After the Verdict
When the verdict was given, Caldigate was at once marched round into the
dock, having hitherto been allowed to sit in front of the dock between
Mr. Seely and his father. But, standing in the dock, he heard the
sentence pronounced upon him. 'I never married the woman, my lord,' he
said, in a loud voice. But what he said could be of no avail. And then
men looked at him as he disappeared with the jailers down the steps
leading to regions below, and away to his prison, and they knew that he
would no more be seen or heard of for two years. He had vanished. But
there was the lady who was not his wife out at Folking,--the lady whom
the jury had declared not to be his wife. What would become of her?
There was an old gentleman there in the court who had known Mr.
Caldigate for many years,--one Mr. Ryder, who had been himself a
practising barrister but had now retired. In those days they seldom saw
each other; but, nevertheless, they were friends. 'Caldigate,' he said,
'you had better let her go back to her own people.'
'She shall stay with me,' he replied.
'Better not. Believe me, she had better not. If so, how will it be with
her when he is released? The two years will soon go by, and then she
will be in his house. If that woman should die, he might marry her,--but
till then she had better be with her own people.'
'She shall stay with me,' the old man said again, repeating the words
angrily, and shaking his head. He was so stunned by the blow that he
could not argue the matter, but he knew that he had made the promise,
and that he was resolved to abide by it.
She had better go back to her own people! All the world was saying it.
She had no husband now. Everybody would respect her misfortune.
Everybody would acknowledge her innocence. All would sympathise with
her. All would love her. But she must go back to her own people. There
was not a dissentient voice. 'Of course she must go back to you now,'
Nicholas Bolton said to her father, and Nicholas Bolton seldom
interfered in anything. 'The poor lady will of course be restored to her
family,' the judge had said in private to his marshal, and the marshal
had of course made known what the judge had said. On the next morning
there came a letter from William Bolton to Robert. 'Of course Hester
must come back now. Nothing else is possible.' Everybody decided that
she must come back. It was a matter which admitted of no doubt. But how
was she to be brought to Chesterton?
None of them who decided with so much confidence as to her future,
understood her ideas of her position as a wife. 'I am bone of his bone
and flesh of his flesh,' she said to herself, 'made so by a sacrament
which no jury can touch. What matters what the people say? They may make
me more unhappy than I am. They may kill me by their cruelty. But they
cannot make me believe myself not to be his wife. And while I am his
wife, I will obey him, and him only.'
What she called 'their cruelty' manifested itself very soon. The first
person who came to her was Mrs. Robert Bolton, and her visit was made on
the day after the verdict. When Hester sent down word begging to be
permitted in her misery to decline to see even her sister-in-law, Mrs.
Robert sent her up a word or two written in pencil--'My darling, whom
have you nearer? Who loves you better than I?' Then the wretched one
gave way, and allowed her brother's wife to be brought to her. She was
already dressed from head to foot in black, and her baby was with her.
The arguments which Mrs. Robert Bolton used need not be repeated, but it
may be said that the words she used were so tender, and that they were
urged with so much love, so much sympathy, and so much personal
approval, that Hester's heart was touched. 'But he is my husband,'
Hester said. 'The judge cannot alter it; he is my husband.'
'I will not say a word to the contrary. But the law has separated you,
and you should obey the law. You should not even eat his bread now,
because--because--. Oh, Hester, you understand.'
'I do understand,' she said, rising to her feet in her energy, 'and
I will eat his bread though it be hard, and I will drink of his cup
though it be bitter. His bread and his cup shall be mine, and none
other shall be mine. I do understand. I know that these wicked people
have blasted my life. I know that I can be nothing to him now. But his
child shall never be made to think that his mother had condemned his
father. Yes, Margaret,' she said again, 'I do love you, and I do trust
you, and I know that you love me. But you do not love him; you do not
believe in him. If they came to you and took Robert away, would you go
and live with other people? I do love papa and mamma. But this is his
house, and he bids me stay here. The very clothes which I wear are his
clothes. I am his; and though they were to cut me apart from him, still
I should belong to him. No,--I will not go to mamma. Of course I have
forgiven her, because she meant it for the best; but I will never go
back to Chesterton.'
Then there came letters from the mother, one letter hot upon the other,
all appealing to those texts in Scripture by which the laws of nations
are supposed to be supported. 'Give unto Caesar the things which are
Caesar's.' It was for the law to declare who were and who were not man
and wife, and in this matter the law had declared. After this how could
she doubt? Or how could she hesitate as to tearing herself away from the
belongings of the man who certainly was not her husband? And there were
dreadful words in these letters which added much to the agony of her who
received them,--words which were used in order that their strength might
prevail. But they had no strength to convert, though they had strength
to afflict. Then Mrs. Bolton, who in her anxiety was ready to submit
herself to any personal discomfort, prepared to go to Folking. But
Hester sent back word that, in her present condition, she would see
nobody,--not even her mother.
But it was not only from the family of the Boltons that these
applications and entreaties came. Even Mr. Seely took upon himself to
tell Mr. Caldigate that under existing circumstances Hester should not
be detained at Folking.
'I do not know that either she or I want advice in the matter,' Mr.
Caldigate replied. But as a stone will be worn hollow in time by the
droppings of many waters, so was it thought that if all Cambridge would
continue firm in its purpose, then this stone might at last be made to
yield. The world was so anxious that it resolved among itself that it
would submit to any amount of snubbing in carrying out its object. Even
the mayor wrote. 'Dear Mr. Caldigate, greatly as I object to all
interference in families, I think myself bound to appeal to you as to
the unfortunate condition of that young lady from Chesterton.' Then
followed all the arguments, and some of the texts,--both of which were
gradually becoming hackneyed in the matter. Mr. Caldigate's answer to
this was very characteristic: 'Dear Mr. Mayor, if you have an objection
to interfere in families, why do you do it?' The mayor took the rebuke
with placid good-humour, feeling that his little drop might also have
done something towards hollowing the stone.
But of all the counsellors, perhaps Mr. Smirkie was the most zealous and
the most trusting. He felt himself to be bound in a peculiar manner to
Folking,--by double ties. Was not the clergyman of the parish the
brother of his dear departed one? And with whom better could he hold
sweet counsel? And then that second dear one, who had just been
vouchsafed to him,--had she not as it were by a miracle been rescued
from the fate into which the other poor lady had fallen, and obtained
her present thoroughly satisfactory position? Mr. Smirkie was a
clergyman who understood it to be his duty to be urgent for the good
cause, in season and out of season, and who always did his duty. So he
travelled over to Utterden and discussed the matter at great length with
Mr. Bromley. 'I do believe in my heart,' said Mr. Bromley, 'that the
verdict is wrong.' But Mr. Smirkie, with much eloquence, averred that
that had nothing to do with the question. Mr. Bromley opened his eyes
very wide. 'Nothing at all,' said Mr. Smirkie. 'It is the verdict of the
jury, confirmed by the judge, and the verdict itself dissolves the
marriage. Whether the verdict be wrong or right, that marriage ceremony
is null and void. They are not man and wife;--not now, even if they ever
were. Of course you are aware of that.'
Mr. Smirkie was altogether wrong in his law. Such men generally are. Mr.
Bromley in vain endeavoured to point out to him that the verdict could
have no such power as was here claimed for it, and that if any claim was
to be brought up hereafter as to the legitimacy of the child, the fact
of the verdict could only be used as evidence, and that that evidence
would or would not be regarded as true by another jury, according to the
views which that other jury might take. Mr. Smirkie would only repeat
his statements with increased solemnity,--'That marriage is no marriage.
That poor lady is not Mrs. John Caldigate. She is Miss Hester Bolton,
and, therefore, every breath of air which she draws under that roof is a
sin.' As he said this out upon the dike-side he looked about him with
manifest regret that he had no other audience than his brother-in-law.
And at last, after much persevering assiduity, Mr. Smirkie succeeded in
reaching Mr. Caldigate himself, and expressed himself with boldness. He
was a man who had at any rate the courage of his opinions. 'You have to
think of her future life in this world and in the next,' he said. 'And
in the next,' he repeated with emphasis, when Mr. Caldigate paused.
'As to what will affect her happiness in this world, sir,' said the old
man very gravely, 'I think you can hardly be a judge.'
'Good repute,' suggested the clergyman.
'Has she done anything that ought to lessen the fair fame of a woman in
the estimation of other women? And as to the next world, in the rewards
and punishments of which you presume it to be your peculiar duty to
deal, has she done anything which you think will subject her to the
special wrath of an offended Deity?' This question he asked with a
vehemence of voice which astounded his companion. 'She has loved her
husband with a peculiar love,' he continued. 'She has believed herself
to be joined to him by ties which you shall call romantic, if you
will,--superstitious, if you will.'
'I hope not,--I hope not,' said Mr. Smirkie, holding up both his hands,
not at all understanding the old man's meaning, but intending to express
horror at 'superstition,' which he supposed to be a peculiar attribute
of the Roman Catholic branch of the Christian Church. 'Not that I hope.'
'I cannot fathom, and you, apparently, cannot at all understand, her
idea of the sanctity of the marriage vow. But if you knew anything
about her, I think you would refrain from threatening her with divine
wrath; and as you know nothing about her, I regard such threats, coming
from you, as impertinent, unmanly, inhuman, and blasphemous.' Mr.
Caldigate had commenced this conversation, though vehemently, still in
so argumentative a manner, and in his allusions to the lady's romantic
and superstitious ideas had seemed to yield so much, that the terrible
vigour of his last words struck the poor clergyman almost to the
ground. One epithet came out after another, very clearly spoken, with a
pause between each of them; and the speaker, as he uttered them, looked
his victim close in the face. Then he walked slowly away, leaving Mr.
Smirkie fixed to the ground. What had he done? He had simply made a
gentle allusion to the next world, as, surely, it was his duty to do.
Whether this old pagan did or did not believe in a next world himself,
he must at any rate be aware that it is the peculiar business of a
clergyman to make such references. As to 'impertinent' and 'unmanly,'
he would let them go by. He was, he conceived, bound by his calling to
be what people called impertinent, and manliness had nothing to do with
him. But 'inhuman' and blasphemous!' Why had he come all the way over
from Plum-cum-Pippins, at considerable personal expense, except in
furtherance of that highest humanity which concerns itself with
eternity? And as for blasphemy, it might, he thought, as well be said
that he was blasphemous whenever he read the Bible aloud to his flock!
His first idea was to write an exhaustive letter on the subject to
Mr. Caldigate, in which he would invite that gentleman to recall the
offensive words. But as he drove his gig into the parsonage yard at
Plum-cum-Pippins, he made up his mind that this, too, was among the
things which a Christian minister should bear with patience.
But the dropping water always does hollow the stone,--hollow it a little
though the impression may not be visible to the naked eye. Even when
rising in his wrath, Mr. Caldigate had crushed the clergyman by the
violence of his language,--having been excited to anger chiefly by the
thick-headedness of the man in not having understood the rebuke intended
to be conveyed by his earlier and gentler words,--even when leaving the
man, with a full conviction that the man was crushed, the old Squire was
aware that he, the stone, was being gradually hollowed. Hester was now
very dear to him. From the first she had suited his ideas of a wife for
his son. And her constancy in her misery had wound itself into his
heart. He quite understood that her welfare should now be his great
care. There was no one else from whom she would listen to a word of
advice. From her husband, whose slightest word would have been a law to
her, no word could now come. From her own family she was entirely
estranged, having been taught to regard them simply as enemies in this
matter. She loved her mother; but in this matter her mother was her
declared enemy. His voice, and his voice alone, could now reach her
ears. As to that great hereafter to which the clergyman had so
flippantly alluded, he was content to leave that to herself. Much as he
differed from her as to details of a creed, he felt sure that she was
safe there. To his thinking, she was the purest human being that had
ever come beneath his notice. Whatever portion of bliss there may be for
mankind in a life after this life, the fullest portion of that bliss
would be hers, whether by reason of her creed or in spite of it.
Accustomed to think much of things, it was thus that he thought of her
in reference to the world to come. But as to this world, he was not
quite so sure. If she could die and have that other bliss at once, that
would be best,--only for the child, only for the child! But he did
doubt. Would it do for her to ignore that verdict altogether, when his
son should be released from jail, and be to him as though there had been
no verdict? Would not the finger of scorn be pointed at her;--and, as he
thought of it,--possibly at future children? Might it not be better for
her to bow to the cruelty of Fate, and consent to be apart from him at
any rate while that woman should be alive? And again, if such would be
better, then was it not clear that no time should be lost in beginning
that new life? If at last it should be ruled that she must go back to
her mother, it would certainly be well that she should do so now, at
once, so that people might know that she had yielded to the verdict. In
this way the stone was hollowed--though the hollowing had not been made
visible to the naked eye of Mr. Smirkie.
He was a man whose conscience did not easily let him rest when he
believed that a duty was incumbent on him. It was his duty now, he
thought, not to bid her go, not to advise her to go,--but to put before
her what reasons there might be for her going.
'I am telling you,' he said, 'what other people say.'
'I do not regard what other people say.'
'That might be possible for a man, Hester, but a woman has to regard
what the world says. You are young, and may have a long life before you.
We cannot hide from ourselves the fact that a most terrible misfortune
has fallen upon you, altogether undeserved but very grievous.'
'God, when he gave me my husband,' she replied, 'did me more good than
any man can do me harm by taking him away. I never cease to tell myself
that the blessing is greater than the misfortune.'
'But, my dearest----'
'I know it all, father. I know what you would tell me. If I live here
after he comes out of prison people will say that I am his mistress.'
'Not that, not that,' he cried, unable to bear the contumely of the
word, even from her lips.
'Yes, father; that is what you mean. That is what they all mean. That is
what mamma means, and Margaret. Let them call me what they will. It is
not what they call me, but what I am. It is bad for a woman to have evil
said of her, but it is worse for her to do evil. It is your house, and
you, of course, can bid me go.'
'I will never do that.'
'But unless I am turned out homeless on to the roads, I will stay here
where he left me. I have only one sure way of doing right, and that is
to obey him as closely as I can. He cannot order me now, but he has left
his orders. He has told me to remain under this roof, and to call myself
by his name, and in no way to derogate from my own honour as his wife.
By God's help I will do as he bids me. Nothing that any of them can say
shall turn me an inch from the way he has pointed out. You are good to
me.'
'I will try to be good to you.'
'You are so good to me that I can hardly understand your goodness.
Trusting to that, I will wait here till he shall come again and tell me
where and how I am to live.'
After that the old Squire made no further attempt in the same direction,
finding that no slightest hollow had been made on that other stone.