“I don’t want you to come to me all of a sudden,” said Henchard in jerks, and moving like a great tree in a wind.  “No, Elizabeth, I don’t.  I’ll go away and not see you till to-morrow, or when you like, and then I’ll show ’ee papers to prove my words.  There, I am gone, and won’t disturb you any more....’Twas I that chose your name, my daughter; your mother wanted it Susan.  There, don’t forget ’twas I gave you your name!” He went out at the door and shut her softly in, and she heard him go away into the garden.  But he had not done.  Before she had moved, or in any way recovered from the effect of his disclosure, he reappeared.

“One word more, Elizabeth,” he said.  “You’ll take my surname now—­hey?  Your mother was against it, but it will be much more pleasant to me.  ’Tis legally yours, you know.  But nobody need know that.  You shall take it as if by choice.  I’ll talk to my lawyer—­I don’t know the law of it exactly; but will you do this—­let me put a few lines into the newspaper that such is to be your name?”

“If it is my name I must have it, mustn’t I?” she asked.

“Well, well; usage is everything in these matters.”

“I wonder why mother didn’t wish it?”

“Oh, some whim of the poor soul’s.  Now get a bit of paper and draw up a paragraph as I shall tell you.  But let’s have a light.”

“I can see by the firelight,” she answered.  “Yes—­I’d rather.”

“Very well.”

She got a piece of paper, and bending over the fender wrote at his dictation words which he had evidently got by heart from some advertisement or other—­words to the effect that she, the writer, hitherto known as Elizabeth-Jane Newson, was going to call herself Elizabeth-Jane Henchard forthwith.  It was done, and fastened up, and directed to the office of the Casterbridge Chronicle.

“Now,” said Henchard, with the blaze of satisfaction that he always emitted when he had carried his point—­though tenderness softened it this time—­“I’ll go upstairs and hunt for some documents that will prove it all to you.  But I won’t trouble you with them till to-morrow.  Good-night, my Elizabeth-Jane!”

He was gone before the bewildered girl could realize what it all meant, or adjust her filial sense to the new center of gravity.  She was thankful that he had left her to herself for the evening, and sat down over the fire.  Here she remained in silence, and wept—­not for her mother now, but for the genial sailor Richard Newson, to whom she seemed doing a wrong.

Henchard in the meantime had gone upstairs.  Papers of a domestic nature he kept in a drawer in his bedroom, and this he unlocked.  Before turning them over he leant back and indulged in reposeful thought.  Elizabeth was his at last and she was a girl of such good sense and kind heart that she would be sure to like him.  He was the kind of man to whom some human object for pouring out his heart upon—­were it emotive or were it choleric—­was almost a necessity.  The craving for his heart for the re-establishment of this tenderest human tie had been great during his wife’s lifetime, and now he had submitted to its mastery without reluctance and without fear.  He bent over the drawer again, and proceeded in his search.