The thunderbolt had fallen now. Caldigate, when he left his wife that he might stroll about the place after the dusk had fallen, told himself again and again that the thunderbolt had certainly fallen now. There could be no longer a doubt but that this woman would claim him as her husband. A whole world of remorse and regrets oppressed his conscience and his heart. He looked back and remembered the wise counsels which had been given him on board the ship, when the captain and Mrs. Callender and poor Dick Shand had remonstrated with him, and called to mind his own annoyance when he had bidden them mind their own affairs. And then he remembered how he had determined to break away from the woman at Sydney, and to explain to her, as he might then have done without injustice, that they two could be of no service the one to the other, and that they had better part. It seemed now, as he looked back, to have been so easy for him then to have avoided danger, so easy to have kept a straight course! But now,— now, surely he would be overwhelmed.

And then how easy it would have been, had he been more careful at the beginning of these troubles, to have bought these wretches off! He had been, he now acknowledged, too peremptory in his first refusal to refund a portion of the money to Crinkett. The application had, indeed, been made without those proofs as to the condition of the mine which had since reached him, and he had distrusted Crinkett. Crinkett he had known to be a man not to be trusted. But yet, even after receiving the letter from Euphemia Smith, the matter might have been arranged. When he had first become assured that the new Polyeuka Company had failed, he should have made an offer, even though Euphemia Smith had then commenced her threats. With skill, might he not have done it on this very day? Might he not have made the man understand that if he would base his claim simply on his losses, and make it openly on that ground, then his claim should be considered? But now it was too late, and the thunderbolt had fallen.

What must he do first? Robert Bolton had promised to tell him on the morrow whether he would act for him as his lawyer. He felt sure now that his brother-in-law would not do so; but it would be necessary that he should have an answer, and that necessity would give him an excuse for going into Cambridge and showing himself among the Boltons. Let his sufferings or his fears be what they might, he would never confess to the world that he suffered or that he was frightened, by shutting himself up. He would be seen about Cambridge, walking openly, as though no reports, no rumours, had been spread about concerning him. He would go to the houses of his wife’s relations until he should be told that he was not welcome.

‘John,’ his wife said to him that night, ‘bear it like a man.’

‘Am I not bearing it like a man?’

‘It is crushing your very heart. I see it in your eyes.’

‘Can you bear it?’ He asked his question with a stern voice; but as he asked it he turned to her and kissed her.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes. While I have you with me, and baby, I can bear anything. While you will tell me everything that happens, I will bear everything. And, John, when you were out just now, and when I am alone and trying to pray, I told myself that I ought not to be unhappy; for I would sooner have you and baby and all these troubles, than be back at Chesterton — without you.’

‘I wish you were back there. I wish you had never seen me.’

‘If you say that, then I shall be crushed.’

‘For your sake, my darling; for your sake,— for your sake! How shall I comfort you when all those around you are saying that you are not my wife?’

‘By telling me that I am,’ she said, coming and kneeling at his feet, and looking up into his face. ‘If you say so, you may be sure that I shall believe no one who says the contrary.’

It was thus, and only now, that he began to know the real nature of the woman whom he had succeeded in making his own, and of whom he found now that even her own friends would attempt to rob him. ‘I will bear it,’ he said, as he embraced her. ‘I will bear it, if I can, like a man.’

‘Oh, ma’am! those men were saying horrid things,’ her nurse said to her that night.

‘Yes; very horrid things. I know it all. It is part of a wicked plot to rob Mr. Caldigate of his money. It is astonishing the wickedness that people will contrive. It is very very sad. I don’t know how long it may be before Mr. Caldigate can prove it all.’

‘But he can prove it all, ma’am?’

‘Of course he can. The truth can always be proved at last. I trust there will be no one about the place to doubt him. If there were such a one, I would not speak to him,— though it were my own father; though it were my own mother.’ Then she took the baby in her arms, as though fearing that the nurse herself might not be loyal.

‘I don’t think there will be any as knows master, will be wrong enough for that,’ said the nurse, understanding what was expected of her. After that, but not quite readily, the baby was once more trusted to her.

On the following morning Caldigate rode into the town, and as he put his horse up at the inn, he felt that the very ostler had heard the story. As he walked along the street, it seemed to him that everyone he met knew all about it. Robert Bolton would, of course, have heard it; but nevertheless he walked boldly into the attorney’s office. His fault at the time was in being too bold in manner, in carrying himself somewhat too erect, in assuming too much confidence in his eye and mouth. To act a part perfectly requires a consummate actor; and there are phases in life in which acting is absolutely demanded. A man cannot always be at his ease, but he should never seem to be discomfited. For petty troubles the amount of acting necessary is so common that habit has made it almost natural. But when great sorrows come it is hard not to show them,— and harder still not to seem to hide them.

When he entered the private room he found that the old man was there with his son. He shook hands, of course, with both of them, and then he stood a moment silent to hear how they would address him. But as they also were silent he was compelled to speak. ‘I hope you got home all right, sir, yesterday; and Mrs. Bolton.’

The old man did not answer, but he turned his face round to his son. ‘I hear that you had that man Crinkett out at Folking yesterday,’ said Robert.

‘He was there, certainly, to my sorrow.’

‘And another with him?’

‘Yes; and another with him, whom I had also known at Nobble.’

‘And they were brought in to breakfast?’

‘Yes.’

‘And they afterwards declared that you had married a wife out there in the colony?’

‘That also is true.’

‘They have been with my father this morning.’

‘I am very, very sorry, sir,’ said Caldigate, turning to the old man, ‘that you should have been troubled in so disagreeable a business.’

‘Now, Caldigate, I will tell you what we propose.’ It was still the attorney who was speaking, for the old man had not as yet opened his mouth since his son-in-law had entered the room. ‘There can, I think, be no doubt that this woman intends to bring an accusation of bigamy against you.’

‘She is threatening to do it. I think it very improbable that she will be fool enough to make the attempt.’

‘From what I have heard I feel sure that the attempt will be made. Depositions, in fact, will be made before the magistrates some day this week. Crinkett and the woman have been with the mayor this morning, and have been told the way in which they should proceed.’ Caldigate, when he heard this, felt that he was trembling, but he looked into the speaker’s face without allowing his eyes to turn to the right or left. ‘I am not going to say anything now about the case itself. Indeed, as I know nothing, I can say nothing. You must provide yourself with a lawyer.’

‘You will not act for me?’

‘Certainly not. I must act for my sister. Now what I propose, and what her father proposes, is this,— that she shall return to her home at Puritan Grange while this question is being decided.’

‘Certainly not,’ said the husband.

‘She must,’ said the old man, speaking for the first time.

‘We shall compel it,’ said the attorney.

‘Compel! How will you compel it? She is my wife.’

‘That has to be proved. Public opinion will compel it, if nothing else. You cannot make a prisoner of her.’

‘Oh, she shall go if she wishes it. You shall have free access to her. Bring her mother. Bring your carriage. She shall dispose of herself as she pleases. ............