Persuasion
Early on the Tuesday morning Hester came down into the breakfast parlour
at Puritan Grange, having with difficulty persuaded herself that she
would stay the appointed hours in her mother's house. On the previous
evening her mother had, she thought, been very hard on her, and she had
determined to go. She would not stay even with her mother, if her mother
insisted upon telling her that she was not her husband's wife. But
during the night she was able to persuade herself to bear what had been
already said,--to let it be as though it had been forgotten. Her mother
was her mother. But she would bear no more. As to herself and her own
conduct her parents might say what they pleased to her. But of her
husband she would endure to hear no evil word spoken. In this spirit she
came down into the little parlour.
Mrs. Bolton was also up,--had been up and about for some time previous.
She was a woman who never gave way to temptations of ease. A nasty dark
morning at six o'clock, with just light enough to enable her to dress
without a candle, with no fire and no hot water, with her husband
snoring while she went through her operations, was to her thinking the
proper condition of things for this world. Not to be cold, not to be
uncomfortable, not to strike her toes against the furniture because she
could not quite see what she was about, would to her have been to be
wicked. When her daughter came into the parlour, she had been about the
house for more than an hour, and had had a conference both with the cook
and with the gardener. The cook was of opinion that not a word should be
said, or an unusual bolt drawn, or a thing removed till the Wednesday.
'She can't carry down her big box herself, ma'am; and the likes of Miss
Hester would never think of going without her things;--and then there's
the baby.' A look of agony came across the mother's face as she heard
her daughter called Miss Hester;--but in truth the woman had used the
name from old association, and not with any reference to her late young
mistress's present position. 'I should just tell her flat on Wednesday
morning that she wasn't to stir out of this, but I wouldn't say nothing
at all about any of it till then.' The gardener winked and nodded his
head, and promised to put a stake into the ground behind the little
wicket-gate which would make the opening of it impossible. 'But take my
word for it, ma'am, she'll never try that. She'll be a deal too proud.
She'll rampage at the front door, and 'll despise any escaping like.'
That was the gardener's idea, and the gardener had long known the young
lady. By these arguments Mrs. Bolton was induced to postpone her prison
arrangements till the morrow.
When she found her daughter in the small parlour she had settled much in
her mind. During the early morning,--that is, till Mr. Bolton should
have gone into Cambridge,--not a word should be said about the marriage.
Then when they two would be alone together, another attempt should be
made to persuade Hester to come and live at Chesterton till after the
trial. But even in making that attempt no opinion should be expressed as
to John Caldigate's wickedness, and no hint should be given as to the
coming incarceration. 'Did you bring baby down with you?' the
grandmother asked. No; baby had been awake ever so long, and then had
gone to sleep again, and the nurse was now with him to protect him from
the sufferings incident to waking. 'Your papa will be down soon, and
then we will have breakfast,' said Mrs. Bolton. After that there was
silence between them for some time.
A bond of discord, if the phrase may be allowed, is often quite as
strong as any bond coming from concord and agreement. There was to both
these women a subject of such paramount importance to each that none
other could furnish matter of natural conversation. The one was saying
to herself ever and always, 'He is my husband. Let the outside world say
what it may, he is my husband.' But the other was as constantly denying
to herself this assertion and saying, 'He is not her husband. Certainly
he is not her husband.' And as to the one the possession of that which
she claimed was all the world, and as to the other the idea of the
possession without true possession entailed upon her child pollution,
crime, and ignominy, it was impossible but that the mind of each should
be too full to admit of aught but forced expressions on other matters.
It was in vain for them to attempt to talk of the garden, the house, the
church, or of the old man's health. It was in vain even to attempt to
talk of the baby. There are people who, however full their hearts may
be, full of anger or full of joy, can keep the fulness in abeyance till
a chosen time for exhibiting it shall come. But neither of these two was
such a person. Every stiff plait in the elder woman's muslin and crape
declared her conviction that John Caldigate was not legally married to
her daughter. Every glance of Hester's eye, every motion made with her
hands, every little shake of her head, declared her purpose of fighting
for that one fact, whatever might be the odds against her.
When the banker came down to breakfast things were better for a little
time. The pouring out of his tea mitigated somewhat the starchiness of
his wife's severity, and Hester when cutting the loaf for him could seem
to take an interest in performing an old duty. He said not a word
against Caldigate; and when he went out, Hester, as had been her custom,
accompanied him to the gate. 'Of course you will be here when I come,'
he said.
'Oh yes; I do not go home till to-morrow.' Then she parted from him,
and spent the next hour or two up-stairs with her baby.
'May I come in?' said the mother, knocking at the door.
'Oh yes, mamma. Don't you think baby is very like his father?'
'I dare say. I do not know that I am good at tracing likenesses. He
certainly is like you.'
'So much more like his father!' said Hester.
After that there was a pause, and then the mother commenced her task in
her most serious voice. 'Hester, my child, you can understand that a
duty may become so imperious that it must be performed.'
'Yes,' said Hester, pressing her lips close together 'I can understand
that.' There might be a duty very necessary for her to perform, though
in the performance of it she should be driven to quarrel absolutely with
her own mother.
'So it is with me. Whom do you think I love best in all the world?'
'Papa.'
'I do love your father dearly, and I endeavour, by God's grace, to do my
duty by him, though, I fear, it is done imperfectly. But, my child, our
hearts, I think, yearn more to those who are younger than ourselves than
to our elders. We love best those whom we have cherished and protected,
and whom we may perhaps still cherish and protect. When I try to tear my
heart away from the things of this vile world, it clings to you--to
you--to you!'
Of course this could not be borne without an embrace 'Oh, mamma!' Hester
exclaimed, throwing herself on her knees before her mother's lap.
'If you suffer, must not I suffer? If you rejoice, would I not fain
rejoice with you if I could? Did I not bring you into the world, my only
one, and nursed you, and prayed for you, and watched you with all a
mother's care as you grew up among the troubles of the world? Have you
not known that my heart has been too soft towards you even for the due
performance of my duties?'
'You have always been good to me, mamma.'
'And am I altered now? Do you think that a mother's heart can be changed
to her only child?'
'No, mamma.'
'No, Hester. That, I think, is impossible. Though for the last twelve
months I have not seen you day by day,--though I have not prepared the
food which you eat and the clothes which you wear, as I used to do,--you
have been as constantly in my mind. You are still my child, my only
child.'
'Mamma, I know you love me.'
'I so love you as to know that I sin in so loving aught that is human.
And so loving you, must I not do my duty by you? When love and duty both
compel me to speak, how shall I be silent?'
'You have said it, mamma,' said Hester, slowly drawing herself up from
off the ground.
'And is saying it once enough, when, as I think, the very soul, the
immortal soul, of her who is of all the dearest to me depends on what I
may say;--may be saved, or, oh, perhaps lost for ever by the manner in
which I may say it! How am I not to speak when such thoughts as these
are heavy within me?'
'What is it you would say?' This Hester asked with a low hoarse voice
and a stern look, as though she could not resist her mother's prayer for
the privilege of speaking; but at the same time was resolutely prepared
not to be turned a hair's-breadth by anything that might be said.
'Not a word about him.'
'No, mamma; no. Unless you can tell me that you will love him as your
son-in-law.'
'Not a word about him,' she repeated, in a harsher voice. She felt that
that promise should have been enough, and that in the present
circumstances she should not have been invited to love the man she
hated. 'Your father and I wish you for the next few months to come and
live with us.'
'It is quite impossible,' said Hester, standing very upright, with a
face altogether unlike that she had worn when kneeling at her mother's
knees.
'You should listen to me.'
'Yes, I will listen.'
'There will be a trial.'
'Undoubtedly. John, at least, seems to think so. It is possible that
these wicked people may give it up, or that they may have no money to go
on; but I suppose there will be a trial.'
'The woman has bound herself to prosecute him.'
'Because she wants to get money. But we need not discuss that, mamma.
John thinks that there will be a trial.'
'Till that is over, will you not be better away from him? How will it be
with you if it should be decided that he is not your husband?' Here
Hester of course prepared herself for interruption, but her mother
prayed for permission to continue.
'Listen to me for one moment, Hester.'
'Very well, mamma. Go on.'
'How would it be with you in that case? You must be separated then. As
that is possible, is it not right that you should obey the ordinances of
God and man, and keep yourself apart till they who are in authority
shall have spoken?'
'There are no such ordinances.'
'There are indeed. If you were to ask all your friends, all the married
women in Cambridgeshire, what would they say? Would they not all tell
you that no woman should live with a man while there is a shadow of
doubt? And as to the law of God, you know God's law, and can only defend
yourself by your own certainty as to a matter respecting which all
others are uncertain. You think yourself certain because such certainty
is a way to yourself out of your present misery.'
'It is for my child,' she shouted; 'and for him.'
'As for your babe, your darling babe, whether he be yours in joy of
heart or in agony of spirit, he is still yours. No one will rob you of
him. If it be as we fear, would not I help you to love him, help you to
care for him, help you to pray for him? If it were so, would I desert
him or you because in your innocence you had been betrayed into
misfortune? Do I not feel for your child? But when he grows up and is a
man, and will have learned the facts of his early years, let him be
able to tell himself that his mother though unfortunate was pure.'
'I am pure,' she said.
'My child, my own one, can I, your mother, think aught else of you? Do
I not know your heart? Do not I know the very thoughts within you?'
'I am pure. He has become my husband, and nothing can divide us. I
never gave a thought to another man. I never had the faintest liking,
as do other girls. When he came and told me that he had seen me and
loved me, and would take me for his wife, I felt at once that I was all
his,--his to do as he liked with me, his to nourish him, his to worship
him, his to obey him, his to love him let father or mother or all the
world say what they would to the contrary. Then we were married. Till
he was my own, I never even pressed my lips upon his. But I became his
wife by a bond that nothing shall break. You tell me of God's law. By
God's law I am his wife, let the people say what they will. I have but
two to think of.'
'Yourself and him?' asked her mother.
'I have three to think of,--God, and him, and my child; and may God be
good to me and them, as in this matter I will put myself away from
myself altogether. It is for me to obey him, and I will submit myself
to none other. If he bids me go, I will go; if he bids me stay here, I
will stay. I have become his so entirely, that no judges--no judges can
divide us. Judges! I know but one Judge, and He is there; and He has
said that those whom He has joined together, man shall not put asunder.
Pure! pure! No one should praise herself, but as a woman I do know that
I am pure.'
Then the mother's heart yearned greatly towards her daughter; and yet
she was no whit changed. She knew nothing of phrases of logic, but she
felt that Hester had begged the whole question. Those whom God had
joined together! True, true! If only one could know whether in this or
the other case God had joined the couple. As Hester argued the matter,
no woman should be taken from the man she had married, though he might
have a dozen other wives all living. And she spoke of purity as though
it were a virtue which could be created and consecrated simply by the
action of her own heart, as though nothing outside,--no ceremony, no
ordinance,--could affect it. The same argument would enable her to live
with John Caldigate after he should come out of prison, even though, as
would then be the case, another woman would have the legal right of
calling herself Mrs. John Caldigate! On the previous day she had
declared that if she could not be his wife, she would be his mistress.
The mother knew what she meant,--that, let people call her by what name
they might, she would still be her husband's wife in the eye of God.
But she would not be so. And then she would not be pure. And, to Mrs.
Bolton, the worst of it was that this cloudiness had come upon her
daughter,--this incapacity to reason it out,--because the love of a
human being had become so strong within her bosom as to have superseded
and choked the love of heavenly things. But how should she explain all
this? 'I am not asking you to drop his name.'
'Drop his name! I will never drop it. I cannot drop it. It is mine. I
could not make myself anything but Mrs. John Caldigate if I would. And
he,' she said, taking the baby up from its cradle and pressing it to
her bosom, 'he shall be Daniel Caldigate to the day of his death. Do
you think that I will take a step that shall look like robbing my child
of his honest name,--that will seem to imply a doubt that he is not his
own father's honest boy,--that he is not a fitting heir to the property
which his forefathers have owned so long? Never! They may call me what
name they will, but I will call myself John Caldigate's wife as long as
I have a voice to make myself heard.'
It was the same protest over and over again, and it was vain to answer.
'You will not stay under your father's roof?'
'No; I have to live under my husband's roof.' Then Mrs. Bolton left the
room, apparently in anger. Though her heart within might be melting
with ruth, still it was necessary that she should assume a look of
anger. On the morrow she would have to show herself angry with a
vengeance, if she should then still be determined to carry out her
plan. And she thought that she was determined. What had pity to do with
it, or love, or moving heart-stirring words? Were not all these things
temptation from the Evil One, if they were allowed to interfere with
the strict line of hard duty? When she left the room, where the young
mother was still standing with her baby in her arms, she doubted for
some minutes,--perhaps for some half-hour,--then she wrestled with
those emanations from the Evil One,--with pity, with love, and suasive
tenderness,--and at last overcame them. 'I know I am pure,' the
daughter had said. 'I know I am right,' said the mother.
But she spoke a word to her husband when he came home. 'I cannot bend
her; I cannot turn her, in the least.'
'She will not stay?'
'Not of her own accord.'
'You have told her?'
'Oh no; not till to-morrow.'
'She ought to stay, certainly,' said the father. There had been very
little intercourse between the mother and daughter during the
afternoon, and while the three were sitting together, nothing was said
about the morrow. The evening would have seemed to be very sad and very
silent, had they not all three been used to so many silent evenings in
that room. Hester, during her wedding tour and the few weeks of her
happiness at Folking, before the trouble had come, had felt a new life
and almost an ecstasy of joy in the thorough liveliness of her husband.
But the days of her old home were not so long ago that its old manners
should seem strange to her. She therefore sat out the hours patiently,
stitching some baby's ornament, till her mother told her that the time
for prayer had come. After worship her father called her out into the
hall as he went up to his room. 'Hester,' he said, 'it is not right
that you should leave us to-morrow.'
'I must, papa.'
'I tell you that it is not right. You have a home in which everybody
will respect you. For the present you should remain here.'
'I cannot, papa. He told me to go back to-morrow. I would not disobey
him now,--not now,--were it ever so.' Then the old man paused as though
he were going on with the argument, but finding that he had said all
that he had to say, he slowly made his way upstairs.
'Good-night, mamma,' said Hester, returning only to the door of the
sitting-room.
'Good-night, my love.' As the words were spoken they both felt that
there was something wrong,--much that was wrong. 'I do not think they
will do that,' said Hester to herself, as she went up the stairs to her
chamber.