Besides the watchman who called the hours and weather in Casterbridge that night there walked a figure up and down corn Street hardly less frequently.  It was Henchard’s, whose retiring to rest had proved itself a futility as soon as attempted; and he gave it up to go hither and thither, and make inquiries about the patient every now and then.  He called as much on Farfrae’s account as on Lucetta’s, and on Elizabeth-Jane’s even more than on either’s.  Shorn one by one of all other interests, his life seemed centring on the personality of the stepdaughter whose presence but recently he could not endure.  To see her on each occasion of his inquiry at Lucetta’s was a comfort to him.

The last of his calls was made about four o’clock in the morning, in the steely light of dawn.  Lucifer was fading into day across Durnover Moor, the sparrows were just alighting into the street, and the hens had begun to cackle from the outhouses.  When within a few yards of Farfrae’s he saw the door gently opened, and a servant raise her hand to the knocker, to untie the piece of cloth which had muffled it.  He went across, the sparrows in his way scarcely flying up from the road-litter, so little did they believe in human aggression at so early a time.

“Why do you take off that?” said Henchard.

She turned in some surprise at his presence, and did not answer for an instant or two.  Recognizing him, she said, “Because they may knock as loud as they will; she will never hear it any more.”

41.

Henchard went home.  The morning having now fully broke he lit his fire, and sat abstractedly beside it.  He had not sat there long when a gentle footstep approached the house and entered the passage, a finger tapping lightly at the door.  Henchard’s face brightened, for he knew the motions to be Elizabeth’s.  She came into his room, looking wan and sad.

“Have you heard?” she asked.  “Mrs. Farfrae!  She is—­dead!  Yes, indeed—­about an hour ago!”

“I know it,” said Henchard.  “I have but lately come in from there.  It is so very good of ’ee, Elizabeth, to come and tell me.  You must be so tired out, too, with sitting up.  Now do you bide here with me this morning.  You can go and rest in the other room; and I will call ’ee when breakfast is ready.”

To please him, and herself—­for his recent kindliness was winning a surprised gratitude from the lonely girl—­she did as he bade her, and lay down on a sort of couch which Henchard had rigged up out of a settle in the adjoining room.  She could hear him moving about in his preparations; but her mind ran most strongly on Lucetta, whose death in such fulness of life and amid such cheerful hopes of maternity was appallingly unexpected.  Presently she fell asleep.

Meanwhile her stepfather in the outer room had set the breakfast in readiness; but finding that she dozed he would not call her; he waited on, looking into the fire and keeping the kettle boiling with house-wifely care, as if it were an honour to have her in his house.  In truth, a great change had come over him with regard to her, and he was developing the dream of a future lit by her filial presence, as though that way alone could happiness lie.