Nevertheless, it was known that he would be home that night--"for
Sunday," as Casterbridge expressed it.
Lucetta, in continuing her walk, had at length reached the end of the
ranked trees which bordered the highway in this and other directions out
of the town. This end marked a mile; and here she stopped.
The spot was a vale between two gentle acclivities, and the road,
still adhering to its Roman foundation, stretched onward straight as a
surveyor's line till lost to sight on the most distant ridge. There was
neither hedge nor tree in the prospect now, the road clinging to the
stubby expanse of corn-land like a strip to an undulating garment. Near
her was a barn--the single building of any kind within her horizon.
She strained her eyes up the lessening road, but nothing appeared
thereon--not so much as a speck. She sighed one word--"Donald!" and
turned her face to the town for retreat.
Here the case was different. A single figure was approaching
her--Elizabeth-Jane's.
Lucetta, in spite of her loneliness, seemed a little vexed. Elizabeth's
face, as soon as she recognized her friend, shaped itself into
affectionate lines while yet beyond speaking distance. "I suddenly
thought I would come and meet you," she said, smiling.
Lucetta's reply was taken from her lips by an unexpected diversion.
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