Caldigate, though he bore all this with an assured face, with but little outward sign of inward misgiving, suffered much,—­much even from the estrangement of those with whom he had hitherto been familiar.  To be ‘cut’ by any one was a pain to him.  Not to be approved of, not to be courted, not to stand well in the eyes of those around him, was to him positive and immediate suffering.  He was supported no doubt by the full confidence of his father, by the friendliness of the parson, and by the energetic assurances of partisans who were all on his side,—­such as Mr. Ralph Holt, the farmer.  While Caldigate had been in Cambridge waiting for his wife’s escape, Holt and one or two others were maturing a plan for breaking into Puritan Grange, and restoring the wife to her husband.  All this supported him.  Without it he could hardly have carried himself as he did.  But with all this, still he was very wretched.  ‘It is that so many people should think me guilty,’ he said to Mr. Bromley.

She bore it better—­though, of course, now that she was safe at Folking, she had but little to do as to outward bearing.  In the first place, no doubt as to his truth ever touched her for a moment,—­and not much doubt as to the result of the trial.  It was to her an assured fact that John Caldigate was her husband, and she could not realise the idea that, such being the fact, a jury should say that he was not.  But let all that be as it might, they two were one; and to adhere to him in every word, in every thought, in every little action, was to her the only line of conduct possible.  She heard what Mr. Bromley said, she knew what her father-in-law thought, she was aware of the enthusiasm on her side of the folk at Folking.  It seemed to her that this opposition to her happiness was but a continuation of that which her mother had always made to her marriage.  The Boltons were all against her.  It was a terrible sorrow to her.  But she knew how to bear it bravely.  In the tenderness of her husband, who at this time was very tender to her, she had her great consolation.

On the day of her return she had been very ill,—­so ill that Caldigate and his father had been much frightened.  During the journey home in the carriage, she had wept and laughed hysterically, now clutching her baby, and then embracing her husband.  Before reaching Folking she had been so worn with fatigue that he had hardly been able to support her on the seat.  But after rest for a day or two, she had rallied completely.  And she herself had taken pleasure and great pride in the fact that through it all her baby had never really been ill.  ‘He is a little man,’ she said, boasting to the boy’s father, ’and knows how to put up with troubles.  And when his mamma was so bad he didn’t peak and pine and cry, so as to break her heart.  Did he, my own, own brave little man?’ And she could boast of her own health too.  ’Thank God I am strong, John.  I can bear things which would break down other women.  You shall never see me give way because I am a poor creature.’  Certainly she had a right to boast that she was not a poor creature.