At eleven o’clock he went to bed himself, smoked for some time in his bedroom, put out his light at half-past eleven, and then, as was his invariable custom, pulled up the blind before getting into bed, that he might see which way the wind blew on opening his eyes in the morning, his bedroom window commanding a view of the flagstaff and vane.  Just as he had lain down he was surprised to observe the white pole of the staff flash into existence like a streak of phosphorus drawn downwards across the shade of night without.  Only one explanation met this—­a light had been suddenly thrown upon the pole from the direction of the house.  As everybody had retired to rest the old man felt it necessary to get out of bed, open the window softly, and look to the right and left.  Eustacia’s bedroom was lighted up, and it was the shine from her window which had lighted the pole.  Wondering what had aroused her, he remained undecided at the window, and was thinking of fetching the letter to slip it under her door, when he heard a slight brushing of garments on the partition dividing his room from the passage.

The captain concluded that Eustacia, feeling wakeful, had gone for a book, and would have dismissed the matter as unimportant if he had not also heard her distinctly weeping as she passed.

“She is thinking of that husband of hers,” he said to himself.  “Ah, the silly goose! she had no business to marry him.  I wonder if that letter is really his?”

He arose, threw his boat-cloak round him, opened the door, and said, “Eustacia!” There was no answer.  “Eustacia!” he repeated louder, “there is a letter on the mantelpiece for you.”

But no response was made to this statement save an imaginary one from the wind, which seemed to gnaw at the corners of the house, and the stroke of a few drops of rain upon the windows.

He went on to the landing, and stood waiting nearly five minutes.  Still she did not return.  He went back for a light, and prepared to follow her; but first he looked into her bedroom.  There, on the outside of the quilt, was the impression of her form, showing that the bed had not been opened; and, what was more significant, she had not taken her candlestick downstairs.  He was now thoroughly alarmed; and hastily putting on his clothes he descended to the front door, which he himself had bolted and locked.  It was now unfastened.  There was no longer any doubt that Eustacia had left the house at this midnight hour; and whither could she have gone?  To follow her was almost impossible.  Had the dwelling stood in an ordinary road, two persons setting out, one in each direction, might have made sure of overtaking her; but it was a hopeless task to seek for anybody on a heath in the dark, the practicable directions for flight across it from any point being as numerous as the meridians radiating from the pole.  Perplexed what to do, he looked into the parlour, and was vexed to find that the letter still lay there untouched.