It had been arranged at Folking, before Hester had started, that Caldigate himself should drive the waggonette into Cambridge to take her back on the Wednesday, but that he would bring a servant with him who should drive the carriage up to the Grange, so that he, personally, should not have to appear at the door of the house. He would remain at Mr. Seely’s, and then the waggonette should pick him up. This had been explained to Mrs. Bolton. ‘John will remain in town, because he has so much to do with Mr. Seely,’ Hester had said; ‘and Richard will call here at about twelve.’ All her plans had thus been made known, and Mrs. Bolton was aware at what hour the bolts must be drawn and the things removed.

But, as the time drew nearer, her dislike to a sudden commencement of absolute hostilities became stronger,— to hostilities which would seem to have no sanction from Mr. Bolton himself, because he would then be absent. And he too, though as he lay awake through the dreary hours of the long night he said no word about the plan, felt, and felt more strongly as the dawn was breaking, that it would be mean to leave his daughter with a farewell kiss, knowing as he would do that he was leaving her within prison-bars, leaving her to the charge of jailers. The farewell kiss would be given as though he and she were to meet no more in her old home till this terrible trial should be over, and some word appropriate to such a parting would then be spoken. But any such parting word would be false, and the falsehood would be against his own child! ‘Does she expect it?’ he said, in a low voice, when his wife came up to him as he was dressing.

‘She expects nothing. I am thinking that perhaps you would tell her that she could not go to-day.’

‘I could not say “to-day.” If I tell her anything, I must tell her all.’

‘Will not that be best?’ Then the old man thought it all over. It would be very much the best for him not to say anything about it if he could reconcile it to his conscience to leave the house without doing so. And he knew well that his wife was more powerful than he,— gifted with greater persistence, more capable of enduring a shower of tears or a storm of anger. The success of the plan would be more probable if the conduct of it were left entirely to his wife, but his conscience was sore within him.

‘You will come with me to the gate,’ he said to his daughter, after their silent breakfast.

‘Oh yes;— to say good-bye.’

Then he took his hat, and his gloves, and his umbrella, very slowly, lingering in the hall as he did so, while his wife kept her seat firm and square at the breakfast table. Hester had her hat and shawl with her; but Mrs. Bolton did not suspect that she would endeavour to escape now without returning for her child. Therefore she sat firm and square, waiting to hear from Hester herself what her father might bring himself to communicate to her. ‘Hester,’ he said, as he slowly walked round the sweep in front of the house, ‘Hester,’ he said, ‘you would do your duty best to God and man,— best to John Caldigate and to your child,— by remaining here.’

‘How can I unless he tells me?’

‘You have your father’s authority.’

‘You surrendered it when you gave me to him as his wife. It is not that I would rebel against you, papa, but that I must obey him. Does not St. Paul say, “Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord”?’

‘Certainly; and you cannot suppose that in any ordinary case I would interfere between you and him. It is not that I am anxious to take anything from him that belongs to him.’ Then, as they were approaching the gate, he stood still. ‘But now, in such an emergency as this, when a question has risen as to his power of making you his wife ——’

‘I will not hear of that. I am his wife.’

‘Then it may become my duty and your mother’s to — to — to provide you with a home till the law shall have decided.’

‘I cannot leave his home unless he bids me.’

‘I am telling you of my duty — of my duty and your mother’s.’ Then he passed out through the gate, thus having saved his conscience from the shame of a false farewell; and she slowly made her way back to the house, after standing for a moment to look after him as he went. She was almost sure now that something was intended. He would not have spoken in that way of his duty unless he had meant her to suppose that he intended to perform it. ‘My duty,’ he had said, ‘my duty and your mother’s!’ Of course something was intended, something was to be done or said more than had been done or said already. During the breakfast she had seen in the curves of her mother’s mouth the signs of some resolute purpose. During the very prayers she had heard in her mother’s voice a sound as of a settled determination She knew,— she knew that something was to be done, and with that knowledge she went back into her mother’s room, and sat herself down firmly and squarely at the table. She had left her cup partly full, and began again to drink her tea. ‘What did your papa say to you?’ asked her mother.

‘Papa bade me stay here, but I told him that most certainly I should go home to Folking.’ Then Mrs. Bolton also became aware of fixed will and resolute purpose on her daughter’s part.

‘Does his word go for nothing?’

‘How can two persons’ words go for anything when obedience is concerned? It is like God and Mammon.’

‘Hester!’

‘If two people tell one differently, it must be right to cling to one and leave the other. No man can serve two masters. I have got to obey my husband. Even were I to say that I would stay, he could come and take me away.’

‘He could not do that.’

‘I shall not be so disobedient as to make it necessary The carriage will be here at twelve, and I shall go. I had better go and help nurse to put the things up.’ So saying she left the room, but Mrs. Bolton remained there a while, sitting square and firm at the table.

It was not yet ten when she slowly followed her daughter up-stairs. She first went into her own room for a moment, to collect her thoughts over again, and then she walked across the passage to her daughter’s chamber. She knocked at the door, but entered as she knocked. ‘Nurse,’ she said, ‘will you go into my room for a minute or two? I wish to speak to your mistress. May she take the baby, Hester?’ The baby was taken, and then the two were alone. ‘Do not pack up your things to-day, Hester.’

‘Why not?’

‘You are not going to-day.’

‘I am going to-day, mamma.’

‘That I should seem to be cruel to you,— only seem,— cuts me to the heart. But you cannot go back to Folking to-day.’

‘When am I to go?’

‘Ah, Hester!’

‘Tell me what you mean, mamma. Is it that I am to be a prisoner?’

‘If you would be gentle I would explain it.’

‘I will not be gentle. You mean to keep me,— by violence; but I mean to go; my husband will come. I will not be kept. Oh, mamma, you would not desire me to quarrel with you openly, before the servants, before all the world! I will not be kept. I will certainly go back to Folking. Would I not go back though I had to get through the windows, to walk the whole way, to call upon the policemen even to help me?’

‘No one will help you, Hester. Every one will know that for the present this should be your home.’

‘It never shall be my home again,’ said Hester, bursting into tears, and rushing after her baby.

Then there were two hours of intense misery in that house,— of misery to all who were concerned. The servants, down to the girl in the scullery and the boy who cleaned the boots, were made aware that master and mistress were both determined to keep their married daughter a prisoner in the house. The servants of the house sided with their mistress generally, having all of them been induced to regard John Caldigate with horror. Hester’s nurse, of course, sympathised with her and her baby. During these two hours the packing was completed, but Hester found that her strong walking-boots and her bonnet had been abstracted. Did they really think that at such a time as this boots and bonnets would be anything to her? They could know nothing of her nature. They could not understand the sort of combat she would carry on if an attempt were made to take from her her liberty,— an attempt made by those who had by law no right to control her! When once she had learned what was being done she would not condescend to leave her room till the carriage should have come. That that would come punctually at twelve she was sure. Then she would go down without her bonnet and without her boots, and see whether any one would dare to stand in her way, as with her baby in her arms she would attempt to walk forth through the front door.

But it had not occurred to her that other steps might be taken. Just before twelve the gardener stationed himself on the road before the house,— a road which wa............