The News Reaches Cambridge
The tidings of John Caldigate's pardon reached Cambridge on the Saturday
morning, and was communicated in various shapes. Official letters from
the Home Office were written to the governor of the jail and to the
sub-sheriff, to Mr. Seely who was still acting as attorney on behalf of
the prisoner, and to Caldigate himself. The latter was longer than the
others, and contained a gracious expression of Her Majesty's regret that
he as an innocent person should have been subjected to imprisonment. The
Secretary of State also was described as being keenly sensible of the
injustice which had been perpetrated by the unfortunate and most unusual
circumstances of the case. As the Home Office had decided that the man
was to be considered innocent, it decided also on the expression of its
opinion without a shadow of remaining doubt. And the news reached
Cambridge in other ways by the same post. William Bolton wrote both to
his father and brother, and Mr. Brown the Under-Secretary sent a private
letter to the old squire at Folking, of which further mention shall be
made. Before church time on the Sunday morning, the fact that John
Caldigate was to be released, or had been released from prison, was
known to all Cambridge.
Caldigate himself had borne his imprisonment on the whole well. He had
complained but little to those around him, and had at once resolved to
endure the slowly passing two years with silent fortitude,--as a brave
man will resolve to bear any evil for which there is no remedy. But a
more wretched man than he was after the first week of bitterness could
hardly be found. Fortitude has no effect in abating such misery other
than what may come from an absence of fretful impatience. The man who
endures all that the tormentors can do to him without a sign, simply
refuses to acknowledge the agonies inflicted. So it was with Caldigate.
Though he obeyed with placid readiness all the prison instructions, and
composed his features and seemed almost to smile when that which was to
be exacted from him was explained, he ate his heart in dismay as he
counted the days, the hours, the minutes, and then calculated the amount
of misery that was in store for him. And there was so much more for him
to think of than his own condition. He knew of course that he was
innocent of the crime imputed to him;--but would it not be the same to
his wife and child as though he had been in truth guilty? Would not his
boy to his dying day be regarded as illegitimate? And though he had been
wrongly condemned, had not all this come in truth from his own fault?
And when that eternity of misery within the prison walls should have
come to an end,--if he could live through it so as to see the end of
it,--what would then be his fate, and what his duty? He had perfect
trust in his wife; but who could say what two years might do,--two
years during which she would be subjected to the pressure of all her
friends? Where should he find her when the months had passed? And if she
were no longer at Folking, would she come back to him? He was sure,
nearly sure, that he could not claim her as his wife. And were she
still minded to share her future lot with him, in what way should he
treat her? If that horrid woman was his wife in the eye of the law,--and
he feared though hardly knew that it would be so,--then could not that
other one, who was to him as a part of his own soul, be his wife also?
What would become of his child, who, as far as he could see, would not
be his child at all in the eye of the law? Even while he was still a
free man, still uncondemned, an effort had been made to rob him of his
wife and boy,--an effort which for a time had seemed to be successful.
How would Hester be able to withstand such attempts when they would be
justified by a legal decision that she was not his wife,--and could
not become his wife while that other woman was alive? Such thoughts as
these did not tend to relieve the weariness of his days.
The only person from the outside world whom he was allowed to see during
the three months of his incarceration was Mr. Seely, and with him he had
two interviews. From the time of the verdict Mr. Seely was still engaged
in making those enquiries as to the evidence of which we have heard so
much, and though he was altogether unsympathetic and incredulous, still
he did his duty. He had told his client that these enquiries were being
made, and had, on his second visit, informed him of the arrival of Dick
Shand. But he had never spoken with hope, and had almost ridiculed
Bagwax with his postage-stamps and postmarks. When Caldigate first heard
that Dick was in England,--for a minute or two,--he allowed himself to
be full of hope. But the attorney had dashed his hopes. What was Shand's
evidence against the testimony of four witnesses who had borne the fire
of cross-examination? Their character was not very good, but Dick's was,
if possible, worse. Mr. Seely did not think that Dick's word would go
for much. He could simply say that, as far as he knew, there had been no
marriage. And in this Mr. Seely had been right, for Dick's word had not
gone for much. Then, when Crinkett and Mrs. Smith had been arrested, no
tidings had reached him of that further event. It had been thought best
that nothing as to that should be communicated to him till the result
should be known.
Thus it had come to pass that when the tidings reached the prison he was
not in a state of expectation. The governor of the prison knew what was
going on, and had for days been looking for the order of release. But he
had not held himself to be justified in acquainting his prisoner with
the facts. The despatches to him and to Caldigate from the Home Office
were marked immediate, and by the courtesy of the postmaster were given
in at the prison gates before daylight. Caldigate was still asleep when
the door of the cell was opened by the governor in person and the
communication was made to him as he lay for the last time stretched on
his prison pallet. 'You can get up a free man, Mr. Caldigate,' said the
governor, with his hand on his prisoner's shoulder. 'I have here the
Queen's pardon. It has reached me this morning.' Caldigate got up and
looked at the man as though he did not at first understand the words
that had been spoken. 'It is true, Mr. Caldigate. Here is my
authority,--and this, no doubt, is a communication of the same nature to
yourself.' Then Caldigate took the letter, and, with his mind still
bewildered, made himself acquainted with the gratifying fact that all
the big-wigs were very sorry for the misfortune which had befallen him.
In his state of mind, as it then was, he was by no means disposed to
think much of the injustice done to him. He had in store for him, for
immediate use, a whole world of glorious bliss. There was his house, his
property, his farm, his garden, and the free air. And there would be the
knowledge of all those around him that he had not done the treacherous
thing of which those wretches had accused him.
And added to all this, and above all this, there would be his wife and
his child! It was odd enough that a word from the mouth of an exalted
Parliamentary personage should be able to give him back one wife and
release him from another,--in opposition to the decision of the
law,--should avail to restore to his boy the name and birthright of
which he had been practically deprived, and should, by a stroke of his
pen, undo all that had been done by the combined efforts of jury, judge,
and prosecutor! But he found that so it was. He was pardoned, forsooth,
as though he were still a guilty man! Yet he would have back his wife
and child, and no one could gainsay him.
'When can I go?' he said, jumping from his bed.
'When you please;--now, at once. But you had better come into the house
and breakfast with me first.'
'If I may I would rather go instantly. Can you send for a carriage for
me?' Then the governor endeavoured to explain to him that it would be
better for his wife, and more comfortable for everybody concerned, that
she should have been enabled to expect him, if it were only for an hour
or two, before his arrival. A communication would doubtless have been
made from the Home Office to some one at Folking, and as that would be
sent out by the foot-postman it would not be received before nine in the
morning.
But Caldigate would not allow himself to be persuaded. As for eating
before he had seen the dear ones at home, that he declared to be
impossible. A vision of what that breakfast might be to him with his own
wife at his side came before his eyes, and therefore a messenger was at
once sent for the vehicle.
But the postmaster, who from the beginning had never been a believer in
the Australian wife, and, being a Liberal, was staunch to the Caldigate
side of the question, would not allow the letter addressed to the old
squire to be retained for the slow operations of the regular messenger,
but sent it off manfully by horse express, before the dawn of day, so
that it reached the old squire almost as soon as the other letters
reached the prison. The squire, who was an early man, was shaving
himself when the despatch was brought into his room with an intimation
that the boy on horseback wanted to know what he was to do next. The boy
of course got his breakfast and Mr. Caldigate read his letter, which was
as follows:--
'HOME OFFICE,--_October_, 187-.
'My DEAR SIR,--When you did me the honour of calling upon me here I
was able to do no more than express my sympathy as to the misfortune
which had fallen upon your family, and to explain to you, I fear not
very efficiently, that at that moment the mouths of all of us here
were stopped by official prudence as to the matter which was
naturally so near your heart. I have now the very great pleasure of
informing you that the Secretary of State has this morning received
her Majesty's command to issue a pardon for your son. The official
intimation will be sent to him and to the county authorities by this
post, and by the time that this reaches you he will be a free man.
'In writing to you, I need hardly explain that the form of a pardon
from the Throne is the only mode allowed by the laws of the country
for setting aside a verdict which has been found in error upon false
evidence. Unfortunately, perhaps, we have not the means of annulling
a criminal conviction by a second trial; and therefore, on such
occasions as this,--occasions which are very rare,--we have but this
lame way of redressing a great grievance. I am happy to think that
in this case the future effect will be as complete as though the
verdict had been reversed. As to the suffering which has been
already endured by your son, by his much-injured wife, and by
yourself, I am aware that no redress can be given.
It is one of those cases in which the honest and good have to
endure a portion of the evil produced by the dishonesty of the
wicked. I can only add to this my best wishes for your son's
happiness on his return to his home, and express a hope that you
will understand that I would most willingly have made your visit to
the Home Office more satisfactory had it been within my power to do
so.--Believe me, very faithfully yours,
'SEPTIMUS BROWN.'
He had not read this letter to the end, and had hardly washed the soap
from his face, before he was in his daughter-in-law's room. She was
there with her child, still in bed,--thinking, thinking, thinking
whether there would ever come an end to her misery. 'It has come,' said
the old man.
'What has come?' she asked, jumping up with the baby in her arms. But
she knew what had come, for he had the letter open in his hands.
'They have pardoned him. The absurdity of the thing! Pardoning a man
whom they know to be innocent, and to have been injured!'
But the 'absurdity of the thing,' as the old squire very naturally
called it, was nothing to her now. He was to come back to her. She would
be in his arms that day. On that very day she would once again hold up
her boy to be kissed by his father.
'Where is he? When will he come? Of course I will go to him! You will
make them have the waggonnette at once; will you not? I will be dressed
in five minutes if you will go. Of course I will go to fetch him.'
But this the squire would not allow. The carriage should be sent, of
course, and if it met his son on the road, as was probable, there would
be no harm done. But it would not be well that the greeting between the
husband and the wife should be in public. So he went out to order the
carriage and to prepare himself to accompany it, leaving her to think
of her happiness and to make herself ready for the meeting. But when
left to herself she could hardly compose herself so as to brush her hair
and give herself those little graces which should be pleasant to his
eye. 'Papa is coming,' she said to her boy over and over again. 'Papa is
coming back. Papa will be here; your own, own, own papa.' Then she threw
aside the black gown, which she had worn since he left her, and chose
for her wear one which he himself had taken pride in buying for
her,--the first article of her dress in the choice of which he had been
consulted as her husband; and with quick unsteady hand she pulled out
some gay ribbon for her baby. Yes;--she and her boy would once again be
bright for his sake;--for his sake there should again be gay ribbons and
soft silks. 'Papa is coming, my own one; your own, own papa!' and then
she smothered the child with kisses.
While they were sitting at breakfast at Puritan Grange, the same news
reached Mr. and Mrs. Bolton. The letter to the old man from his son in
town was very short, merely stating that the authorities at the Home
Office had at last decided that Caldigate should be released from
prison. The writer knew that his father would be prepared for this news
by his brother; and all that could be said in the way of argument had
been said already. The letters which came to Puritan Grange were few in
number, and were generally addressed to the lady. The banker's letters
were all received at the house of business in the town. 'What is it?'
asked the wife, as soon as she saw the long official envelope. But he
read it to the end very slowly before he vouchsafed her any reply. 'It
has to do with that wretched man in prison,' she said. 'What is it?'
'He is in prison no longer.'
'They have let him escape?'
'The Queen has pardoned him because he was not guilty.'
'The Queen! As though she could know whether he be guilty or innocent.
What can the Queen know of the manner of his life in foreign
parts,--before he had taken my girl away from me?'
'He never married the woman. Let there be no more said about it. He
never married her.'
But Mrs. Bolton, though she was not victorious, was not to be silenced
by a single word. No more about it, indeed! There must be very much more
about it. 'If she was not his wife, she was worse,' she said.
'He has repented of that.'
'Repented!' she said, with scorn. What very righteous person ever
believed in the repentance of an enemy?
'Why should he not repent?'
'He has had leisure in jail.'
'Let us hope that he has used it. At any rate he is her husband. There
are not many days left to me here. Let me at least see my daughter
during the few that remain to me.'
'Do I not want to see my own child?'
'I will see her and her boy;--and I will have them called by the name
which is theirs. And he shall come,--if he will. Who are you, or who am
I, that we shall throw in his teeth the sins of his youth?' Then she
became sullen and there was not a word more said between them that
morning. But after breakfast the old gardener was sent into town for a
fly, and Mr. Bolton was taken to the bank.
'And what are we to do now?' asked Mrs. Robert Bolton of her husband,
when the tidings were made known to her also at her breakfast-table.
'We must take it as a fact that she is his wife.'
'Of course, my dear. If the Secretary of State were to say that I was
his wife, I suppose I should have to take it as a fact.'
'If he said that you were a goose it might be nearer the mark.'
'Really! But a goose must know what she is to do.'
'You must write her a letter and call her Mrs. Caldigate. That will be
an acknowledgment.'
'And what shall I say to her?'
'Ask her to come here, if you will.'
'And him?'
'And him, too. The fact is we have got to swallow it all. I was sure
that he had married that woman, and then of course I wanted to get
Hester away from him. Now I believe that he never married her, and
therefore we must make the best of him as Hester's husband.'
'You used to like him.'
'Yes;--and perhaps I shall again. But why on earth did he pay twenty
thousand pounds to those miscreants? That is what I could not get over.
It was that which made me sure he was guilty. It is that which still
puzzles me so that I can hardly make up my mind to be quite sure that he
is innocent. But still we have to be sure. Perhaps the miracle will be
explained some day.'