The Christening
The next day was the day of the christening. Caldigate, on his return
home from Cambridge, had felt himself doomed to silence. He could not
now at this moment tell his wife that the man had come,--the man who
would doubtless work her such terrible misery. She was very strong. She
had gone through the whole little event of her baby's birth quite as
well as could be expected, and had been just what all her friends might
have wished her to be. But that this blow had fallen upon her,--but that
these ill news had wounded her,--she would now have been triumphant.
Her mother was at last coming to her. Her husband was all that a husband
should be. Her baby was, to her thinking, sweeter, brighter, more
satisfactory than any other baby ever had been. But the first tidings
had been told to her. She had seen the letter signed 'Euphemia
Caldigate'; and of course she was ill at ease. Knowing how vexatious the
matter was to her husband, she had spoken of it but seldom,--having
asked but a question now and again when the matter pressed itself too
severely on her mind. He understood it all, both her reticence and her
sufferings. Her sufferings must of course be increased. She must know
before long that Crinkett, and probably the woman also, were in her
neighbourhood. But he could not tell her now when she was preparing her
baby for his ceremony in the church.
The bells were rung, and the baby was prepared, and Mrs. Bolton came out
to Folking according to her promise. Though Robert was not there, many
of the Boltons were present, as was also Uncle Babington. He had come
over on the preceding evening, making on this occasion his first journey
to Folking since his wife's sister had died; and the old squire was
there in very good humour, though he excused himself from going to the
church by explaining that as he had no duty to perform he would only be
in the way amongst them all. Daniel and Mrs. Bolton had also been at
Folking that night, and had then for the first time been brought into
contact with the Babington grandeur. The party had been almost gay, the
old squire having taken some delight in what he thought to be the
absurdities of his brother-in-law. Mr. Babington himself was a man who
was joyous on most occasions and always gay on such an occasion as this.
He had praised the mother, and praised the baby, and praised the house
of Folking generally, graciously declaring that his wife looked forward
to the pleasure of making acquaintance with her new niece, till old Mr.
Caldigate had been delighted with these manifestations of condescension.
'Folking is a poor place,' said he, 'but Babington is really a
country-house.'
'Yes,' replied the other squire, much gratified, 'Babington is what you
may call really a good country-house.'
You had to laugh very hard at him before you could offend Uncle
Babington. In all this John Caldigate was obliged to assist, knowing all
the time, feeling all the time, that Crinkett was in Cambridge; and
through all this the young mother had to appear happy, knowing the
existence of that letter signed 'Euphemia Caldigate,'--feeling it at
every moment. And they both acted their parts well. Caldigate
himself,--though when he was alone the thought of what was coming would
almost crush him,--could always bear himself bravely when others were
present.
On the morning before they went to church, when the bells were ringing,
old Mr. Bolton came in a carriage with his wife from Cambridge. She, of
course, condescended to give her hand to her son-in-law but she did it
with a look which was full of bitterness. She did not probably intend to
be specially bitter, but bitterness of expression was common to her. She
was taken, however, at once up to the baby, and then in the presence of
her daughter and grandchild it may be presumed that she relaxed a
little. At any rate, her presence in the house made her daughter happy
for the time.
Then they all went to the church, except the squire, who, as he himself
pleaded, had no duty to perform there. Mrs. Bolton, as she was taken
through the hall, saw him and recognised him, but would not condescend
even to bow her head to him, though she knew how intimate he had been
with her husband. She still felt,--though she had yielded for this day,
this day which was to make her grandchild a Christian,--that there must
be, and should be, a severance between people such as the Boltons and
people such as the Caldigates.
As the service went on, and as the water was sprinkled, and as the
prayers were said, Caldigate felt thankful that so much had been allowed
to be done before the great trouble had disclosed itself. The doubt
whether even the ceremony could be performed before the clap of thunder
had been heard through all Cambridge had been in itself a distinct
sorrow to him. Had Crinkett showed himself at Chesterton, neither Mrs.
Bolton nor Daniel Bolton would have been standing then at the font. Had
Crinkett been heard of at Babington, Uncle Babington would not now have
been at Folking. All this was passing through his mind as he was
standing by the font. When the ceremony of making the young Daniel
Humphrey Caldigate a Christian was all but completed, he fancied that he
saw old Mr. Bolton's eyes fixed on something in the church, and he
turned his head suddenly, with no special purpose, but simply looking,
as one is apt to look, when another looks. There he saw, on a seat
divided from himself by the breadth of the little nave, Thomas Crinkett
sitting with another man.
There was not a shadow of a doubt on his mind as to the identity of the
Australian--nor as to that of Crinkett's companion. At the moment he did
not remember the man's name, but he knew him as a miner with whom he had
been familiar at Ahalala, and who had been in partnership both with
himself and Crinkett at Nobble,--as one who had, alas! been in his
society when Euphemia Smith had been there also. At that instant he
remembered the fact that the man had called Euphemia Smith Mrs.
Caldigate in his presence, and that he had let the name pass without
remonstrance. The memory of that moment flashed across him now as he
quickly turned back his face towards his child who was still uttering
his little wail in the arms of the clergyman.
Utterden church is not a large building. The seat on which Crinkett had
placed himself was one usually occupied by parish boys at the end of the
row of appropriated seats and near to the door. Less than half-a-dozen
yards from it, at the other side of the way leading up the church, stood
the font, so that the stranger was almost close to Caldigate when he
turned. They were so near that others there could not but have observed
them. Even the clergyman, however absorbed he might have been in his
sacred work, could not but have observed them. It was not there as it
might have been in a town. Any stranger, even on a Sunday, would be
observed by all in Utterden church,--how much then at a ceremony which,
as a rule, none but friends attend! And Crinkett was looking on with all
his eyes, leaning forward over his stick and watching closely. Caldigate
had taken it all in, even in that moment. The other man was sitting
back, gazing at nothing as though the matter to him were indifferent.
Caldigate could understand it all. The man was there simply to act or to
speak when he might be wanted.
As the ceremony was completed John Caldigate stood by and played with
all proper words and actions the part of the young father. No one
standing there could see by his face that he had been struck violently;
that he had for a few moments been almost unable to stand. But he
himself was aware that a cold sweat had broken out all over him as
before. Though he leaned over the baby lying in his mother's arms and
kissed it, and smiled on the young mother, he did so as some great actor
will carry out his part before the public when nearly sinking to the
ground from sudden suffering. What would it be right that he should do
now,--now,--now? No one there had heard of Crinkett except his wife. And
even she herself had no idea that the man of whom she had heard was in
England. Should he speak to the man, or should he endeavour to pass out
of the church as though he had not recognised him? Could he trust
himself even to make the endeavour when he should have turned round and
when he would find himself face to face with the man?
And then what should he say, and how should he act, if the man addressed
him in the church? The man had not come out there to Utterden for
nothing, and probably would so address him. He had determined on telling
no lie,--no lie, at any rate, as to present circumstances. That life of
his in Australia had been necessarily rough; and though successful, had
not been quite as it should have been. As to that, he thought that it
ought to be permitted to him to be reticent. But as to nothing since his
marriage would he lie. If Crinkett spoke to him he must acknowledge the
man,--but if Crinkett told his story about Euphemia Smith in the church
before them all, how should he then answer? There was but a moment for
him to decide it all. The decision had to be made while he was handing
back his babe to its mother with his sweetest smile.
As the party at the font was broken up, the eyes of them all were fixed
upon the two strangers. A christening in a public church is a public
service, and open to the world at large. There was no question to be
asked them, but each person as he looked at them would of course think
that somebody else would recognise them. They were decently
dressed,--dressed probably in such garments as gentlemen generally wear
on winter mornings,--but any one would know at a glance that they were
not English gentlemen. And they were of an appearance unfamiliar to any
one there but Caldigate himself,--clean, but rough, not quite at home in
their clothes, which had probably been bought ready-made; with rough,
ignoble faces,--faces which you would suspect, but faces, nevertheless,
which had in them something of courage. As the little crowd prepared to
move from the font, the two men got up and stood in their places.
Caldigate took the opportunity to say a word to Mr. Bromley before he
turned round, so that he might yet pause before he decided. At that
moment he resolved that he would recognise his enemy, and treat him with
the courtesy of old friendship. It would be bad to do at the moment, but
he thought that in this way he might best prepare himself for the
future. Crinkett had appealed to him for money, but Crinkett himself had
said nothing to him about Euphemia Smith. The man had not as yet accused
him of bigamy. The accusation had come from her, and it still might be
that she had used Crinkett's name wrongfully. At any rate, he thought
that when the clap of thunder should have come, it would be better for
him not to have repudiated a man with whom it would then be known that
his relations had once been so intimate.
He addressed himself therefore at once to his old associate. 'I am
surprised to see you here, Mr. Crinkett.' This he said with a smile and
a pleasant voice, putting out his hand to him. How hard it was to summon
up that smile! How hard to get that tone of voice! Even those
commonplace words had been so difficult of selection! 'Was it you I saw
yesterday in the College gardens?'
'Yes, it was me, no doubt.'
'I turned round, and then thought that it was impossible We have just
been christening my child. Will you come up to our breakfast?'
'You remember Jack Adamson,--eh?'
'Of course I do,' said Caldigate, giving his hand to the second man, who
was rougher even than Crinkett. 'I hope he will come up also. This is my
uncle, Mr. Babington; and this is my father-in-law, Mr. Bolton.' 'These
were two of my partners at Nobble,' he said, turning to the two old
gentlemen, who were looking on with astonished eyes. 'They have come
over here, I suppose, with reference to the sale I made to them lately
of my interests at Polyeuka.'
'That's about it,' said Adamson.
'We won't talk business just at this moment, because we have to eat our
breakfast and drink our boy's health. But when that is done, I'll hear
what you have to say;--or come into Cambridge to-morrow just as you
please. You'll walk up to the house now, and I'll introduce you to my
wife?'
'We don't mind if we do eat a bit,--do we, Jack?' said Crinkett. Jack
bobbed his head, and so they walked back to Folking, the three of them
together, while the two Mr. Boltons and Uncle Babington followed behind.
The ladies and the baby had been taken in a carriage.
The distance from the church to the house at Folking was less than half
a mile, but Caldigate thought that he would never reach his hall door.
How was he to talk to the men,--with what words and after what fashion?
And what should he say about them to his wife when he reached home? She
had seen him speak to them, had known that he had been obliged to stay
behind with them when it would have been so natural that he should have
been at her side as she got into the carriage. Of that he was aware, but
he could not know how far their presence would have frightened her.
'Yes,' he said, in answer to some question from Crinkett; 'the property
round here is not exactly mine, but my father's.'
'They tell me as it's yours now?' said Crinkett.
'You haven't to learn to-day that in regard to other people's concerns
men talk more than they know. The land is my father's estate, but I live
here.'
'And him?' asked Adamson.
'He lives in Cambridge.'
'That's what we mean,--ain't it, Crinkett?' said Adamson. 'You're boss
here?'
'Yes, I'm boss.'
'And a deuced good time you seem to have of it,' said Crinkett.
'I've nothing to complain of,' replied Caldigate, feeling himself at the
moment to be the most miserable creature in existence.
It was fearful work,--work so cruel that his physical strength hardly
enabled him to support it. He already repented his present conduct,
telling himself that it would have been better to have treated the men
from the first as spies and enemies;--though in truth his conduct had
probably been the wisest he could have adopted. At last he had the men
inside the hall door, and, introducing them hurriedly to his father, he
left them that he might rush up to his wife's bedroom. The nurse was
there and her mother; and, at the moment, she only looked at him. She
was too wise to speak to him before them. But at last she succeeded in
making an opportunity of being alone with her husband. 'You stay here,
nurse; I'll be back directly, mamma,' and then she took him across the
passage into his own dressing-room. 'Who are they, John? who are they?'
'They are men from the mines. As they were my partners, I have asked
them to come in to breakfast.'
'And the woman?' As she spoke she held on to the back of a chair by
which she stood, and only whispered her question.
'No woman is with them.'
'Is it the man,--Crinkett?'
'Yes, it is Crinkett.'
'In this house! And I am to sit at table with him?'
'It will be best so. Listen, dearest; all that I know, all that we know
of Crinkett is, that he is asking money of me because the purchase he
made of me has turned out badly for him.'
'But he is to marry that woman, who says that she is--' Then she
stopped, looking into his face with agony. She could not bring herself
to utter the words which would signify that another woman claimed to be
her husband's wife.
'You are going too fast, Hester. I cannot condemn the man for what the
woman has written until I know that he says the same himself. He was my
partner, and I have had his money;--I fear, all his money. He as yet has
said nothing about the woman. As it is so, it behoves me to be courteous
to him. That I am suffering much, you must be well aware. I am sure you
will not make it worse for me.'
'No, no,' she said, embracing him; 'I will not. I will be brave. I will
do all that I can. But you will tell me everything?'
'Everything,' he said. Then he kissed her, and went back again to his
unwelcome guests. She was not long before she followed him, bringing her
baby in her arms. Then she took the child round to be kissed by all its
relatives, and afterwards bowed politely to the two men, and told them
that she was glad to see her husband's old friends and fellow-workmen.
'Yes, mum,' said Jack Adamson; 'we've been fellow-workmen when the work
was hard enough. T' young squire seems to have got over his difficulties
pretty tidy!' Then she smiled again, and nodded to them, and retreated
back to her mother.
Mrs. Bolton scowled at them, feeling certain that they were godless
persons;--in which she was right. The old banker, drawing his son Daniel
out of the room, whispered an inquiry; but Daniel Bolton knew nothing.
'There's been something wrong as to the sale of that mine,' said the
banker. Daniel Bolton thought it probable that there had been something
wrong.
The breakfast was eaten, and the child's health was drunk, and the hour
was passed. It was a bad time for them all, but for Caldigate it was a
very bitter hour. To him the effort made was even more difficult than to
her;--as was right;--for she at any rate had been blameless. Then the
Boltons went away, as had been arranged, and also Uncle Babington while
the men still remained.
'If you don't mind, squire, I'll take a turn with you,' said Crinkett at
last; 'while Jack can sit anywhere about the place.'
'Certainly,' said Caldigate. And so they took their hats and went off,
and Jack Adamson was left 'sitting anywhere' about the place.