Chapter 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.

He was disturbed by another knock at the door, and rose to
open it, rather deprecating a call from anybody just then.
A stoutly built man stood on the doorstep, with an alien,
unfamiliar air about his figure and bearing--an air which
might have been called colonial by people of cosmopolitan
experience. It was the man who had asked the way at Peter's
finger. Henchard nodded, and looked inquiry.

"Good morning, good morning," said the stranger with profuse
heartiness. "Is it Mr. Henchard I am talking to?"

"My name is Henchard."

"Then I've caught 'ee at home--that's right. Morning's the
time for business, says I. Can I have a few words with
you?"

"By all means," Henchard answered, showing the way in.

"You may remember me?" said his visitor, seating himself.

Henchard observed him indifferently, and shook his head.

"Well--perhaps you may not. My name is Newson."

Henchard's face and eyes seemed to die. The other did not
notice it. "I know the name well," Henchard