well
enough till new love had intervened and usurped that rule. In feeling
this she herself forgot for the moment her partially justifying
argument--that having discovered Henchard's infirmities of temper, she
had some excuse for not risking her happiness in his hands after once
escaping them. The only thing she could say was, "I was a poor girl
then; and now my circumstances have altered, so I am hardly the same
person."

"That's true. And it makes the case awkward for me. But I don't want to
touch your money. I am qui