Caldigate would be pardoned.  And then of course there had come much consideration as to his sister’s condition.  He, too, was a conscientious and an affectionate man.  He was well aware of his duty to his sister.  While he was able to assure himself that Caldigate was not her husband, he could satisfy himself by a conviction that it was his duty to keep them apart.  Thus he could hate the man, advocate all severity against the man, and believe the while that he was doing his duty to his sister as an affectionate brother.  But now there was a revulsion.  It was three weeks since he and his brother had parted, not with the kindest feelings, up in London, and during that time the sifting of the evidence had been going on within his own breast from hour to hour.  And now this letter had come,—­a letter which he could not put away in anger, a letter which he could not ignore.  To quarrel permanently with his brother William was quite out of the question.  He knew the value of such a friend too well, and had been too often guided by his advice.  So he sifted the evidence once again, and then walked off to Puritan Grange with the letter in his pocket.

In these latter days old Mr. Bolton did not go often into Cambridge.  Men said that his daughter’s misfortune had broken him very much.  It was perhaps the violence of his wife’s religion rather than the weight of his daughter’s sufferings which cowed him.  Since Hester’s awful obstinacy had become hopeless to Mrs. Bolton, an atmosphere of sackcloth and ashes had made itself more than ever predominant at Puritan Grange.  If any one hated papistry Mrs. Bolton did so; but from a similar action of religious fanaticism she had fallen into worse that papistical self-persecution.  That men and women were all worms to be trodden under foot, and grass of the field to be thrown into the oven, was borne in so often on poor Mr. Bolton that he had not strength left to go to the bank.  And they were nearer akin to worms and more like grass of the field than ever, because Hester would stay at Folking instead of returning to her own home.

She was in this frame of mind when Robert Bolton was shown into the morning sitting-room.  She was sitting with the Bible before her, but with some domestic needlework in her lap.  He was doing nothing,—­not even having a book ready to his hand.  Thus he would sit the greater part of the day, listening to her when she would read to him, but much preferring to be left alone.  His life had been active and prosperous, but the evening of his days was certainly not happy.

His son Robert had been anxious to discuss the matter with him first, but found himself unable to separate them without an amount of ceremony which would have filled her with suspicion.  ’I have received a letter this morning from William,’ he said, addressing himself to his father.

‘William Bolton is, I fear, of the world worldly,’ said the step-mother.  ’His words always savour to me of the huge ungodly city in which he dwells.’