advocate,–certainly beneath any forensic advocate employed otherwise than in addressing a jury. He, Judge Bramber, had never himself talked of ‘demanding’ a verdict even from a jury. He had only endeavoured to win it. But that a man who had been Attorney-General,–who had been the head of the bar,–should thus write to a Secretary of State, was to him disgusting. To his thinking, a great lawyer, even a good lawyer, would be incapable of enthusiasm as to any case in which he was employed. The ignorant childish world outside would indulge in zeal and hot feelings,–but for an advocate to do so was to show that he was no lawyer,–that he was no better than the outside world. Even spoken eloquence was, in his mind, almost beneath a lawyer,–studied eloquence certainly was so. But such written words as these disgusted him. And then he came across allusions to the condition of the poor lady at Folking. What could the condition of the lady at Folking have to do with the matter? Though the poor lady at Folking should die in her sorrow, that could not alter the facts as they had occurred in Australia! It was not for him, or for the Secretary of State, to endeavour to make things pleasant all round here in England. It had been the jury’s duty to find out whether that crime had been committed, and his duty to see that all due facilities were given to the jury. It had been Sir John Joram’s duty to make out what best case he could for his client,–and then to rest contented. Had all things been as they should be, the Secretary of State would have had no duty at all in the matter. It was in this frame of mind that Judge Bramber applied himself to the consideration of the case. No juster man ever lived;–and yet in his mind there was a bias against the prisoner.
Nevertheless he went to his work with great patience, and a resolve to sift everything that was to be sifted. The Secretary of State had done no more than his required duty in sending the case to him, and he would now do his. He took the counter-evidence as it came in the papers. In order that the two Bagwaxian theories, each founded on the same small document, might be expounded, one consecutively after the other, Dick Shand and his deposition were produced first. The judge declared to himself that Dick’s single oath, which could not now be tested by cross-examination, amounted to nothing. He had been a drunkard and a pauper,–had descended to the lowest occupation which the country afforded, and had more than once nearly died from delirium tremens. He had then come home penniless, and had–produced his story. If such evidence could avail to rescue a prisoner from his sentence, and to upset a verdict, what verdict or what sentence could stand? Poor Dick’s sworn testimony, in Judge Bramber’s mind, told rather against Caldigate than for him.
Then came the postmarks,–as to which the Bagwaxian theory was quite distinct from that as to the postage-stamp. Here the judge found the facts to be somewhat complicated and mazy. It was long before he could understand the full purport of the argument used, and even at last he hardly understood the whole of it. But he could see nothing in it to justify him in upsetting the verdict;–nothing even to convince him that the envelope had been fraudulently handled. There was no evidence that such a dated stamp had not been in use at Sydney on the day named. Copies from the records kept daily at Sydney,–photographed copies,–should have been submitted before that argument had been used.
But when it came to the postage-stamp, then he told himself very quickly that the envelope had been fraudulently handled. The evidence as to the date of the manufacture of the stamp was conclusive. It could not have served to pay the postage on a letter from Sydney to Nobble in May 1873, seeing that it had not then been in existence. And thus any necessity there might otherwise have been for further inquiry as to the postmarks was dissipated. The envelope was a declared fraud, and the fraud required no further proof. That morsel of evidence had been fabricated, and laid, at any rate, one of the witnesses in the last trial open to a charge of perjury. So resolving Judge Bramber pushed the papers away from him, and began to think the case over in his mind.
There was certainly something in the entire case as it now stood to excuse Sir John. That was the first line which his thoughts took. An advocate having clearly seen into a morsel of evidence on the side opposed to him, and having proved to himself beyond all doubt that it was maliciously false, must be held to be justified in holding more than a mere advocate’s conviction as to the innocence of his client. Sir John had of course felt that a foul plot had been contrived. A foul plot no doubt had been contrived. Had the discovery taken place before the case had been submitted to the jury, the detection of that plot would doubtless have saved the prisoner, whether guilty or innocent. So much Judge Bramber admitted.
But should it necessarily serve to save him now? Before a jury it would have saved him, whether guilty or innocent. But the law had got hold of him, and had made him guilty, and the law need not now subject itself to the normal human weakness of a jury. The case was now in his hands,–in his, and those of the Secretary, and there need be no weakness. If the man was innocent, in God’s name let him go;–though, as the judge observed to himself, he had deserved all he had got for his folly and vice. But this discovered plot by no means proved the man’s innocence. It only proved the determination of certain persons to secure his conviction, whether by foul means or fair. Then he recapitulated to himself various cases in which he had known false evidence to have been added to true, with the object of convincing a jury as to a real fact.
It might well be that this gang of ruffians,–for it was manifest that there had been such a gang,–finding the envelope addressed by the man to his wife, had fraudulently,–and as foolishly as fraudulently,– endeavoured to bolster up their case by the postage-stamp and the postmark. Looking back at all the facts, remembering that fatal twenty thousand pounds, remembering that though the postmarks were forged on that envelope the writing was true, remembering the acknowledged promise and the combined testimony of the four persons,–he was inclined to think that something of the kind had been done in this case. If it were so, though he would fain see the perpetrators of that fraud on their trial for perjury, their fraud in no way diminished Caldigate’s guilt. That a guilty man should escape out of the hands of justice by any fraud was wormwood to Judge Bramber. Caldigate was guilty. The jury had found him so. Could he take upon himself to say that the finding of the jury was wrong because the prosecuting party had concocted a fraud which had not been found out before the verdict was given? Sir John Joram, whom he had known almost as a boy, had ‘demanded’ the release of his client. The word stuck in Judge Bramber’s throat. The word had been injudicious The more he thought of the word the more he thought that the verdict had been a true verdict, in spite of the fraud. A very honest man was Judge Bramber;–but human.
He almost made up his mind,–but then was obliged to confess to himself that he had not quite done so. ‘It taints the entire evidence with perjury,’ Sir John had said. The woman’s evidence was absolutely so tainted,–was defiled with perjury. And the man Crinkett had been so near the woman that it was impossible to disconnect them. Who had concocted the fraud? The woman could hardly have done so without the man’s connivance. It took him all the morning to think the matter out, and then he had not made up his mind. To reverse the verdict would certainly be a thorn in his side,–a pernicious thorn,–but one which, if necessary, he would endure Thorns, however, such as these are very persuasive.
At last he determined to have inquiry made as to the woman by the police. She had laid herself open to an indictment for perjury, and in making inquiry on that head something further might probably be learned.
Chapter LV
How the Conspirators Throve
There had been some indiscretion among Caldigate’s friends from which it resulted that, while Judge Bramber was considering the matter, and before the police intelligence of Scotland Yard even had stirred itself in obedience to the judge’s orders, nearly all the circumstances which had been submitted to the judge had become public. Shand knew all that Bagwax had done. Bagwax was acquainted with the whole of Dick’s evidence. And Hester down at Folking understood perfectly what had been revealed by each of those enthusiastic allies. Dick, as we know, had been staying at Folking, and had made his presence notable throughout the county. He had succeeded in convincing uncle Babington, and had been judged to be a false witness by all the Boltons In that there had perhaps been no great indiscretion But when Bagwax opened a correspondence with Mrs. John Caldigate and explained to her at great length all the circumstances of the postmark and the postage-stamps, and when at her instance he got a day’s holiday and rushed down to Folking, then, as he felt himself, he was doing that of which Sir John Joram and Mr. Jones would not approve. But he could not restrain himself. And why should he restrain himself when he had lost all hope of his journey to Sydney? When the prospect of that delight no longer illumined his days, why should he not enjoy the other delight of communicating his tidings, –his own discoveries,–to the afflicted lady? Unless he did so it would appear to her that Joram had done it all, and there would be no reward,–absolutely none! So he told his tale,–at first by letter and then with his own natural eloquence. ‘Yes, Mrs. Caldigate the postmarks are difficult. It takes a lifetime of study to understand..all the ins and outs of postmarks To me it is A B C of course. When I had spent a week or two looking into it I was sure that impression had never been made in the way of business Bagwax was sitting out on the lawn at Folking and the bereaved wife, dressed in black, was near him, holding in her hand one of the photographed copies of the envelope. ‘It’s A B C to me; but I don’t wonder you shouldn’t see it.’
‘I think I do see a good deal,’ said Hester.
‘But any babe may understand that,’ said Bagwax, pressing forward and putting his forefinger on the obliteration of the postage-stamp. ‘You see the date in the postmark.’
‘I know the date very well.’
‘We’ve had it proved that on the date given there, this identical postage-stamp had not yet been manufactured The Secretary of State can’t get over that. I’ll defy him.’
‘Why don’t they release him at once then?
‘Between you and me, Mrs. Caldigate, I think it’s Judge Bramber.’
‘He can’t want to injure an innocent man.
‘From what I’ve heard Sir John say, I fancy he doesn’t like to have the verdict upset. But they must do it. I’ll defy them to get over that.’ And again he tapped the queen’s-head. Then he told the story of his love for Jemima, and of his engagement. Of course he was praised and petted,–as indeed he deserved; and thus, though the house at Folking was a sad house, he enjoyed himself,–as men do when much is made of them by pretty women.
But the result of all this was that every detail of the story became known to the public, and was quite common down at Cambridge. The old squire was urgent with Mr. Seely, asking why it was that when those things were known an instant order had not come from the Secretary of State for the liberation of his son. Mr. Seely had not been altogether pleased at the way in which Sir John had gone to work, and was still convinced of the guilt of his own client. His answer was therefore unsatisfactory, and the old squire proclaimed his intention of proceeding himself to London and demanding an interview with the Secretary of State. Then the Cambridge newspapers took up the subject,–generally in the Caldigate interest from thence the matter was transferred to the metropolitan columns,–which, with one exception were strong in favour of such a reversal of the verdict as could be effected by a pardon from the Queen. The one exception was very pellucid, very unanswerable, and very cold-blooded. It might have been written by Judge Bramber himself, but that Judge Bramber would sooner have cut his hand off than have defiled it by making public aught that had come before him judicially or officially. But all Judge Bramber’s arguments were there set forth. Dick wished his father at once to proceed against the paper for libel because the paper said that his word could not be taken for much. The postmark theory was exposed to derision. There was no doubt much in the postage-stamp, but not enough to upset the overwhelming weight of evidence by which the verdict had been obtained. And so the case became really public, and the newspapers were bought and read with the avidity which marks those festive periods in which some popular criminal is being discussed at every breakfast-table.
Much of this had occurred before the intelligence of Scotland Yard had been set to work in obedience to Judge Bramber. The papers had been a day or two in the Home Office, and three or four days in the judge’s hands before he could look at them. To Hester and the old squire at Folking the incarceration of that injured darling was the one thing in all the world which now required attention. To redress that terrible grievance, judges, secretaries, thrones, and parliaments, should have left their wonted tracks and thought of nothing till it had been accomplished. But Judge Bramber, in the performance of his duties, was never hurried; and at the Home Office a delay but of three or four days amounted to official haste. Thus it came to pass that all that Bagwax had done and all that Shand had said were known to the public at large before the intelligence of Scotland Yard was at work,–before anybody had as yet done anything.
Among the public were Euphemia Smith and Mr. Crinkett,–Adamson also, and Anna Young, the other witness. Since the trial, this confraternity had not passed an altogether fraternal life. When the money had been paid, the woman had insisted on having the half. She, indeed, had carried the cheque for the amount away from the Jericho Coffee-house. It had been given into her hands and those of Crinkett conjointly, and she had secured the document. The amount was payable to their joint order, and each had felt that it would be better to divide the spoil in peace. Crinkett had taken his half with many grumblings, because he had, in truth, arranged the matter and hitherto paid the expenses. Then the woman had wished to start at once for Australia, taking the other female with her. But to this Crinkett had objected. They would certainly, he said, be arrested for breaking their bail at whatever port they might reach,–and why should they go, seeing that the money had been paid to them on the distinct understanding that they were not pledged to abandon the prosecution. Most unwillingly the woman remained did so fearing lest worse evil might betide her. Then there had arisen quarrels about the money between the two females, and between Crinkett and Adamson. It was in vain that Crinkett showed that, were he to share with Adamson, there would be very little of the plunder left to him. Adamson demanded a quarter of the whole, short of a quarter of the expenses, declaring that were it not paid to him, he would divulge everything to the police. The woman, who had got her money in her hand, and who was, in truth, spending it very quickly, would give back nothing for expenses, unless her expenses in England also were considered. Nor would she give a shilling to Anna Young, beyond an allowance of L2 a week, till, as she said, they were both back in the colony again. But Anna Young did not wish to go back to the colony. And so they quarrelled till the trial came and was over.
The verdict had been given on the 20th July, and it was about the middle of September when the newspapers made public all that Shand and Bagwax between them had said and done. At that time the four conspirators were still in England. The two men were living a wretched life in London, and the women were probably not less wretched at Brighton. Mrs. Smith, when she learned that Dick Shand was alive and in England, immediately understood her danger,–understood her danger, but did not at all measure the security which might come to her from the nature of Dick’s character. She would have flown instantly without a word to any one, but that the other woman watched her day and night. They did not live under the same roof, nor in similar style. Euphemia Smith wore silk, and endeavoured to make the best of what female charms her ill mode of life had left to her; while Young was content with poor apparel and poor living,–but spent her time in keeping guard on the other. The woman in silk knew that were she to leave her lodgings for half a day without the knowledge of the woman in calico, the woman in calico would at once reveal everything to the police. But when she understood the point which had been raised and made as to the postmark,–which she did understand thoroughly,–then she comprehended also her own jeopardy, and hurried up to London to see Crinkett. And she settled matters with Young. If Young would go back with her to Australia, everything there should be made pleasant. Terms were made at the Brighton station. Anna Young was to receive two thousand pounds in London, and would then remain as companion with her old mistress.
In London there was a close conference, at first between the two principals only. Crinkett thought that he was comparatively safe. He had sworn to nothing about the letter; and though he himself had prepared the envelope, no proof of his handiwork was forthcoming that he had done so. But he was quite ready to start again to some distant portion of the earth’s surface,–to almost any distant portion of the earth’s surface,–if she would consent to a joining of purses. ‘And who is to keep the joint purse?’ asked Mrs. Smith, not without a touch of grand irony.
‘Me, of course,’ said Crinkett. ‘A man always must have the money.’
‘I’d sooner have fourteen years for perjury, like the Claimant,’ said Mrs. Smith, with a grand resolve that, come what might, she would stick to her own money.
But at last it was decided. Adamson would not stir a step, but consented to remain with two thousand pounds, which Crinkett was compelled to pay him. Crinkett handed him the money within the precincts of one of the city banks not an hour before the sailing of the Julius Vogel from the London Docks for Auckland in New Zealand. At that moment both the women were on board the Julius Vogel, and the gang was so far safe. Crinkett was there in time, and they were carried safely down the river. New Zealand had been chosen because there they would be further from their persecutors than at any other spot they could reach. And the journey would occupy long, and they were pervaded by an idea that as they had been hitherto brought in question as to no crime, the officers of justice would hardly bring them back from so great a distance.
The Julius Vogel touched at Plymouth on her outward voyage. How terribly inconvenient must be this habit of touching to passengers going from home, such as Euphemia Smith and Thomas Crinkett! And the wretched vessel, which had made a quick passage round from the Thames, lay two days and two nights at Dartmouth, before it went on to Plymouth. Our friends, of course, did not go on shore. Our friends, who were known as Mr. Catley and his two widowed sisters, Mrs. Salmon and Mrs. York, kept themselves very quiet, and were altogether well-behaved. But the women could not restrain some manifestation of their impatience. Why did not the vessel start? Why were they to be delayed Then the captain made known to them that the time for starting had not yet come. Three o’clock on that day was the time fixed for starting. As the slow moments wore themselves away, the women trembled, huddled together on the poop of the vessel; while Crinkett, never letting the pipe out of his mouth, stood leaning against the taffrail, looking towards the port, gazing across the waters to see whether anything was coming towards the ship which might bode evil to his journey. Then there came the bustle preparatory to starting, and Crinkett thought that he was free, at any rate, for that journey. But such bustle spreads itself over many minutes. Quarter of an hour succeeded quarter of an hour, and still they were not off. The last passenger came on board, and yet they were not off. Then Crinkett with his sharp eyes saw another boat pushed off from the shore, and heard a voice declare that the Julius Vogel had received a signal not to start. Then Crinkett knew that a time of desperate trouble had come upon him, and he bethought himself what he would do. Were he to jump overboard, they would simply pick him up. Nor was he quite sure that he wished to die. The money which he had kept had not been obtained fraudulently, and would be left to him, he thought, after that term of imprisonment which it might be his fate to endure. But then, again, it might be that no such fate was in store for him. He had sworn only to the marriage and not to the letter. It might still be possible that he should be acquitted, while the woman was condemned. So he stood perfectly still, and said not a word to either of his companions as to the boat which was coming. He could soon see two men in the guise of policemen, and another who was certainly a policeman, though not in that guise. He stood there very quiet, and determined that he would tell his own name and those of the two women at the first question that was asked him. On the day but one following, Crinkett and Euphemia Smith were committed in London to take their trial for perjury.
Adamson, when he had read the reports in the newspapers, and had learned that the postage-stamp had been detected, and that Shand was at home, also looked about him a little. He talked over the matter at great length with Crinkett, but he did not tell Crinkett all his own ideas. Some of them he did make known to Crinkett. He would not himself go to the colonies with Crinkett, nor would he let Crinkett go till some share of the plunder had been made over to him. This, after many words, had been fixed at two thousand pounds; and the money, as we have seen, had been paid. Crinkett had been careful to make the payment at as late a moment as possible. He had paid the amount,–very much to his own regret when he saw that boat coming,–because he was quite sure that Adamson would at once have denounced him to the police, had he not done so. Adamson might denounce him in spite of the payment;–but the payment appeared to him to be his best chance. When he saw the boat coming, he knew that he had simply thrown away his two thousand pounds.
In truth, he had simply thrown it away. There is no comfort in having kept one’s word honestly, when one would fain have broken it dishonestly. Adamson, with the large roll of bank-notes still in his pocket, had gone at once to Scotland Yard and told his story. At that time all the details had been sent by the judge to the police-office, and it was understood that a great inquiry was to be made. In the first place, Crinkett and Euphemia Smith were wanted. Adamson soon made his bargain. He could tell something,–could certainly tell where Crinkett and the women were to be found; but he must be assured that any little peccadillo of which he himself might have been guilty would be overlooked. The peccadillo on his part had been very small, but he must be assured. Then he was assured, and told the police at once that they could stop the two travellers at Plymouth. And of course he told more than that. There had been no marriage,–no real marriage. He had been induced to swear that there had been a marriage, because he had regarded the promise and the cohabitation as making a marriage,–‘in heaven.’ So he had expressed himself, and so excused himself. But now his eyes had been opened to the error of his ways, and he was free to acknowledge that he had committed perjury. There had been no marriage;–certainly none at all. He made his deposition, and bound himself down, and submitted to live under the surveillance of the police till the affair should be settled. Then he would be able to go where he listed, with two thousand pounds in his pocket. He was a humble, silent, and generally obedient man, but in this affair he had managed to thrive better than any of the others. Anna Young was afterwards allowed to fill the same position; but she failed in getting any of the money. While the women were in London together, and as they were starting, Euphemia Smith had been too strong for her companion. She had declared that she would not pay the money till they were afloat, and then that she would not pay it till they had left Plymouth. When the police came on board the Julius Vogel, Anna Young had as yet received nothing.
Chapter LVI
The Boltons Are Very Firm
While all this was going on, as the general opinion in favour of Caldigate was becoming stronger every day, when even Judge Bramber had begun to doubt, the feeling which had always prevailed at Puritan Grange was growing in intensity and converting itself from a conviction into a passion. That the wicked bigamist had falsely and fraudulently robbed her of her daughter was a religion to Mrs. Bolton;–and, as the matter had proceeded, the old banker had become ever more and more submissive to his wife’s feelings. All the Cambridge Boltons were in accord on this subject,–who had never before been in accord on any subject. Robert Bolton, who understood thoroughly each point as it was raised on behalf of Caldigate, was quite sure that the old squire was spending his money freely, his own money and his son’s, with the view of getting the verdict set aside. What was so clear as that Dick Shand and Bagwax, and probably also Smithers from the Stamps and Taxes, were all in the pay of old Caldigate? At this time the defection of Adamson was not known to him, but he did know that a strong case was being made with the Secretary of State. ‘If it costs me all I have in the world I will expose them,’ he said up in London to his brother William, the London barrister.
The barrister was not quite in accord with the other Boltons. He also had been disposed to think that Dick Shand and Bagwax might have been bribed by the squire. It was at any rate possible. And the twenty thousand pounds paid to the accusing witnesses had always stuck in his throat when he had endeavoured to believe that Caldigate might be innocent. It seemed to him still that the balance of evidence was against the man who had taken his sister away from her home. But he was willing to leave that to the Secretary of State and to the judge. He did not see why his sister should not have her husband and be restored to the world,–if Judge Bramber should at last decide that so it ought to be. No money could bribe Judge Bramber. No undue persuasion could weaken him. If that Rhadamanthus should at last say that the verdict had been a wrong verdict, then,–for pity’s sake, for love’s sake, in the name of humanity, and for the sake of all Boltons present and to come,–let the man be considered innocent.
But Robert Bolton was more intent on his purpose, and was a man of stronger passion. Perhaps some real religious scruple told him that a woman should not live with a man who was not her true husband,–let any judge say what he might. But hatred, probably had more to do with it than religion. It was he who had first favoured Caldigate’s claim on Hester’s hand, and he who had been most grievously deceived. From the moment in which the conviction had come upon him that Caldigate had even promised his hand in marriage to Euphemia Smith, he had become Caldigate’s enemy,–his bitter enemy; and now he could not endure the thought that he should be called upon again to receive Caldigate as his brother-in-law Caldigate’s guilt was an idea fixed in his mind which no Secretary of State, no Judge Bramber, no brother could expel.
And so it came to pass that there were hard words between him and his brother. ‘You are wrong,’ said William.
‘How wrong? You cannot say that you believe him to be innocent.’
‘If he receives the Queen’s pardon he is to be considered as innocent.’
‘Even though you should know him to have been guilty?’
‘Well,–yes,’ said William, slowly, and perhaps indiscreetly. ‘It is a matter in which a man’s guilt or innocence must be held to depend upon what persons in due authority have declared. As he is now guilty of bigamy in consequence of the verdict, even though he should never have committed the offence, so should he be presumed to be innocent, when that verdict has been set aside by the Queen’s pardon on the advice of her proper officers,–even though he committed the offence.’
‘You would have your sister live with a man who has another wife alive? It comes to that.’
‘For all legal purposes he would have no other wife alive.’
‘The children would be illegitimate.’
‘There you are decidedly wrong,’ said the barrister. ‘The children would be legitimate. Even at this moment, without any pardon, the child could claim and would enter in upon his inheritance.’
‘The next of kin would claim,’ said the attorney.
‘The burden of proving the former marriage would then be on him,’ said the barrister.
‘The verdict would be evidence,’ said the attorney.
‘Certainly,’ said the barrister; ‘but such evidence would not be worth a straw after a Queen’s pardon, given on the advice of the judge who had tried the former case. As yet we know not what the judge may say,–we do not know the facts as they have been expounded to him. But if Caldigate be regarded as innocent by the world at large, it will be our duty so to regard him.’
‘I will never look on him as Hester’s husband,’ said the attorney.
‘I and Fanny have already made up our minds that we would at once ask them to come to us for a month,’ said the barrister.
‘Nothing on earth will induce me to speak to him,’ said the attorney.
‘Then you will be very cruel to Hester,’ said the barrister.
‘It is dreadful to me,’ said the attorney, ‘that you should care so little for your sister’s reputation.’ And so they quarrelled. Robert, leaving the house in great dudgeon, went down on the following morning to Cambridge.
At Puritan Grange the matter was argued rather by rules of religion than of law; but as the rules of law were made by those interested to fit themselves to expediency, so were the rules of religion fitted to prejudice. No hatred could be more bitter than that which Mrs. Bolton felt for the man whom she would permit no one to call her son-in-law. Something as to the postage-stamp and the postmarks was told her; but with a woman’s indomitable obstinacy she closed her mind against all that,–as indeed did also the banker. ‘Is her position in the world to depend upon a postage-stamp?’ said the banker, intending to support his wife. Then she arose in her wrath, and was very eloquent. ‘Her position in the world!’ she said. ‘What does it matter? It is her soul! Though all men and all women should call her a castaway, it would be nothing if the Lord knew her to be guiltless. But she will be living as an adulteress with an adulterer. The law has told her that it is so. She will feel every day and every night that she is a transgressor, and will vainly seek consolation by telling herself that men have pardoned that which God has condemned.’ And again she broke forth. ‘The Queen’s pardon! What right has the Queen to pardon an adulterer who has crept into the bosom of a family and destroyed all that he found there? What sense of justice can any Queen have in her bosom who will send such a one back, to heap sin upon sin, to fasten the bonds of iniquity on the soul of my child?’ Postage-stamps and postmarks and an old envelope! The triviality of the things as compared with the importance of everlasting life made her feel that they were unworthy to be even noticed. It did not occur to her that the presence of a bodkin might be ample evidence of murder. Post-marks indeed,–when her daughter’s everlasting life was the matter in question! Then they told her of Dick Shand. She, too, had heard of Dick Shand. He had been a gambler. So she said,–without much truth. He was known for a drunkard, a spendthrift, a penniless idle ne’er-do-well who had wandered back home without clothes to his back;–which was certainly untrue, as the yellow trousers had been bought at San Francisco;–and now she was told that the hated miscreant was to be released from prison because such a one as this was ready to take an oath! She had a knack of looking on such men,–ne’er-do-wells like Dick Shand and Caldigate,–as human beings who had, as it were, lost their souls before death, so that it was useless to think of them otherwise than as already damned. That Caldigate should become a good, honest, loving husband, or Dick Shand a truth-speaking witness, was to her thinking much more improbable than that a camel should go through the eye of a needle. She would press her lips together and grind her teeth and shake her head when any one about her spoke of a doubt. The man was in prison, at any rate for two years,–locked up safe for so much time, as it might be a wild beast which with infinite trouble had been caged. And now they were talking of undoing the bars and allowing the monster to gorge himself again with his prey!
‘If the Queen were told the truth she would never do it,’ she said to her amazed husband. ‘The Queen is a mother and a woman who kneels in prayer before her Maker. Something should be done, so that the truth may be made known to her.’
To illuminate all the darkness which was betrayed by this appeal to him was altogether beyond Mr. Bolton’s power. He appreciated the depth of the darkness. He knew, for instance, that the Queen herself would in such a matter act so simply in accordance with the advice of some one else, that the pardon, if given, would not in the least depend on her Majesty’s sentiments. To call it the Queen’s pardon was a simple figure of speech. This was manifest to him, and he was driven to endeavour to make it manifest to her. She spoke of a petition to be sent direct to the Queen, and insinuated that Robert Bolton, if he were anything like a real brother, would force himself into her Majesty’s presence. ‘It isn’t the Queen,’ said her husband.
‘It is the Queen. Mercy is the prerogative of the Crown. Even I know as much as that. And she is to be made to believe that this is mercy!’
‘Her Majesty does what her Ministers tell her.’
‘But she wouldn’t if she was told the truth. I do not for a moment believe that she would allow such a man as that to be let loose about the world like a roaring lion if she knew all that you and I know. Mercy indeed!’
‘It won’t be meant for mercy, my dear.’
‘What then? Do you not know that the man has another wife alive,–a wife much more suited to him than our poor darling? Nobody would hear my voice while there was yet time. And so my child, my only one, was taken away from me by her own father and her own brothers, and no one now will exert himself to bring her back to her home!’ The poor old man had had but little comfort in his home since his daughter’s marriage, and was now more miserable than ever.
Then there came a letter from Hester to her mother. Since Mrs. Bolton’s last visit to Folking there had been some correspondence maintained. A few letters had passed, very sad on each side, in which the daughter had assured the mother of her undying love, and in which the mother had declared that day and night she prayed for her child. But of Caldigate, neither on one side nor on the other had mention been made. Now Hester, who was full of hope, and sick with hope deferred, endeavoured to convince her mother that the entire charge against her husband had been proved by new evidence to be false. She recapitulated all the little details with which the diligent reader must by this time be too well acquainted. She made quite clear, as she thought, the infamous plot by which the envelope had been made to give false evidence, and she added the assurance that certainly before long her dear, dearest, ill-used husband would be restored to her. Then she went on to implore her mother’s renewed affection both for herself and him and her boy, promising that bygones should all be bygones; and then she ended by declaring that though the return of her husband would make her very happy, she could not be altogether happy unless her parents also should be restored to her.
To this there came a crushing answer, as follows:—
‘Puritan Grange, _28th September_.’
‘Dearest Hester,–It was unnecessary that you should ask for a renewal of your mother’s love. There has never been a moment in which she has not loved you,–more dearly, I fear, than one human creature should ever love another. When I was strongest in opposing you, I did so from love. When I watched you in the hall all those hours, endeavouring to save you from further contact with the man who had injured you, I did it from love. You need not doubt my love.
‘But as to all the rest, I cannot agree to a word that you say. They are plotting with false evidence to rescue the man from prison. I will not give way to it when my soul tells me that it is untrue. As your mother, I can only implore you to come back to me, and to save yourself from the further evil which is coming upon you. It may be that he will be enabled to escape, and then you will again have to live with a husband that is no husband,–unless you will listen to your mother’s words.
‘You are thinking of the good things of this world,–of a home with all luxuries and ease, and of triumph over those who, for the good of your soul, have hitherto marred your worldly joys. Is it thus that you hope to win that crown of everlasting life which you have been taught to regard as the one thing worthy of a Christian’s struggles? Is it not true that, since that wretched day on which you were taken away from me, you have allowed your mind to pass from thoughts of eternity to longings after vain joys in this bitter, fruitless vale of tears? If that be so, can he who has so encouraged you have been good to you? Do you remember David’s words; “Some trust in chariots, and some in horses; but we will remember the name of the Lord our God”? And then, again; “They are brought down and fallen; but we are risen and stand upright.” Ask yourself whether you have stood upright or have fallen, since you left your father’s house; whether you have trusted in the Lord your God, or in horses and chariots,–that is, in the vain comforts of an easy life? If it be so, can it be for your good that you have left your father’s house? And should you not accept this scourge that has fallen upon you as a healing balm from the hands of the Lord?
‘My child, I have no other answer to send you. That I love you till my very bowels yearn after you is most true. But I cannot profess to believe a lie, or declare that to be good which I know to be evil.
‘May the Lord bless you, and turn your feet aright, and restore you to your loving mother,
‘Mary Bolton.’
When Hester read this she was almost crushed. The delay since the new tidings had come to her had not, in truth, been very great. It was not yet quite a month since Shand had been at Folking, and a shorter period since the discoveries of Bagwax had been explained to her. But the days seemed to her to be very long; and day after day she thought that on that day at least the news of his promised release would be brought to her. And now, instead of these news, there came this letter from her mother, harder almost in its words than any words which had hitherto been either written or spoken in the matter. Even when all the world should have declared him innocent,–when the Queen, and the great officer of State, and that stern judge, should have said that he was innocent,–even then her cruel mother would refuse to receive him! She had been invited to ask herself certain questions as to the state of her soul, and as to the teaching she had received since her marriage. The subject is one on which there is no possible means of convergence between persons who have learned to differ. Her mother’s allusions to chariots and horses was to her the enthusiasm of a fanatic. No doubt, teaching had come to her from her husband, but it had come at the period of life at which such lessons are easily learned. ‘Brought down and fallen!’ she said to herself. ‘Yes, we are all brought down and fallen;’ for she had not at all discarded the principles of her religious faith;–‘but a woman will hardly raise herself by being untrue to her husband.’ She, too, yearned for her mother;–but there was never a moment’s doubt in her mind to which she would cling if at last it should become necessary that one should be cast off.
Mrs. Bolton, when the letter had been despatched, sat brooding over it in deep regret mixed with deeper anger. She was preparing for herself an awful tragedy. She must be severed for ever from her daughter, and so severed with the opinion of all her neighbours against her! But what was all that if she had done right? Or of what service to her would be the contrary if she were herself to think,–nay, to know,–that she had done wrong?
Chapter LVII
Squire Caldigate at the Home Office
When October came no information from the Secretary of State’s office had yet reached Folking, and the two inhabitants there were becoming almost despondent as well as impatient. There was nobody with whom they could communicate. Sir John Joram had been obliged to answer a letter from the squire by saying that, as soon as there was anything to tell the tidings would assuredly be communicated to him from the Home Office. The letter had seemed to be cold and almost uncivil; but Sir John had in truth said all that he could say. To raise hopes which, after all, might be fallacious, would have been, on his part, a great fault. Nor, in spite of his bet, was he very sanguine, sharing his friend Honybun’s opinion as to Judge Bramber’s obstinacy. And there was a correspondence between the elder Caldigate and the Home Office, in which the letters from the squire were long and well argued, whereas the replies, which always came by return of post, were short and altogether formal. Some assistant under-secretary would sign his name at the end of three lines, in which the correspondent was informed that as soon as the matter was settled the result would be communicated.
Who does not know the sense of aggravated injustice which comes upon a sufferer when redress for an acknowledged evil is delayed? The wronged one feels that the whole world must be out of joint in that all the world does not rise up in indignation. So it was with the old squire, who watched Hester’s cheek becoming paler day by day, and who knew by her silence that the strong hopes which in his presence had been almost convictions were gradually giving way to a new despair. Then he would abuse the Secretary of State, say hard things of the Queen, express his scorn as to the fatuous absurdities of the English law, and would make her understand by his anger that he also was losing hope.
During these days preparations were being made for the committal of Crinkett and Euphemia Smith, nor would Judge Bramber report to the Secretary till he was convinced that there was sufficient evidence for their prosecution. It was not much to him that Caldigate should spend another week in prison. The condition of Hester did not even come beneath his ken. When he found allusion to it in the papers before him, he treated it as a matter which should not have been adduced,–in bringing which under his notice there had been something akin to contempt of court, as though an endeavour had been made to talk him over in private. He knew his own character, and was indignant that such an argument should have been used with himself. He was perhaps a little more slow,–something was added to his deliberation,–because he was told that a young wife and an infant child were anxiously expecting the liberation of the husband and father. It was not as yet clear to Judge Bramber that the woman had any such husband, or that the child could claim his father.
At this crisis, when the first weeks in October had dragged themselves tediously along, Mr. Caldigate, in a fit which was half rage and half moodiness, took himself off to London. He did not tell Hester that he was going till the morning on which he started, and then simply assured her that she should hear from him by every post till he returned.
‘You will tell me the truth, father.’
‘If I know it myself, I will tell you.’
‘But you will conceal nothing?’
‘No;–I will conceal nothing. If I find that they are all utterly unjust, altogether hard-hearted, absolutely indifferent to the wrong they have done, I will tell you even that.’ And thus he went.
He had hardly any fixed purpose in going. He knew that Sir John Joram was not in London, and that if he were in town he ought not to be made subject to visits on behalf of clients. To call upon any judge in such a matter would be altogether out of place, but to call upon such a judge as Judge Bramber would be very vain indeed. He had in his head some hazy idea of forcing an answer from the officials in Downing Street; but in his heart he did not believe that he should be able to get beyond the messengers. He was one of a class, not very small in numbers, who, from cultivating within their bosom a certain tendency towards suspicion, have come to think that all Government servants are idle, dilatory, supercilious and incompetent. That some of these faults may have existed among those who took wages from the Crown in the time of George III. is perhaps true. And the memory of those times has kept alive the accusation. The vitality of these prejudices calls to mind the story of the Nottinghamshire farmer who, when told of the return of Charles II., asked what had become of Charles I. Naseby, Worcester, and the fatal day at Whitehall had not yet reached him. Tidings of these things had only been approaching him during these twelve years. The true character of the Civil Service is only now approaching the intelligence of those who are still shaking their heads over the delinquencies of the last century. But old Mr. Caldigate was a man peculiarly susceptible to such hard judgments. From the crown down to the black helmet worn by the policeman who was occasionally to be seen on Folking causeway, he thought that all such headpieces were coverings for malpractices. The bishop’s wig had, he thought, disappeared as being too ridiculous for the times; but even for the judge’s wig he had no respect. Judge Bramber was to him simply pretentious, and a Secretary of State no better than any other man. In this frame of mind how was it probable that he should do any good at the Home Office?
But in this frame of mind he went to the Home Office, and asked boldly for the great man. It was then eleven o’clock in the morning and neither had the great man, nor even any of the deputy great men, as yet made their appearance. Mr. Caldigate of course fell back upon his old opinion as to public functionaries, and, mentally, applied opprobrious epithets to men who, taking the public pay, could not be at their posts an hour before mid-day. He was not aware that the great man and the first deputy great man were sitting in the House of Commons at 2 A.M. on that morning, and that the office generally was driven by the necessity of things to accommodate itself to Parliamentary exigencies.
Then he was asked his business. How could he explain to a messenger that his son had been unjustly convicted of bigamy and was now in prison as a criminal? So he left his card and said that he would call again at two.
At that hour precisely he appeared again and was told that the great man himself could not see him. Then he nearly boiled over in his wrath, while the messenger, with all possible courtesy, went on to explain that one of the deputies was ready to receive him. The deputy was the Honourable Septimus Brown, of whom it may be said that the Home Office was so proud that it considered itself to be superior to all other public offices whatever simply because it possessed Brown. He had been there for forty years, and for many sessions past had been the salvation of Parliamentary secretaries and under-secretaries. He was the uncle of an earl, and the brother-in-law of a duke and a marquis. Not to know Brown was, at the West End, simply to be unknown. Brooks’s was proud of him; and without him the ‘Travellers” would not have been such a Travellers’ as it is. But Mr. Caldigate, when he was told that Mr. Brown would see him, almost left the lobby in instant disgust. When he asked who was Mr. Brown, there came a muttered reply in which ‘permanent’ was the only word audible to him. He felt that were he to go away in dudgeon simply because Brown was the name of the man whom he was called upon to see, he would put himself in the wrong. He would by so doing close his own mouth against complaint, which, to Mr. Caldigate, would indeed have been a cutting of his own nose off his own face. With a scowl, therefore he consented to be taken away to Mr. Brown.
He was, in the first place, somewhat scared by the room into which he was shown, which was very large and very high. There were two clerks with Mr. Brown, who vanished, however, as soon as the squire entered the room. It seemed that Mr. Brown was certainly of some standing in the office, or he would not have had two arm-chairs and a sofa in his room. Mr. Caldigate, when he first consented to see Mr. Brown, had expected to be led into an uncarpeted chamber where there would have been half-a-dozen other clerks.
‘I have your card, Mr. Caldigate,’ said the official. ‘No doubt you have called in reference to your son.’
The squire had determined to be very indignant,–very indignant even with the Secretary of State himself, to whose indifference he attributed the delay which had occurred;–but almost more than indignant when he found that he was to be fobbed off with Mr. Brown. But there was something in the gentleman’s voice which checked his indignation. There was something in Mr. Brown’s eye, a mixture of good-humour and authority, which made him feel that he ought not to be angry with the gentleman till he was quite sure of the occasion. Mr. Brown was a handsome hale old man with grey whiskers and greyish hair, with a well-formed nose and a broad forehead carefully dressed with a light waistcoat and a checked linen cravat, wearing a dark-blue frockcoat, and very well made boots,–an old man, certainly, but who looked as though old age must naturally be the happiest time of life. When a man’s digestion is thoroughly good and his pockets adequately filled, it probably is so. Such were the circumstances of Mr. Brown, who, as the squire looked at him, seemed to partake more of the nature of his nephew and brothers-in-law than of the Browns generally.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr. Caldigate; ‘I have called about my son who, I think I may undertake to say, has been wrongly condemned, and is now wrongly retained in prison.’
‘You beg all the questions, Mr. Caldigate,’ said the permanent under-secretary, with a smile.
‘I maintain that what you call the questions are now so clearly proved as not to admit of controversy. No one can deny that a conspiracy was got up against my son.’
‘I shall not deny it, certainly, Mr. Caldigate. But in truth I know very little or nothing about it.’ The squire, who had been seated, rose from his chair,–as in wrath,–about to pour forth his indignation. Why was he treated in this way,–he who was there on a subject of such tragic interest to him? When all the prospects, reputation, and condition of his son were at stake, he was referred to a gentleman who began by telling him that he knew nothing about the matter! ‘If you will sit down for a moment, Mr. Caldigate, I will explain all that can be explained,’ said Mr. Brown, who was weather-wise in such matters, and had seen the signs of a coming storm.
‘Certainly I will sit down.’
‘In such cases as this the Secretary of State never sees those who are interested. It is not right that he should do so.’
‘There might be somebody to do so.’
‘But not somebody who has been concerned in the inquiry. The Secretary of State, if he saw you, could only refuse to impart to you any portion of the information which he himself may possess, because it cannot be right that he should give an opinion in the matter while he himself is in doubt. You may be sure that he will open his mouth to no one except to those from whom he may seek assistance, till he has been enabled to advise her Majesty that her Majesty’s pardon should be given or refused.’
‘When will that be?’
‘I am afraid that I cannot name a day. You, Mr. Caldigate, are, I know, a gentleman of position in your county and a magistrate. Cannot you understand how minutely facts must be investigated when a Minister of the Crown is called upon to accept the responsibility of either upsetting or confirming the verdict of a jury?’
‘The facts are as clear as daylight.’
‘If they be so, your son will soon be a free man.’
‘If you could feel what his wife suffers in the meantime!’
‘Though I did feel it,–though we all felt it; as probably we do, for though we be officials still we are men,–how should that help us? You would not have a man pardoned because his wife suffers!’
‘Knowing how she suffered, I do not think I should let much grass grow under my feet while I was making the inquiry.’
‘I hope there is no such grass grows here. The truth is, Mr. Caldigate, that, as a rule, no person coming here on such an errand as yours is received at all. The Secretary of State cannot, either in his own person or in that of those who are under him, put himself in communication with the friends of individuals who are under sentence. I am sure that you, as a man conversant with the laws, must see the propriety of such a rule.’
‘I think I have a right to express my natural anxiety.’
‘I will not deny it. The post is open to you, and though I fear that our replies may not be considered altogether satisfactory, we do give our full attention to the letters we receive. When I heard that you had been here, and had expressed an intention of returning, from respect to yourself personally I desired that you might be shown into my room. But I could not have done that had it not been that I myself have not been concerned in this matter.’ Then he got up from his seat, and Mr. Caldigate found himself compelled to leave the room with thanks rather than with indignation.
He walked out of the big building into Downing Street, and down the steps into the park. And going into the gardens, he wandered about them for more than an hour, sometimes walking slowly along the water-side, and then seating himself for a while on one of the benches. What must he say to Hester in the letter which he must write as soon as he was back at his hotel? He tried to sift some wheat out of what he was pleased to call the chaff of Mr. Brown’s courtesy. Was there not some indication to be found in it of what the result might be? If there were any such indication, it was, he thought, certainly adverse to his son. In whose bosom might be the ultimate decision,–whether in that of the Secretary, or the judge, or of some experienced clerk in the Secretary’s office,–it was manifest that the facts which had now been proven to the world at large for many days, had none of the effects on that bosom which they had on his own. Could it be that Shand was false, that Bagwax was false, that the postage-stamp was false,–and that he only believed them to be true? Was it possible that after all his son had married the woman? He crept back to his hotel in Jermyn Street, and there he wrote his letter.
‘I think I shall be home to-morrow, but I will not say so for certain. I have been at the Home Office, but they would tell me nothing. A man was very civil to me, but explained that he was civil only because he knew nothing about the case. I think I shall call on Mr. Bagwax at the Post-office to-morrow, and after that return to Folking. Send in for the day-mail letters, and then you will hear from me again if I mean to stay.’
At ten o’clock on the following day he was at the Post-office, and there he found Bagwax prepared to take his seat exactly at that hour. Thereupon he resolved, with true radical impetuosity, that Bagwax was a much better public servant than Mr. Brown. ‘Well, Mr. Caldigate,–so we’ve got it all clear at last,’ said Bagwax.
There was a triumph in the tone of the clerk’s voice which was not intelligible to the despondent old squire. ‘It is not at all clear to me,’ he said.
‘Of course you’ve heard?’
‘Heard what? I know all about the postage-stamp, of course.’
‘If Secretaries of State and judges of the Court of Queen’s Bench only had their wits about them, the postage-stamp ought to have been quite sufficient,’ said Bagwax, sententiously.
‘What more is there?’
‘For the sake of letting the world know what can be done in our department, it is a pity that there should be anything more.’
‘But there is something. For God’s sake tell me, Mr. Bagwax.’
‘You haven’t heard that they caught Crinkett just as he was leaving Plymouth?’
‘Not a word.’
‘And the woman. They’ve got the lot of ’em, Mr. Caldigate. Adamson and the other woman have agreed to give evidence, and are to be let go.’
‘When did you hear it?’
‘Well;–it is in the “Daily Tell-tale.” But I knew it last night,–from a particular source. I have been a good deal thrown in with Scotland Yard since this began, Mr. Caldigate, and, of course, I hear things.’ Then it occurred to the squire that perhaps he had flown a little too high in going at once to the Home Office. They might have told him more, perhaps, in Scotland Yard. ‘But it’s all true. The depositions have already been made. Adamson and Young have sworn that they were present at no marriage. Crinkett they say, means to plead guilty; but the woman sticks to it like wax.’
The squire had written a letter by the day-mail to say that he would remain in London that further day. He now wrote again, at the Post-office, telling Hester all that Bagwax had told him, and declaring his purpose of going at once to Scotland Yard.
If this story were true, then certainly his son would soon be liberated.
Chapter LVIII
Mr. Smirkie Is Ill-used
It was on a Tuesday that Mr. Caldigate made his visit to the Home Office, and on the Thursday he returned to Cambridge. On the platform whom should he meet but his brother-in-law Squire Babington, who had come into Cambridge that morning intent on hearing something further about his nephew. He, too, had read a paragraph in his newspaper, ‘The Snapper,’ as to Crinkett and Euphemia Smith.
‘Thomas Crinkett, and Euphemia Smith, who gave evidence against Mr. John Caldigate in the well-known trial at the last Cambridge assizes, have been arrested at Plymouth just as they were about to leave the country for New Zealand. These are the persons to whom it was proved that Caldigate had paid the enormous sum of twenty thousand pounds a few days before the trial. It is alleged that they are to be indicted for perjury. If this be true, it implies the innocence of Mr. Caldigate, who, as our readers will remember, was convicted of bigamy. There will be much in the whole case for Mr. Caldigate to regret, but nothing so much as the loss of that very serious sum of money. It would be idle to deny that it was regarded by the jury, and the judge, and the public as a bribe to the witnesses. Why it should have been paid will now probably remain for ever a mystery.’
The squire read this over three times before he could quite understand the gist of it, and at last perceived thought that he perceived,–that if this were true the innocence of his nephew was incontestable But Julia, who seemed to prefer the paternal mansion at Babington to her own peculiar comforts and privileges at Plum-cum-Pippins, declared that she didn’t believe a word of it; and aunt Polly, whose animosity to her nephew had somewhat subsided, was not quite inclined to accept the statement at once. Aunt Polly expressed an opinion that newspapers were only born to lie, but added that had she seen the news anywhere else she would not have been a bit surprised. The squire was prepared to swear by the tidings. If such a thing was not to be put into a newspaper, where was it to be put? Aunt Polly could not answer this question, but assisted in persuading her husband to go into Cambridge for further information.
‘I hope this is true,’ said the Suffolk squire, tendering his hand cordially to his brother-in-law. He was a man who could throw all his heart into an internecine quarrel on a Monday and forget the circumstance altogether on the Tuesday.
‘Of what are you speaking?’ asked the squire of Folking, with his usual placid look, partly indifferent and partly sarcastic, covering so much contempt of which the squire from Suffolk was able to read nothing at all.
‘About the man and the woman, the witnesses who are to be put in prison at Plymouth, and who now say just the contrary to what they said before.’
‘I do not think that can be true,’ said Mr. Caldigate.
‘Then you haven’t seen the “Snapper”?’ asked Mr. Babington, dragging the paper out of his pocket. ‘Look at that.’
They were now in a cab together, going towards the town, and Mr. Caldigate did not find it convenient to read the paragraph. But of course he knew the contents. ‘It is quite true,’ he said, ‘that the persons you allude to have been arrested, and that they are up in London. They will, I presume, be tried for perjury.’
‘It is true?’
‘There is no doubt of it.’
‘And the party are splitting against each other?’ asked Mr. Babington eagerly.
‘Two of them have already sworn that what they swore before was false.’
‘Then why don’t they let him out?’
‘Why not, indeed?’ said Mr. Caldigate.
‘I should have thought they wouldn’t have lost a moment in such a case. They’ve got one of the best fellows in the world at the Home Office. His name is Brown. If you could have seen Brown I’m sure he wouldn’t have let them delay a minute. The Home Office has the reputation of being so very quick.’
In answer to this the squire of Folking only shook his head. He would not even condescend to say that he had seen Brown, and certainly not to explain that Brown had seemed to him to be the most absurdly-cautious and courteously-dilatory man that he had ever met in his life. In Trumpington Street they parted, Mr. Caldigate proceeding at once to Folking, and Mr. Babington going to the office of Mr. Seely the attorney. ‘He’ll be out in a day or two,’ said the man of Suffolk, again shaking his brother-in-law’s hand; ‘and do you tell him from me that I hope it won’t be long before we see him at Babington. I’ve been true to him almost from the first, and his aunt has come over now. There is no one against him but Julia, and these are things of course which young women won’t forget.’
Mr. Caldigate almost became genial as he accepted this assurance, telling himself that his brother magistrate was as honest as he was silly.
Mr. Babington, who was well known in Cambridge asked many questions of many persons. From Mr. Seely he heard but little. Mr. Seely had heard of the arrest made at Plymouth, but did not quite know what to think about it. If it was all square, then he supposed his client must after all be innocent. But this went altogether against the grain with Mr. Seely. ‘If it be so, Mr. Babington,’ he said, ‘I shall always think the paying away of that twenty thousand pounds the greatest miracle I ever came across.’ Nevertheless, Mr. Seely did believe that the two witnesses had been arrested on a charge of perjury.
The squire then went to the governor of the jail, who had been connected with him many years as a county magistrate. The governor had heard nothing, received no information as to his prisoner from any one in authority; but quite believed the story as to Crinkett and the woman. ‘Perhaps you had better not see him, Mr. Babington,’ said the governor, ‘as he has heard nothing as yet of all this. It would not be right to tell him till we know what it will come to.’ Assenting to this, Mr. Babington took his leave with the conviction on his mind that the governor was quite prepared to receive an order for the liberation of his prisoner.
He did not dare to go to Robert Bolton’s office, but he did call at the bank. ‘We have heard nothing about it, Mr. Babington,’ said the old clerk over the counter. But then the old clerk added in a whisper, ‘None of the family take to the news, sir; but everybody else seems to think there is a great deal in it. If he didn’t marry her I suppose he ought to be let out.’
‘I should think he ought,’ said the squire, indignantly as he left the bank.
Thus fortified by what he considered to be the general voice of Cambridge, he returned the same evening to Babington. Cambridge, including Mr. Caldigate, had been unanimous in believing the report. And if the report were true, then, certainly, was his nephew innocent. As he thought of this, some appropriate idea of the injustice of the evil done to the man and to the man’s wife came upon him. If such were the treatment to which he and she had been subjected,–if he, innocent, had been torn away from her and sent to the common jail, and if she, certainly innocent, had been wrongly deprived for a time of the name which he had honestly given her,–then would it not have been right to open to her the hearts and the doors at Babington during the period of her great distress? As he thought of this he was so melted by ruth that a tear came into each of his old eyes. Then he remembered the attempt which had been made to catch this man for Julia–as to which he certainly had been innocent,–and his daughter’s continued wrath. That a woman should be wrathful in such a matter was natural to him. He conceived that it behoved a woman to be weak, irascible, affectionate, irrational, and soft-hearted. When Julia would be loud in condemnation of her cousin, and would pretend to commiserate the woes of the poor wife who had been left in Australia, though he knew the source of these feelings, he could not be in the least angry with her. But that was not at all the state of his mind in reference to his son-in-law Augustus Smirkie. Sometimes, as he had heard Mr. Smirkie inveigh against the enormity of bigamy and of this bigamist in particular, he had determined that some ‘odd-come-shortly,’ as he would call it, he would give the vicar of Plum-cum-Pippins a moral pat on the head which should silence him for a time. At the present moment when he got into his carriage at the station to be taken home, he was not sure whether or no he should find the vicar at Babington. Since their marriage, Mr. Smirkie had spent much of his time at Babington, and seemed to like the Babington claret. He would come about the middle of the week and return on the Saturday evening, in a manner which the squire could hardly reconcile with all that he had heard as to Mr. Smirkie’s exemplary conduct in his own parish. The squire was hospitality itself, and certainly would never have said a word to make his house other than pleasant to his own girl’s husband. But a host expects that his corns should be respected, whereas Mr. Smirkie was always treading on Mr. Babington’s toes. Hints had been given to him as to his personal conduct which he did not take altogether in good part. His absence from afternoon service had been alluded to, and it had been suggested to him that he ought sometimes to be more careful as to his language. He was not, therefore ill-disposed to resent on the part of Mr. Smirkie the spirit of persecution with which that gentleman seemed to regard his nephew. ‘Is Mr. Smirkie in the house,’ he asked the coachman. ‘He came by the 3.40, as usual,’ said the man. It was very much ‘as usual,’ thought the squire.
‘There isn’t a doubt about it,’ said the squire to his wife as he was dressing. ‘The poor fellow is as innocent as you.’
‘He can’t be,–innocent,’ said aunt Polly.
‘If he never married the woman whom they say he married he can’t be guilty.’
‘I don’t know about that, my dear.’
‘He either did marry her or he didn’t, I suppose.’
‘I don’t say he married her, but,–he did worse.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ said the squire.
‘That may be your way of thinking of it. According to my idea of what is right and what is wrong, he did a great deal worse.’
‘But if he didn’t marry that woman he didn’t commit bigamy when he married this one,’ argued he, energetically.
‘Still he may have deserved all he got.’
‘No; he mayn’t. You wouldn’t punish a man for murder because he doesn’t pay his debts.’
‘I won’t have it that he’s innocent,’ said Mrs. Babington.
‘Who the devil is, if you come to that?’
‘You are not, or you wouldn’t talk in that way. I’m not saying anything now against John. If he didn’t marry the woman I suppose they’ll let him out of prison, and I for one shall be willing to take him by the hand; but to say he’s innocent is what I won’t put up with!’
‘He has sown his wild oats, and he’s none the worse for that. He’s as good as the rest of us, I dare say.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said the wife. ‘I don’t suppose you mean to tell me that in the eyes of the Creator he is as good a man as Augustus.’
‘Augustus be—-.’ The word was spoken with great energy. Mrs. Babington at the moment was employed in sewing a button on the wristband of her husband’s shirt, and in the start which she gave stuck the needle into his arm.
‘Humphrey!’ exclaimed the agitated lady.
‘I beg your pardon, but not his,’ said the squire, rubbing the wound. ‘If he says a word more about John Caldigate in my presence, I shall tell him what I think about it. He has got his wife, and that ought to be enough for him.’
After that they went down-stairs and dinner was at once announced. There was Mr. Smirkie to give an arm to his mother-in-law. The squire took his married daughter while the other two followed. As they crossed the hall Julia whispered her cousin’s name, but her father bade her be silent for the present ‘I was sure it was not true,’ said Mrs. Smirkie.
‘Then you’re quite wrong,’ said the squire, ‘for it’s as true as the Gospel.’ Then there was no more said about John Caldigate till the servants had left the room.
Mr. Smirkie’s general appreciation of the good things provided, did not on this occasion give the owner of them that gratification which a host should feel in the pleasures of his guests. He ate a very good dinner and took his wine with a full appreciation of its merits. Such an appetite on the part of his friends was generally much esteemed by the squire of Babington, who was apt to press the bottle upon those who sat with him, in the old-fashioned manner. At the present moment he eyed his son-in-law’s enjoyments with a feeling akin to disappointment. There was a habit at Babington with the ladies of sitting with the squire when he was the only man present till he had finished his wine, and, at Mrs. Smirkie’s instance, this custom was continued when she and her husband were at the house. Fires had been commenced, and when the dinner-things had been taken away they clustered round the hearth. The squire himself sat silent in his place, out of humour, knowing that the peculiar subject would be introduced, and determined to make himself disagreeable.
‘Papa, won’t you bring your chair round?’ said one of the girls who was next to him. Whereupon he did move his chair an inch or two.
‘Did you hear anything about John?’ said the other unmarried sister.
‘Yes, I heard about him. You can’t help hearing about him in Cambridge now. All the world is talking about him.’
‘And what does all the world say?’ asked Julia, flippantly. To this question her father at first made no answer. ‘Whatever the world may say, I cannot alter my opinion,’ continued Julia. ‘I shall never be able to look upon John Caldigate and Hester Bolton as man and wife in the sight of God.’
‘I might just as well take upon myself to say that I didn’t look upon you and Smirkie as man and wife in the sight of God.’
‘Papa!’ screamed the married daughter.
‘Sir!’ ejaculated the married son-in-law.
‘My dear, that is a strange thing to say of your own child,’ whispered the mother.
‘Most strange!’ said Julia, lifting both her hands up in an agony.
‘But it’s true,’ roared the squire. ‘She says that, let the law say what it may, these people are not to be regarded as man and wife.’
‘Not by me,’ said Julia.
‘Who are you that you are to set up a tribunal of your own? And if you judge of another couple in that way, why isn’t some one to judge of you after the same fashion?’
‘There is the verdict,’ said Mr. Smirkie. ‘No verdict has pronounced me a bigamist.’
‘But it might for anything I know,’ said the squire, angrily. ‘Some woman might come up in Plum-cum-Pippins and say you had married her before your first wife.’
‘Papa, you are very disagreeable,’ said Julia.
‘Why shouldn’t there be a wicked lie told in one place as well as in another? There has been a wicked lie told here; and when the lie is proved to have been a lie, as plain as the nose on your face, he is to tell me that he won’t believe the young folk to be man and wife because of an untrue verdict! I say they are man and wife;–as good a man and wife as you and he;–and let me see who’ll refuse to meet them as such in my house?’
Mr. Smirkie had not, in truth, made the offensive remark. It had been made by Mrs. Smirkie. But it had suited the squire to attribute it to the clergyman. Mr. Smirkie was now put upon his mettle, and was obliged either to agree or to disagree. He would have preferred the former, had he not been somewhat in awe of his wife. As it was, he fell back upon the indiscreet assertion which his father-in-law had made some time back. ‘I, at any rate, sir, have not had a verdict against me.’
‘What does that signify?’
‘A great deal, I should say. A verdict, no doubt, is human, and therefore may be wrong.’
‘So is a marriage human.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir;–a marriage is divine.’
‘Not if it isn’t a marriage. Your marriage in our church wouldn’t have been divine if you’d had another wife alive.’
‘Papa, I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘But I shall. I’ve got to hammer it into his head somehow.’
Mr. Smirkie drew himself up and grinned bravely. But the squire did not care for his frowns. That last backhander at the claret-jug had determined him. ‘John Caldigate’s marriage with his wife was not in the least interfered with by the verdict.’
‘It took away the lady’s name from her at once,’ said the indignant clergyman.
‘That’s just what it didn’t do,’ said the squire, rising from his chair;–‘of itself it didn’t affect her name at all. And now that it is shown to have been a mistaken verdict, it doesn’t affect her position. The long and the short of it is this, that anybody who doesn’t like to meet him and his wife as honoured guests in my house had better stay away. Do you hear that, Julia?’ Then without waiting for an answer he walked out before them all into the drawing-room and not another word was said that night about the matter. Mr. Smirkie, indeed, did not utter a word on any subject, till at an early hour he wished them all good-night with dignified composure.
Chapter LIX
How The Big-Wigs Doubted
It’s what I call an awful shame.’ Mr. Holt and parson Bromley were standing together on the causeway at Folking, and the former was speaking. The subject under discussion was, of course, the continued detention of John Caldigate in the county prison.
‘I cannot at all understand it,’ said Mr. Bromley.
‘There’s no understanding nothing about it, sir. Every man, woman, and child in the county knows as there wasn’t no other marriage, and yet they won’t let ‘un out. It’s sheer spite, because he wouldn’t vote for their man last ‘lection.’
‘I hardly think that, Mr. Holt.’
‘I’m as sure of it as I stands here,’ said Mr. Holt, slapping his thigh. ‘What else ‘d they keep ‘un in for? It’s just like their ways.’
Mr. Holt was one of a rare class, being a liberal farmer,–a Liberal, that is, in politics; as was also Mr. Bromley, a Liberal among parsons,–_rava avis._ The Caldigates had always been Liberal, and Mr. Holt had been brought up to agree with his landlord. He was now beyond measure acerbated, because John Caldigate had not been as yet declared innocent on evidence which was altogether conclusive to himself The Conservatives were now in power, and nothing seemed so natural to Mr. Holt as that the Home Secretary should keep his landlord in jail because the Caldigates were Liberals. Mr. Bromley could not quite agree to this, but he also was of opinion that a great injustice was being done. He was in the habit of seeing the young wife almost daily, and knew the havoc which hope turned into despair was making with her. Another week had now gone by since the old squire had been up in town, and nothing yet had been heard from the Secretary of State. All the world knew that Crinkett and Euphemia Smith were in custody, and still no tidings came,–yet the husband, convicted on the evidence of these perjurers, was detained in prison!
Hope deferred maketh the heart sick, and Hester’s heart was very sick within her. ‘Why do they not tell me something?’ she said when her father-in-law vainly endeavoured to comfort her. Why not, indeed? He could only say hard things of the whole system under which the perpetration of so great a cruelty was possible, and reiterate his opinion that, in spite of that system, they must, before long, let his son go free.
The delay in truth was not at the Home Office. Judge Bramber could not as yet quite make up his mind. It is hoped that the reader has made up his, but the reader knows somewhat more than the judge knew. Crinkett had confessed nothing,–though a rumour had got abroad that he intended to plead guilty. Euphemia Smith was constant in her assertion to all those who came near her, that she had positively been married to the man at Ahalala. Adamson and Anna Young were ready now to swear that all which they had sworn before was false; but it was known to the police that they had quarrelled bitterly as to the division of the spoil ever since the money had been paid to the ring-leaders. It was known that Anna Young had succeeded in getting nothing from the other woman, and that the man had unwillingly accepted his small share, fearing that otherwise he might get nothing. They were not trustworthy witnesses, and it was very doubtful whether the other two could be convicted on their evidence. The judge, as he turned it all over in his mind, was by no means sure that the verdict was a mistaken verdict. It was at any rate a verdict. It was a decision constitutionally arrived at from a jury. This sending back of the matter to him hardly was constitutional.
It was abhorrent to his nature,–not that a guilty man should escape, which he knew to be an affair occurring every day,–but that a guilty man, who had been found to be guilty, should creep back through the meshes of the law. He knew how many chances were given by the practice of British courts to an offender on his trial, and he was quite in favour of those chances. He would be urgent in telling a jury to give the prisoner the benefit of a doubt. But when the transgressor, with all those loopholes stopped, stood before him convicted, then he felt a delight in the tightness of the grip with which he held the wretch, and would tell himself that the world in which he lived was not as yet all astray, in that a guilty man could still be made to endure the proper reward of his guilt.
It was with him as when a hunter has hunted a fox after the approved laws of venery. There have been a dozen ways of killing the animal of which he has scorned to avail himself. He has been careful to let him break from his covert, regarding all who would stop him as enemies to himself. It has been a point of honour with him that the animal should suffer no undue impediment. Any ill-treatment shown to the favoured one in his course, is an injury done to the hunter himself. Let no man head the fox, let no man strive to drive him back upon the hounds. Let all be done by hunting law,–in accordance with those laws which give so many chances of escape. But when the hounds have run into their quarry, not all the eloquence of all the gods should serve to save that doomed one’s life.
So it was with Judge Bramber and a convicted prisoner. He would give the man the full benefit of every quibble of the law till he was convicted. He would be severe on witnesses, harsh to the police, apparently a very friend to the man standing at the bar,–till the time came for him to array the evidence before the jury. Then he was inexorable; and when the verdict had been once pronounced, the prisoner was but as a fox about to be thrown to the hounds.
And now there was a demand that this particular fox should be put back into his covert! The Secretary of State could put him back, if he thought fit. But in these matters there was so often a touch of cowardice. Why did not the Secretary do it without asking him? There had arisen no question of law. There was no question as to the propriety of the verdict as found upon the evidence given at the trial. The doubt which had arisen since had come from further evidence, of which the Secretary was as well able to judge as he. No doubt the case was difficult. There had been gross misdoing on both sides. But if Caldigate had not married the woman, why had he paid those twenty thousands? Why had he written those words on the envelope? There was doubt enough now, but the time for giving the prisoner the benefit of the doubt was gone. The fox had been fairly hunted, and Judge Bramber thought that he had better die.
But he hesitated;–and while he was hesitating there came to him a little reminder, a most gentle hint, in the shape of a note from the Secretary of State’s private secretary. The old squire’s visit to the office had not seemed to himself to be satisfactory but he had made a friend for himself in Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown looked into the matter, and was of opinion that it would be well to pardon the young man. Even though there had been some jumping over a broomstick at Ahalala, why should things not be made comfortable here at home? What harm would a pardon do to any one?–whereas there were so many whom it would make happy. So he asked the Secretary whether that wasn’t a hard case of young Caldigate. The Secretary whispered that it was in Bramber’s hands, upon which Mr. Brown observed that, if so, it was certainly hard. But the conversation was not altogether thrown away, for on that afternoon the private secretary wrote his note.
Judge Bramber when he received the note immediately burned it,–and this he did with considerable energy of action. If they would send him such cases as that, what right had they to remind him of his duty? He was not going to allow any private secretary or any Secretary of State, to hurry him! There was no life or death in this matter. Of what importance was it that so manifest an evil-doer as this young Caldigate should remain in prison a day or two more,–a man who had attempted to bribe four witnesses by twenty thousand pounds? It was an additional evil that such a one should have such a sum for such a purpose. But still he felt that there was a duty thrown upon him; and he sat down with all the papers before him, determined to make up his mind before he rose from his chair.
He did make up his mind, but did so at last by referring back the responsibility to the Secretary of State. ‘The question is one altogether of evidence,’ he said, ‘and not of law. Any clear-headed man is as able to reach a true decision as I am. It is such a question as should be left to a jury,–and would justify a trial on appeal if that were practicable. It would be well that the case should stand over till Thomas Crinkett and Euphemia Smith shall have been tried for perjury, which, as I understand, will take place at the next winter assizes. If the Secretary of State thinks that the delay would be too long, I would humbly suggest that he should take her Majesty’s pleasure in accordance with his own opinion as to the evidence.’
When that document was read at the Home Office by the few who were privileged to read it, they knew that Judge Bramber had been in a very ill humour. But there was no help for that. The judge had been asked for advice and had refused to give it; or had advised,–if his remark on that subject was to be taken for advice,–that the consideration of the matter should be postponed for another three months. The case, if there was any case in favour of the prisoner, was not one for pardon but for such redress as might now be given for a most gross injustice. The man had been put to a very great expense, and had been already in prison for ten or eleven weeks, and his further detention would be held to have been very cruel if it should appear at last that the verdict had been wrong. The public press was already using strong language on the subject, and the Secretary of State was not indifferent to the public press. Judge Bramber thoroughly despised the press,–though he would have been very angry if his ‘Times’ had not been ready for him at breakfast every morning. And two or three questions had already been asked in the House of Commons. The Secretary of State, with that habitual strategy, without which any Secretary of State must be held to be unfit for the position which he holds, contrived to answer the questions so as to show that, while the gentlemen who asked them were the most indiscreet of individuals, he was the most discreet of Secretaries. And he did this, though he was strongly of opinion that Judge Bramber’s delay was unjustifiable. But what would be thought of a Secretary of State who would impute blame in the House of Commons to one of the judges of the land before public opinion had expressed itself so strongly on the matter as to make such expression indispensable? He did not think that he was in the least untrue in throwing blame back upon the questioners and in implying that on the side of the Crown there had been no undue delay, though, at the moment he was inwardly provoked at the dilatoriness of the judge.
Public opinion was expressing itself very strongly in the press. ‘The Daily Tell-Tale’ had a beautifully sensational article, written by their very best artist. The whole picture was drawn with a cunning hand. The young wife in her lonely house down in Cambridge which the artist not inaptly called The Moated Grange! The noble, innocent, high-souled husband, eating his heart out within the bars of a county prison, and with very little else to eat! The indignant father, driven almost to madness by the wrongs done to his son and heir! Had the son not been an heir this point would have been much less touching. And then the old evidence was dissected, and the new evidence against the new culprits explained. In regard to the new culprits, the writer was very loud in expressing his purpose to say not a word against persons who were still to be tried;–but immediately upon that he went on and said a great many words against them. Assuming all that was said about them to be true, he asked whether the country would for a moment endure the idea that a man in Mr. Caldigate’s position should be kept in prison on the evidence of such miscreants. When he came to Bagwax and the postmarks, he explained the whole matter with almost more than accuracy. He showed that the impression could not possibly have been made till after the date it conveyed. He fell into some little error as to the fabrication of the postage-stamp in the colony, not having quite seized Bagwax’s great point. But it was a most telling article. And the writer, as he turned it off at his club, and sent it down to the office of the paper, was ready to bet a five-pound note that Caldigate would be out before a week was over. The Secretary of State saw the article, and acknowledged its power. And then even the ‘Slipper’ turned round and cautiously expressed an opinion that the time had come for mercy.
There could be no doubt that public opinion was running very high in Caldigate’s favour, and that the case had become thoroughly popular. People were again beginning to give dinner-parties in London and at every party the matter was discussed.
It was a peculiarly interesting case because the man had thrown away so large a sum of money! People like to have a nut to crack which is ‘uncrackable,’–a Gordian knot to undo which cannot even be cut. Nobody could understand the twenty thousand pounds. Would any man pay such a sum with the object of buying off false witnesses,–and do it in such a manner that all the facts must be brought to light when he was tried? It was said here and there that he had paid the money because he owed it;–but then it had been shown so clearly that he had not owed any one a penny! Nevertheless the men were all certain that he was not guilty, and the ladies thought that whether he were guilty or not did not matter much. He certainly ought to be released from prison.
But yet the Secretary doubted. In that unspoken but heartfelt accusation of cowardice which the judge had made against the great officer of State there had been some truth. How would it be if it should be made to appear at the approaching trial that the two reprobates, who had turned Queen’s evidence against their associates, were to break down altogether in their assertions? It might possibly then become quite apparent that Caldigate had married the woman, and had committed bigamy, when he would already have been pardoned for the last three months! The pardon in that case would not do away with the verdict,–and the pardoned man would be a convicted bigamist. What, then, would be the condition of his wife and child? If subsequent question should arise as to the boy’s legitimacy, as might so probably be the case, in what light would he appear, he who had taken upon himself, on his own responsibility, to extort from her Majesty a pardon in opposition to a righteous and just verdict,–in opposition to the judge who had tried the case? He had been angry with Judge Bramber for not deciding, and was now frightened at the necessity of deciding himself.
In this emergency he sent for the gentleman who had managed the prosecution on the part of the Crown, and asked him to read up the case again, ‘I never was convinced of the prisoner’s guilt,’ said the barrister.
‘No!’
‘It was one of those cases in which we cannot be convinced. The strongest point against him was the payment of the money. It is possible that he paid it from a Quixotic feeling of honour.’
‘To false witnesses, and that before the trial!’ said the Secretary.
‘And there may have been a hope that, in spite of what he said himself as to their staying, they would take themselves off when they had got the money. In that way he may have persuaded himself that, as an honest man, he ought to make the payment. Then as to the witnesses, there can be little doubt that they were willing to lie. Even if their main story were true, they were lying as to details.’
‘Then you would advise a pardon?’
‘I think so,’ said the barrister, who was not responsible for his advice.
‘Without waiting for the other trial?’
‘If the perjury be then proved,–or even so nearly proved as to satisfy the outside world,–the man’s detention will be thought to have been a hardship.’ The Secretary of State thanked the barrister and let him go. He then went down to the House, and amidst the turmoil of a strong party conflict at last made up his mind. It was unjust that such responsibility should be thrown upon any one person. There ought to be some Court of Appeal for such cases. He was sure of that now. But at last he made up his mind. Early on the next morning the Queen should be advised to allow John Caldigate to go free.
Chapter LX
How Mrs. Bolton Was Nearly Conquered
One morning about the middle of October, Robert Bolton walked out from Cambridge to Puritan Grange with a letter in his pocket,–a very long and a very serious letter. The day was that on which the Secretary of State was closeted with the barrister, and on the evening of which he at length determined that Caldigate should be allowed to go free. There had, therefore, been no pardon granted,–as yet. But in the letter the writer stated that such pardon would, almost certainly, be awarded.
It was from William Bolton, in London, to his brother the attorney, and was written with the view of proving to all the Boltons at Cambridge, that it was their duty to acknowledge Hester as the undoubted wife of John Caldigate; and recommended also that, for Hester’s sake, they should receive him as her husband. The letter had been written with very great care, and had been powerful enough to persuade Robert Bolton of the truth of the first proposition.
It was very long, and as it repeated all the details of the evidence for and against the verdict, it shall not be repeated here at its full length. Its intention was to show that, looking at probabilities, and judging from all that was known, there was much more reason to suppose that there had been no marriage at Ahalala than that there had been one. The writer acknowledged that, while the verdict stood confirmed against the man, Hester’s family were bound to regard it, and to act as though they did not doubt its justice;–but that when that verdict should be set aside,–as far as any criminal verdict can be set aside,–by the Queen’s pardon, then the family would be bound to suppose that they who advised her Majesty had exercised a sound discretion.
‘I am sure you will all agree with me,’ he said, ‘that no personal feeling in regard to Caldigate should influence your judgment. For myself, I like the man. But that, I think, has had nothing to do with my opinion. If it had been the case that, having a wife living, he had betrayed my sister into all the misery of a false marriage, and had made her the mother of a nameless child, I should have felt myself bound to punish him to every extent within my power. I do not think it unchristian to say that in such a case I could not have forgiven him. But presuming it to be otherwise,–as we all shall be bound to do if he be pardoned,–then, for Hester’s sake, we should receive the man with whom her lot in life is so closely connected. She, poor dear, has suffered enough, and should not be subjected to the further trouble of our estrangement.
‘Nor, if we acknowledge the charge against him to be untrue, is there any reason for a quarrel. If he has not been bad to our sister in that matter, he has been altogether good to her. She has for him that devotion which is the best evidence that a marriage has been well chosen. Presuming him to be innocent, we must confess, as to her, that she has been simply loyal to her husband,–with such loyalty as every married man would desire. For this she should be rewarded rather than punished.
‘I write to you thinking that in this way I may best reach my father and Mrs. Bolton. I would go down and see them did I not know that your words would be more efficacious with them than my own. And I do it as a duty to my sister, which I feel myself bound to perform. Pray forgive me if I remind you that in this respect she has a peculiar right to a performance of your duty in the matter. You counselled and carried out the marriage,–not at all unfortunately if the man be, as I think, innocent. But you are bound at any rate to sift the evidence very closely, and not to mar her happiness by refusing to acknowledge him if there be reasonable ground for supposing the verdict to have been incorrect.’
Sift the evidence, indeed! Robert Bolton had done that already very closely. Bagwax and the stamps had not moved him, nor the direct assurance of Dick Shand. But the incarceration by Government of Crinkett and Euphemia Smith had shaken him, and the fact that they had endeavoured to escape the moment they heard of Shand’s arrival. But not the less had he hated Caldigate. The feeling which had been impressed on his mind when the first facts were made known to him remained. Caldigate had been engaged to marry the woman, and had lived with her, and had addressed her as his wife! The man had in a way got the better of him. And then the twenty thousand pounds! And then, again, Caldigate’s manner to himself! He could not get over his personal aversion, and therefore unconsciously wished that his brother-in-law should be guilty,–wished at any rate that he should be kept in prison. Gradually had fallen upon him the conviction that Caldigate would be pardoned. And then of course there had come much consideration as to his sister’s condition. He, too, was a conscientious and an affectionate man. He was well aware of his duty to his sister. While he was able to assure himself that Caldigate was not her husband, he could satisfy himself by a conviction that it was his duty to keep them apart. Thus he could hate the man, advocate all severity against the man, and believe the while that he was doing his duty to his sister as an affectionate brother. But now there was a revulsion. It was three weeks since he and his brother had parted, not with the kindest feelings, up in London, and during that time the sifting of the evidence had been going on within his own breast from hour to hour. And now this letter had come,–a letter which he could not put away in anger, a letter which he could not ignore. To quarrel permanently with his brother William was quite out of the question. He knew the value of such a friend too well, and had been too often guided by his advice. So he sifted the evidence once again, and then walked off to Puritan Grange with the letter in his pocket.
In these latter days old Mr. Bolton did not go often into Cambridge. Men said that his daughter’s misfortune had broken him very much. It was perhaps the violence of his wife’s religion rather than the weight of his daughter’s sufferings which cowed him. Since Hester’s awful obstinacy had become hopeless to Mrs. Bolton, an atmosphere of sackcloth and ashes had made itself more than ever predominant at Puritan Grange. If any one hated papistry Mrs. Bolton did so; but from a similar action of religious fanaticism she had fallen into worse that papistical self-persecution. That men and women were all worms to be trodden under foot, and grass of the field to be thrown into the oven, was borne in so often on poor Mr. Bolton that he had not strength left to go to the bank. And they were nearer akin to worms and more like grass of the field than ever, because Hester would stay at Folking instead of returning to her own home.
She was in this frame of mind when Robert Bolton was shown into the morning sitting-room. She was sitting with the Bible before her, but with some domestic needlework in her lap. He was doing nothing even having a book ready to his hand. Thus he would sit the greater part of the day, listening to her when she would read to him, but much preferring to be left alone. His life had been active and prosperous, but the evening of his days was certainly not happy.
His son Robert had been anxious to discuss the matter with him first, but found himself unable to separate them without an amount of ceremony which would have filled her with suspicion. ‘I have received a letter this morning from William,’ he said, addressing himself to his father.
‘William Bolton is, I fear, of the world worldly,’ said the step-mother. ‘His words always savour to me of the huge ungodly city in which he dwells.’
But that this was not a time for such an exercise he would have endeavoured to expose the prejudice of the lady. As it was he was very gentle. ‘William is a man who understands his duty well,’ he said.
‘Many do that, but few act up to their understanding she rejoined.
‘I think, sir, I had better read his letter to you. It has been written with that intention, and I am bound to let you know the contents. Perhaps Mrs. Bolton will let me go to the end so that we may discuss it afterwards.’
But Mrs. Bolton would not let him go to the end. He had not probably expected such forbearance. At every point as to the evidence she interrupted him, striving to show that the arguments used were of no real weight. She was altogether irrational, but still she argued her case well. She withered Bagwax and Dick with her scorn; she ridiculed the quarrels of the male and female witnesses; she reviled the Secretary of State, and declared it to be a shame that the Queen should have no better advisers. But when William Bolton spoke of Hester’s happiness, and of the concessions which should be made to secure that, she burst out into eloquence. What did he know of her happiness? Was it not manifest that he was alluding to this world without a thought of the next? ‘Not a reflection as to her soul’s welfare has once come across his mind,’ she said;–‘not an idea as to the sin with which her soul would be laden were she to continue to live with the man when knowing that he was not her husband.’
‘She would know nothing of the kind,’ said the attorney.
“She ought to know it,” said Mrs. Bolton, again begging the whole question.
But he persevered, as he had resolved to do when he left his house upon this difficult mission. ‘I am sure my father will acknowledge,’ he said, ‘that however strong our own feelings have been, we should bow to the conviction of others who–‘
But he was promulgating a doctrine which her conscience required her to stop at once. ‘The conviction of others shall never have weight with me when the welfare of my eternal soul is at stake.’
‘I am speaking of those who have had better means of getting at the truth than have come within our reach. The Secretary of State can have no bias of his own in the matter.’
‘He is, I fear, a godless man, living and dealing with the godless. Did I not hear the other day that the great Ministers of State will not even give a moment to attend to the short meaningless prayers which are read in the House of Commons?’
‘No one,’ continued Robert Bolton, trying to get away from sentiment into real argument,–‘no one can have been more intent on separating them than William was when he thought that the evidence was against him. Now he thinks the evidence in his favour. I know no man whose head is clearer than my brother’s. I am not very fond of John Caldigate.’
‘Nor am I,’ said the woman with an energy which betrayed much of her true feeling.
‘But if it be the case that they are in truth man and wife–‘
‘In the sight of God they are not so,’ she said.
‘Then,’ he continued, trying to put aside her interruption, and to go on with the assertion he had commenced, ‘it must be our duty to acknowledge him for her sake. Were we not to do so, we should stand condemned in the opinion of all the world.’
‘Who cares for the opinion of the world?’
‘And we should destroy her happiness.’
‘Her happiness here on earth! What does that matter? There is no such happiness.’
It was a very hard fight, but perhaps not harder than he had expected. He had known that she would not listen to reason,–that she would not even attempt to understand it. And he had learned before this how impregnable was that will of fanaticism in which she would entrench herself,–how improbable it was that she would capitulate under the force of any argument. But he thought it possible that he might move his father to assert himself. He was well aware that, in the midst of that apparent lethargy, his father’s mind was at work with much of its old energy. He understood the physical infirmities and religious vacillation which, combined, had brought the old man into his present state of apparent submission It was hardly two years since the same thing had been done in regard to Hester’s marriage. Then Mr. Bolton had asserted himself, and declared his will in opposition to his wife. There had indeed been much change in him since that time, but still something of the old fire remained. ‘I have thought it to be my duty, sir,’ he said, ‘to make known to you William’s opinion and my own. I say nothing as to social intercourse. That must be left to yourself. But if this pardon be granted, you will, I think, be bound to acknowledge John Caldigate to be your son-in-law.’
‘Your father agrees with me,’ said Mrs. Bolton, rising from her chair, and speaking in an angry tone. ‘I hope you both will agree with me. As soon as tidings of the pardon reach you, you should, I think, intimate to Hester that you accept her marriage as having been true and legal. I shall do so, even though I should never see him in my house again.’
‘You of course will do as you please.’
‘And you, sir?’ he said, appealing to the old man.
‘You have no right to dictate to your father,’ said the wife angrily.
‘He has always encouraged me to offer him my advice.’ Then Mr. Bolton shuffled in his chair, as though collecting himself for an effort,–and at last sat up, with his head, however, bent forward, and with both his arms resting on the arms of his chair. Though he looked to be old, much older than he was, still there was a gleam of fire in his eye. He was thin, almost emaciated, and his head hung forward as though there were not strength left in his spine for him to sit erect. ‘I hope, sir, you do not think that I have gone beyond my duty in what I have said.’
‘She shall come here,’ muttered the old man.
‘Certainly, she shall,’ said Mrs. Bolton, ‘if she will. Do you suppose that I do not long to have my own child in my arms?’
‘She shall come here, and be called by her name,’ said the father.
‘She shall be Hester,–my own Hester,’ said the mother, not feeling herself as yet called upon to contradict her husband.
‘And John Caldigate shall come,’ he said.
‘Never!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bolton.
‘He shall be asked to come. I say he shall. Am I to be harder on my own child than are all the others? Shall I call her a castaway, when others say that she is an honest married woman?’
‘Who has called her a castaway?’
‘I took the verdict of the jury, though it broke my heart,’ he continued. ‘It broke my heart to be told that my girl and her child were nameless,–but I believed it because the jury said so, and because the judge declared it. When they tell me the contrary, why shall I not believe that? I do believe it; and she shall come here, if she will, and he shall come.’ Then he got up and slowly moved out of the room, so that there might be no further argument on the subject.
She had reseated herself with her arms crossed, and there sat perfectly mute. Robert Bolton stood up and repeated all his arguments, appealing even to her maternal love,–but she answered him never a word. She had not even yet succeeded in making the companion of her life submissive to her! That was the feeling which was now uppermost in her mind. He had said that Caldigate should be asked to the house, and should be acknowledged throughout all Cambridge as his son-in-law. And having said it, he would be as good as his word. She was sure of that. Of what avail had been all the labour of her life with such a result?
‘I hope you will think that I have done no more than my duty,’ said Robert Bolton, offering her his hand. But there she sat perfectly silent, with her arms still folded, and would take no notice of him. ‘Good-bye,’ said he, striving to put something of the softness of affection into his voice. But she would not even bend her head to him;–and thus he left her.
She remained motionless for the best part of an hour. Then she got up, and according to her daily custom walked a certain number of times round the garden. Her mind was so full that she did not as usual observe every twig, almost every leaf, as she passed. Nor, now that she was alone, was that religious bias, which had so much to do with her daily life, very strong within her. There was no taint of hypocrisy in her character; but yet, with the force of human disappointment heavy upon her, her heart was now hot with human anger, and mutinous with human resolves. She had proposed to herself to revenge herself upon the men of her husband’s family,–upon the men who had contrived that marriage for her daughter,–by devoting herself to the care of that daughter and her nameless grandson, and by letting it be known to all that the misery of their condition would have been spared had her word prevailed. That they should live together a stern, dark, but still sympathetic life, secluded