Waiting For The Trial
As he returned to Cambridge Caldigate was not altogether contented
with himself. He tried to persuade himself, in reference to the money
which he had refunded, that in what he had done he had not at all
been actuated by the charge made against him. Had there been no such
accusation he would have felt himself bound to share the loss with
these people as soon as he had learned the real circumstances. The
money had been a burden to him. For the satisfaction of his own honour,
of his own feelings, it had become necessary that the money should be
refunded. And the need of doing so was not lessened by the fact that
a base conspiracy had been made by a gang of villains who had thought
that the money might thus be most readily extracted from him. That was
his argument with himself, and his defence for what he had done. But
nevertheless he was aware that he had been driven to do it now,--to
pay the money at this special moment,--by an undercurrent of hope that
these enemies would think it best for themselves to go as soon as they
had his money in their hands. He wished to be honest, he wished to be
honourable, he wished that all that he did could be what the world
calls 'above board'; but still it was so essential for him and for his
wife that they should go! He had been very steady in assuring these
wretched ones that they might go or stay, as they pleased. He had been
careful that there should be a credible witness of his assurance. He
might succeed in making others believe that he had not attempted to
purchase their absence; but he could not make himself believe it.
Even though a jury should not convict him, there was so much in his
Australian life which would not bear the searching light of
cross-examination! The same may probably be said of most of us. In such
trials as this that he was anticipating, there is often a special
cruelty in the exposure of matters which are for the most part happily
kept in the background. A man on some occasion inadvertently takes a
little more wine than is good for him. It is an accident most uncommon
with him, and nobody thinks much about it. But chance brings the case
to the notice of the police courts, and the poor victim is published to
the world as a drunkard in the columns of all the newspapers. Some young
girl fancies herself in love, and the man is unworthy. The feeling
passes away, and none but herself, and perhaps her mother, are the
wiser. But if by some chance, some treachery, a letter should get
printed and read, the poor girl's punishment is so severe that she is
driven to wish herself in the grave.
He had been foolish, very foolish, as we have seen, on board the
Goldfinder,--and wicked too. There could be no doubt about that. When it
would all come out in this dreaded trial he would be quite unable to
defend himself. There was enough to enable Mrs. Bolton to point at him
with a finger of scorn as a degraded sinner. And yet,--yet there had
been nothing which he had not dared to own to his wife in the secrecy of
their mutual confidence, and which, in secret, she had not been able to
condone without a moment's hesitation. He had been in love with the
woman,--in love after a fashion. He had promised to marry her. He had
done worse than that. And then, when he had found that the passion for
gold was strong upon her, he had bought his freedom from her. The story
would be very bad as told in Court, and yet he had told it all to his
wife! She had admitted his excuse when he had spoken of the savageness
of his life, of the craving which a man would feel for some feminine
society, of her undoubted cleverness, and then of her avarice. And then
when he swore that through it all he had still loved her,--her, Hester
Bolton,--whom he had but once seen, but whom, having seen, he had never
allowed to pass out of his mind, she still believed him, and thought
that the holiness of that love had purified him. She believed him;--but
who else would believe him? Of course he was most anxious that those
people should go.
Before he left London he wrote both to Mr. Seely and to Robert Bolton,
saying what he had done. The letter to his own attorney was long and
full. He gave an account in detail of the whole matter, declaring that
he would not allow himself to be hindered from paying a debt which he
believed to be due, by the wickedness of those to whom it was owing.
'The two things have nothing to do with each other,' he said, 'and if
you choose to throw up my defence, of course you can do so. I cannot
allow myself to be debarred from exercising my own judgment in another
matter because you think that what I decide upon doing may not tally
with your views as to my defence.' To Robert Bolton he was much shorter.
'I think you ought to know what I have done,' he said; 'at any rate, I
do not choose that you should be left in ignorance.' Mr. Seely took no
notice of the communication, not feeling himself bound to carry out his
threat by withdrawing his assistance from his client. But Robert and
William Bolton agreed to have Crinkett's movements watched by a
detective policeman. They were both determined that if possible Crinkett
and the woman should be kept in the country.
In these days the old Squire made many changes in his residence,
vacillating between his house in Cambridge and the house at Folking. His
books were at Cambridge, and he could not have them brought back; and
yet he felt that he ought to evince his constancy to his son, his
conviction of his son's innocence, by remaining at Folking. And he was
aware, too, that his presence there was a comfort both to his son and
Hester. When John Caldigate had gone up to London, his father had been
in Cambridge, but on his return he found the old Squire at his old house.
'Yes,' he said, telling the story of what he had just done, 'I have paid
twenty thousand pounds out of hand to those rascals, simply because I
thought I owed it to them!' The Squire shook his head, not being able
to approve of the act.' I don't see why I should have allowed myself to
be hindered from doing what I thought to be right because they were
doing what they knew to be wrong.'
'They won't go, you know.'
'I daresay not, sir. Why should they?'
'But the jury will believe that you intended to purchase their absence.'
'I think I have made all that clear.'
'I am afraid not, John. The man applied to you for the money, and was
refused. That was the beginning of it. Then the application was repeated
by the woman with a threat; and you again refused. Then they present
themselves to the magistrates, and make the accusation; and, upon that,
you pay the money. Of course it will come out at the trial that you paid
it immediately after this renewed application from Bollum. It would have
been better to have defied them.'
'I did defy them,' said John Caldigate. But all that his father said
seemed to him to be true, so that he repented himself of what he had
done.
He made no inquiry on the subject, but, early in May he heard from Mr.
Seely that Crinkett and the woman were still in London, and that they
had abandoned the idea of going at once to Australia. According to Mr.
Seely's story,--of the truth of which he declared himself to be by
no means certain,--Crinkett had wished to go, but had been retained
by the woman. 'As far as I can learn,' said Mr. Seely, 'she is in
communication with the Boltons, who will of course keep her if it be
possible. He would get off if he could; but she, I take it, has got
hold of the money. When you made the cheque payable to her order, you
effectually provided for their remaining here. If he could have got the
money without her name, he would have gone, and she would have gone
with him.'
'But that was not my object,' said Caldigate angrily. Mr. Seely
thereupon shrugged his shoulders. Early in June the man came back who
had been sent out to Sydney in February on behalf of Caldigate. He also
had been commissioned to seek for evidence, and to bring back with him,
almost at any cost, whatever witness or witnesses he might find whose
presence in England would serve Caldigate's cause. But he brought no
one, and had learned very little. He too had been at Ahalala and at
Nobble. At Nobble the people were now very full of the subject and were
very much divided in opinion. There were Crinketters and
anti-Crinketters, Caldigatites and anti-Caldigatites. A certain number
of persons were ready to swear that there had been a marriage, and an
equal number, perhaps, to swear that there had been none. But no new
fact had been brought to light. Dick Shand had not been found,--who had
been living with Caldigate when the marriage was supposed to have been
solemnised. Nor had that register been discovered from which the copy of
the certificate was supposed to have been taken. All through the
Colony,--so said this agent,--a very great interest was felt in the
matter. The newspapers from day to day contained paragraphs about it.
But nobody had appeared whom it was worth while to bring home. Mrs.
Henniker, of the hotel at Nobble, had offered to swear that there had
been no marriage. This offer she made and repeated when she had come to
understand accurately on whose behalf this last agent had come to the
Colony. But then, before she had understood this, she had offered to
swear the reverse; and it became known that she was very anxious to be
carried back to the old country free of expense. No credible witness
could be found who had heard Caldigate call the woman Mrs. Smith after
the date assigned to the marriage. She no doubt had used various names,
had called herself sometimes Mrs. Caldigate, sometimes Mrs. Smith, but
generally, in such documents as she had to sign in reference to her
mining shares, Euphemia Cettini. It was by that name that she had been
known in Sydney when performing on the stage, and it was now alleged on
her behalf that she had bought and sold shares in that name under the
idea that she would thus best secure to herself their separate and
undisturbed possession. Proof was brought home that Caldigate himself
had made over to her shares in that name; but Mr. Seely did not depend
much on this as proof against the marriage.
Mr. Seely seemed to depend very little on anything,--so little that
Caldigate almost wished that he had carried out his threat and thrown
up the case. 'Does he not believe you when you tell him?' his wife
asked. Caldigate was forced to confess that apparently the lawyer did
not believe him. In fact, Mr. Seely had even said as much. 'In such
cases a lawyer should never believe or disbelieve; or, if he does,
he should never speak of his belief. It is with your acquittal or
conviction that I am concerned, in which matter I can better assist you
by cool judgment than by any fervid assurance.' All this made Caldigate
not only angry but unhappy, for he could not fail to perceive that the
public around him were in the same mind as Mr. Seely. In his own parish
they believed him, but apparently not beyond his parish. It might be
possible that he should escape,--that seemed to be the general opinion;
but then general opinion went on to declare that there was no reason
for supposing that he had not married the woman merely because he said
that he had not done so.
Then gradually there fell upon poor Hester's mind a doubt,--and, after
that, almost a conviction. Not a doubt as to her husband's truth! No
suspicion on that score ever troubled her for a moment. But there came
upon her a fear, almost more than a fear, that these terrible enemies
would be strong enough to override the truth, and to carry with them
both a judge and a jury. As the summer months ran on, they all became
aware that for any purpose of removing the witnesses the money had been
paid in vain. Crinkett was living in all opulence at a hotel at
Brighton; and the woman, calling herself Mrs. Caldigate, had taken
furnished apartments in London. Rumour came that she was frequently seen
at the theatres, and that she had appeared more than once in an open
carriage in the parks. There was no doubt but that Caldigate's money had
made them very comfortable for the present. The whole story of the money
had been made public, and of course there were various opinions about
it. The prevailing idea was, that an attempt had been made to buy off
the first wife, but that the first wife had been clever enough to get
the money without having to go. Caldigate was thought to have been very
foolish; on which subject Bollum once expressed himself strongly to a
friend. 'Clever!' he said; 'Caldigate clever! The greatest idiot I ever
came across in my life! I'd made it quite straight for him,--so that
there couldn't have been a wrinkle. But he wouldn't have it. There are
men so soft that one can't understand 'em.' To do Bollum justice it
should be said that he was most anxious to induce his uncle and the
woman to leave the country when they had got the money.
Though very miserable, Hester was very brave. In the presence of her
husband she would never allow herself to seem to doubt. She would speak
of their marriage as a thing so holy that nothing within the power of
man could disturb it. Of course they were man and wife, and of course
the truth would at last prevail. Was not the Lord able, in His own good
time, to set all these matters right? And in discussing the matter with
him she would always seem to imply that the Lord's good time would be
the time of the trial. She would never herself hint to him that there
might be a period of separation coming. Though in secrecy she was
preparing for what might befall him, turning over in her woman's mind
how she might best relieve the agony of his jail, she let no sign
escape her that she looked forward to such misery. She let no such sign
escape her in her intercourse with him. But with his father she could
speak more freely. It had, indeed, come to be understood between her and
the old Squire, that it would be best that they should discuss the
matter openly. Arrangements must be made for their future life, so that
when the blow came they might not be unprepared. Hester declared that
nothing but positive want of shelter should induce her to go back to
Chesterton. 'They think him to be all that's bad,' she said. 'I know him
to be all that's good. How is it possible that we should live together?'
The old man had, of course, turned it over much in his mind. If it could
be true that that woman had in truth become his son's wife, and that
this dear, sweet, young mother had been deceived, betrayed, and cheated
out of her very existence, then that house at Folking could be no proper
home for her. Her grave would be best, but till that might be reached
any home would be better than Folking. But he was almost sure that it
was not so, and her confidence,--old as he was, and prone to be
suspicious,--made him confident.
When the moment came he could not doubt how he would answer her. He
could not crush her spirit by seeming for a moment to have a suspicion.
'Your home, of course, shall be here,' he said. 'It shall be your own
house.'
'And you?'
'It shall be my house too. If it should come to that, we will be, at any
rate, together. You shall not be left without a friend.'
'It is not for myself,' she said; 'but for his boy and for him;--what
will be best for them. I would take a cabin at the prison-gate, so as to
be nearest to him,--if it were only myself.' And so it was settled
between them, that should that great misery fall upon them, she would
remain at Folking and he would remain with her. Nothing that judge or
jury could do would deprive her of the right to occupy her husband's
house.
In this way the months of May and June and the first fortnight of July
wore themselves away, and then the time for the trial had come. Up to
the last it had been hoped that tidings might be heard either by letter
or telegram from Dick Shand; but it seemed that he had vanished from the
face of the earth. No suggestion of news as to his whereabouts was
received on which it might have been possible to found an argument for
the further postponement of the trial. Mr. Seely had been anxious for
such postponement,--perhaps thinking that as the hotel at Brighton and
the carriages in the park were expensive, Crinkett and the lady might
take their departure for Australia without saying a word to the lawyer
who had undertaken the prosecution. But there was no adequate ground for
delay, and on Tuesday the 17th July the trial was to be commenced. On
the previous day Caldigate, at his own request, was introduced to Sir
John Joram, who had been brought down special to Cambridge for his
defence. Mr. Seely had advised him not to see the barrister who was to
defend him, leaving it, however, quite at his option to do so or not as
he pleased. 'Sir John will see you, but I think he had rather not,' said
Mr. Seely. But Caldigate had chosen to have the interview. 'I have
thought it best to say just one word to you,' said Caldigate.
'I am quite at your service,' said Sir John.
'I want you to hear from my own lips that a falser charge than this was
never made against a man.'
'I am glad to hear it,' said Sir John,--and then he paused. 'That is to
say, Mr. Caldigate, I am bound in courtesy to you to make some such
civil reply as I should have made had I not been employed in your case,
and had circumstances then induced you to make such a statement to me.
But in truth, as I am so employed, no statement from your lips ought to
affect me in the least. For your own sake I will say that no statement
will affect me. It is not for me to believe or disbelieve anything in
this matter. If carried away by my feelings, I were to appeal to the
jury for their sympathy because of my belief, I should betray your
cause. It will be my duty not to make the jury believe you, who, in your
position, will not be expected even to tell the truth; but to induce
them, if possible, to disbelieve the witnesses against you who will be
on their oath. Second-hand protestations from an advocate are never of
much avail, and in many cases have been prejudicial. I can only assure
you that I understand the importance of the interests confided to me,
and that I will endeavour to be true to my trust.'
Caldigate, who wanted sympathy, who wanted an assurance of confidence in
his word, was by no means contented with his counsellor; but he was too
wise at the present moment to quarrel with him.