The Escape
During the whole of that night Hester kept her position in the hall,
holding her baby in her arms as long as the infant would sleep in that
position, and then allowing the nurse to take it to its cradle
up-stairs. And during the whole night also Mrs. Bolton remained with her
daughter. Tea was brought to them, which each of them took, and after
that neither spoke a word to the other till the morning. Before he went
to bed, Mr. Bolton came down and made an effort for their joint comfort.
'Hester,' he said, 'why should you not go to your room? You can do
yourself no good by remaining there.' 'No,' she said, sullenly; 'no; I
will stay.' 'You will only make yourself ill,--you and your mother.'
'She can go. Though I should die, I will stay here.'
Nor could he succeed better with his wife. 'If she is obstinate, so must
I be,' said Mrs. Bolton. It was in vain that he endeavoured to prove to
her that there could be no reason for such obstinacy, that her daughter
would not attempt to escape during the hours of the night without her
baby.
'You would not do that,' said the old man, turning to his daughter. But
to this Hester would make no reply, and Mrs. Bolton simply declared her
purpose of remaining. To her mind there was present an idea that she
would, at any rate, endure as much actual suffering as her daughter.
There they both sat, and in the morning they were objects pitiable to be
seen.
Macbeth and Sancho have been equally eloquent in the praise of sleep.
'Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care!' But sleep will
knit up effectually no broken stitches unless it be enjoyed in bed.
'Blessings on him who invented sleep,' said Sancho. But the great
inventor was he who discovered mattresses and sheets and blankets. These
two unfortunates no doubt slept; but in the morning they were weary,
comfortless, and exhausted. Towels and basins were brought to them, and
then they prepared themselves to watch through another day. It seemed to
be a trial between them, which could outwatch the other. The mother was,
of course, much the older; but with poor Hester there was the baby to
add to her troubles. Never was there a woman more determined to carry
out her purpose than Mrs. Bolton, or one more determined to thwart the
purpose of another than she who still called herself Hester Caldigate.
In the morning Mrs. Bolton implored her husband to go into Cambridge as
usual; but he felt that he could not leave the house with such inmates.
So he sat in his bedroom dozing wretchedly in his arm-chair.
Caldigate appeared before the house at nine o'clock, no further attempt
having been made to exclude his entrance by the side gate, and asked to
see Mr. Bolton. 'Papa is up-stairs,' said Hester through the window. But
the old man would not come down to see his visitor, nor would he send
any message. Then Caldigate declared his purpose of going at once to the
mayor and demanding assistance from the police. He at any rate would
return with the carriage as early as he could after his visit to the
magistrates' office. He went to the mayor, and inflicted much trouble on
that excellent officer, who, however, at last, with the assistance of
his clerk,--and of Robert Bolton, whom he saw on the sly,--came to the
decision that his own authority would not suffice for the breaking open
of a man's house in order that his married daughter should be taken by
violence from his custody. 'No doubt,' he said; 'no doubt,' when
Caldigate pleaded that Mr. Bolton's daughter was, at any rate for the
present, his own wife; and that a man's right to have his wife is
undoubted. Those words 'no doubt' were said very often; but no other
words were said. Then the clerk expressed an opinion that the proper
course would be for Mr. Caldigate to go up to London and get an order
from the Vice-Chancellor; which was, of course, tantamount to saying
that his wife was to remain at Chesterton till after the trial,--unless
she could effect her own escape.
But not on that account was he inclined to yield. He had felt from the
first, as had she also, that she would make her way out of the house, or
would not make it, as she might or might not have the courage to be
persistent in demanding it. This, indeed, had been felt both by William
and Robert Bolton when they had given their counsel. 'She is a woman
with a baby, and when in your house will be subject to your influences.
She will be very angry at first, but will probably yield after a time to
your instructions. She will at last give an unwilling assent to the
course you propose. That is what may be expected. But if she should be
firmer than we think, if there should be in her bosom a greater power of
resistance than we expect, should she dash herself too violently against
the cage,--then you must let her go.' That was intended to be the gist
of the advice given, though it perhaps was not so accurately expressed.
It was in that way understood by the old man; but Mrs. Bolton would not
so understand it. She had taken the matter in hand, and as she pressed
her lips together she told herself that she intended to go through with
it.
And so did Hester. But as this day went on, Hester became at times
almost hysterical in her efforts to communicate with her husband through
the window, holding up her baby and throwing back her head, and was
almost in convulsions in her efforts to get at him. He on the other side
thundered at the door with the knocker, till that instrument had been
unscrewed from within. But still he could knock with his stick and shout
with his voice; while the people outside the iron gates stood looking on
in a crowd. In the course of the day Robert Bolton endeavoured to get an
order from the magistrates for the removal of Caldigate by the police.
But the mayor would not assent either to that. Old Mr. Bolton was the
owner of the house, and if there was a nuisance to be complained of, it
was he that must complain. The mayor during these days was much tried.
The steady married people of the borough,--the shopkeepers and their
wives, the doctors and lawyers and clergymen,--were in favour of Mr.
and Mrs. Bolton. It was held to be fitting that a poor lady in Hester's
unfortunate position should be consigned to the care of her parents till
the matter had been settled. But the people generally sympathised with
the young husband and young wife, and were loud in denouncing the
illegality of the banker's proceedings. And it was already rumoured that
among the undergraduates Caldigate's side was favoured. It was generally
known that Crinkett and the woman had asked for money before they had
brought their accusation, and on that account sympathy ran with the
Squire of Folking. The mayor, therefore, did not dare to give an order
that Caldigate should be removed from off the premises at Puritan
Grange, knowing that he was there in search of a wife who was only
anxious to place herself in his custody.
But nothing was done all that day. About four in the afternoon, while
Caldigate was still there, and at a moment in which poor Hester had been
reduced by the continuance of her efforts to a state of hysterical
prostration, the old man summoned his wife upstairs. She, with a motion
to the cook, who still guarded the stairs, obeyed the order, and for a
moment left her watch.
'You must let her go,' said the old man, with tremulous anxiety, beating
with his fingers on his knees as he spoke. 'You must let her go.'
'No; no!'
'It will kill her.'
'If I let her go, I shall kill her soul,' said the determined woman. 'Is
not her soul more than her body?'
'They will say we--murdered her.'
'Who will say it? And what would that be but the breath of a man? Does
not our Father who is in heaven know that I would die to do her a
service, if the service accorded with His will? Does He not know that I
am cruel to her here in order that she may be saved from eternal----'
She was going to say, in the natural fervour of her speech, 'from
eternal cruelty to come,' but she checked herself. To have admitted that
such a judgment could be worse than just, worse even than merciful,
would be blasphemy to her. 'Oh, He knows! He knows! And if He knows,
what matters what men say that I have done to her.'
'I cannot have it go on like this,' said he, still whispering.
'She will be wearied out, and then we will take her to her bed.'
But Mr. Bolton succeeded in demanding that a telegram should be sent up
to William requesting him to come down to the Grange as early as
possible on the following morning. This was sent, and also a message to
Robert Bolton in Cambridge, telling him that William had been summoned.
During these two days he had not been seen at the Grange, though he knew
much of what was being done there. Had he, however, been aware of all
that his sister and step-mother were enduring, he would probably have
appeared upon the scene. As it was, he had justified his absence by
pleading to himself Mrs. Bolton's personal enmity, and the understanding
which existed that he should not visit the house. Then, when it was
dark, Caldigate with the carriage again returned to the town, where he
slept as he had done on the previous night. Again their food was brought
to the two women in the hall, and again each of them swallowed a cup of
tea as they prepared themselves for the work of the night.
In the hall there was a gas-stove, which was kept burning, and gave a
faint glimmer, so that each could see the outline of the other. Light
beyond that there was none. In the weary long hours of nights such as
these, nights passed on the seats of railway carriages, or rougher
nights, such as some of us remember, on the outside of coaches, or
sitting by the side of the sick, sleep will come early and will early
go. The weariness of the past day will produce some forgetfulness for an
hour or two, and then come the slow, cold, sad hours through which the
dawn has to be expected. Between two and three these unfortunates were
both awake, the poor baby having been but lately carried back from its
mother to its cradle. Then suddenly Mrs. Bolton heard rather than saw
her daughter slip down from her chair on to the ground and stretch
herself along upon the hard floor. 'Hester,' she said; but Hester did
not answer. 'Hester, are you hurt?' When there was still no answer, the
mother got up, with limbs so stiff that she could hardly use them, and
stood over her child. 'Hester, speak to me.'
'I will never speak to you more,' said the daughter.
'My child, why will you not go to your comfortable wholesome bed?'
'I will not go; I will die here.'
'The door shall not be locked. You shall have the key with you. I will
do nothing to hurt you if you will go to your bed.'
'I will not go; leave me alone. You cannot love me, mamma, or you would
not treat me like this.'
'Love you! Oh, my child! If you knew! If you could understand! Why am I
doing this? Is it not because I feel it to be my duty? Will you let me
take you to your bed?'
'No, never. I, too, can do my duty,--my duty to my husband. It is to
remain here till I can get to him, even though I should die.' Then she
turned her poor limbs on the hard floor, and the mother covered her with
a cloak and placed a cushion beneath her head. Then, after standing a
while over her child, she returned to her chair, and did not move or
speak again till the old cook came, with the first glimmer of the
morning, to inquire how the night had been passed.
'I cannot allow this; I cannot allow this,' said Mr. Bolton, when he
shuffled down in his slippers. The old servant had been up to him and
had warned him that such sufferings as these might have a tragic
end,--too probably an end fatal to the infant. If the mother's strength
should altogether fail her, would it not go badly with the baby? So the
cook had argued, who had been stern enough herself, anxious enough to
secure 'Miss Hester' from the wickedness of John Caldigate. But she was
now cowed and frightened, and had acknowledged to herself that if 'Miss
Hester' would not give way, then she must be allowed to go forth, let
the wickedness be what it might.
'There must be an end to this,' said the old man.
'What end?' asked his wife. 'Let her obey her parents.'
'I will obey only my husband,' said Hester.
'Of course there must be an end. Let her go to her bed, and, weary as I
am, I will wait upon her as only a mother can wait upon her child. Have
I not prayed for her through the watches of the night, that she might be
delivered from this calamity, that she might be comforted by Him in her
sorrow? What have I done these two last weary days but pray to the Lord
God that He might be merciful to her?'
'Let me go,' said Hester.
'I will not let you go,' said the mother, rising from her seat. 'I too
can suffer. I too can endure. I will not be conquered by my own child.'
There spoke the human being. That was the utterance natural to the
woman. 'In this struggle, hard as it is, I will not be beat by one who
has been subject to my authority.' In all those prayers,--and she had
prayed,--there had been the prayer in her heart, if not in her words,
that she might be saved from the humiliation of yielding.
Early in the day Caldigate was again in front of the house, and outside
there was a close carriage with a pair of horses, standing at the
gardener's little gate. And at the front gate, which was still chained,
there was again the crowd. At about one both William and Robert Bolton
came upon the scene, and were admitted by the gardener and cook through
the kitchen-door into the house. They were close to Caldigate as they
entered; neither did they speak to him or he to them. At that moment
Hester was standing with the baby at the window, and saw them. 'Now I
shall be allowed to go,' she exclaimed. Mrs. Bolton was still seated
with her back to the windows; but she had heard the steps on the gravel,
and the opening of the kitchen-door; and she understood Hester's words,
and was aware that her husband's sons were in the house.
They had agreed as to what should be done, and at once made their way up
into the hall. 'William, you will make them let me go. You will make
them let me go,' said Hester, rushing at once to the elder of the two,
and holding out her baby as though for him to take. She was now in a
state so excited, so nervous, so nearly hysterical, that she was hardly
able to control herself. 'You will not let them kill me, William,--me
and my baby.' He kissed her and said a kind word or two, and then,
inquiring after his father, passed on up-stairs. Then Mrs. Bolton
followed him, leaving Robert in the hall with Hester. 'I know that you
have turned against me,' said Hester.
'Indeed no. I have never turned against you. I have thought that you
would be better here than at Folking for the present.'
'That is being against me. A woman should be with her husband. You told
them to do this. And they have nearly killed me,--me and my baby.'
In the meantime William Bolton up-stairs was very decided in his opinion
that they must at once allow Caldigate to take her back to Folking. She
had, as he said, proved herself to be too strong for them. The
experiment had been tried and had failed. No doubt it would be
better,--so he thought,--that she should remain for the present at the
Grange; so much better that a certain show of force had been justified.
But as things were going, no further force would be justified. She had
proved her power, and must be allowed to go. Mrs. Bolton, however, would
not even yet acknowledge that she was beaten. In a few more hours, she
thought, Hester would allow herself to be taken to her bed, and then all
might be well. But she could not stand against the combined force of her
husband and his two sons; and so it was decided that the front door
should be opened for the prisoner, and that the chains should be removed
from the gate. 'I should be afraid of the people,' William Bolton said
to his father.
It was not till this decision had been given that Mrs. Bolton felt that
the struggle of the last three days had been too much for her. Now, at
last, she threw herself upon her bed, weeping bitter tears, tears of a
broken spirit, and there she lay prostrate with fatigue and misery. Nor
would she go down to say a word of farewell. How could she say adieu to
her daughter, leaving her house in such circumstances 'I will give her
your love,' said William Bolton.
'Say nothing to her. She does not care for my love, nor for the love of
her Father in heaven. She cares only for that adulterer.'
The door was opened from within, and the chains were taken away from the
gate. 'Oh, John,--oh, my husband,' she exclaimed, as she leaped down the
steps into his arms, 'never let me go again; not for a day,--not for an
hour!' Then her boxes were brought down, and the nurse came with the
child, whom the mother at once took and placed in his father's arms. And
the carriage was brought in, and the luggage was placed on it, and the
nurse and the baby were seated. 'I will go up to poor mamma for one
moment,' she said. She did go to her mother's room, and throwing herself
upon the wretched woman, wept over her and kissed her. But the mother,
though in some sort she returned the caress, said not a word as her
daughter left the room. And she went also to her father and asked his
blessing. He muttered a word or two, blessing her, no doubt, with
inarticulate words. He also had been thoroughly vanquished.
Then she got into the carriage, and was taken back to Folking lying in
John Caldigate's arms.