Then Henchard, scarcely believing the evidence of his senses, rose from his seat amazed at what he had done.  It had been the impulse of a moment.  The regard he had lately acquired for Elizabeth, the new-sprung hope of his loneliness that she would be to him a daughter of whom he could feel as proud as of the actual daughter she still believed herself to be, had been stimulated by the unexpected coming of Newson to a greedy exclusiveness in relation to her; so that the sudden prospect of her loss had caused him to speak mad lies like a child, in pure mockery of consequences.  He had expected questions to close in round him, and unmask his fabrication in five minutes; yet such questioning had not come.  But surely they would come; Newson’s departure could be but momentary; he would learn all by inquiries in the town; and return to curse him, and carry his last treasure away!

He hastily put on his hat, and went out in the direction that Newson had taken.  Newson’s back was soon visible up the road, crossing Bull-stake.  Henchard followed, and saw his visitor stop at the King’s Arms, where the morning coach which had brought him waited half-an-hour for another coach which crossed there.  The coach Newson had come by was now about to move again.  Newson mounted, his luggage was put in, and in a few minutes the vehicle disappeared with him.

He had not so much as turned his head.  It was an act of simple faith in Henchard’s words—­faith so simple as to be almost sublime.  The young sailor who had taken Susan Henchard on the spur of the moment and on the faith of a glance at her face, more than twenty years before, was still living and acting under the form of the grizzled traveller who had taken Henchard’s words on trust so absolute as to shame him as he stood.

Was Elizabeth-Jane to remain his by virtue of this hardy invention of a moment?  “Perhaps not for long,” said he.  Newson might converse with his fellow-travellers, some of whom might be Casterbridge people; and the trick would be discovered.

This probability threw Henchard into a defensive attitude, and instead of considering how best to right the wrong, and acquaint Elizabeth’s father with the truth at once, he bethought himself of ways to keep the position he had accidentally won.  Towards the young woman herself his affection grew more jealously strong with each new hazard to which his claim to her was exposed.

He watched the distant highway expecting to see Newson return on foot, enlightened and indignant, to claim his child.  But no figure appeared.  Possibly he had spoken to nobody on the coach, but buried his grief in his own heart.

His grief!—­what was it, after all, to that which he, Henchard, would feel at the loss of her?  Newson’s affection cooled by years, could not equal his who had been constantly in her presence.  And thus his jealous soul speciously argued to excuse the separation of father and child.