Produced by David Garcia, Tiffany Vergon, Juliet Sutherland,
Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders Team
BROUGHT HOME.
BY
HESBA STRETTON.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. UPTON RECTORY
CHAPTER II. ANN HOLLAND
CHAPTER III. WHAT WAS HER DUTY?
CHAPTER IV. A BABY'S GRAVE
CHAPTER V. TOWN'S TALK
CHAPTER VI. THE RECTOR'S RETURN
CHAPTER VII. WORSE THAN DEAD
CHAPTER VIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE
CHAPTER IX. SAD DAYS
CHAPTER X. A SIN AND A SHAME
CHAPTER XI. LOST
CHAPTER XII. A COLONIAL CURACY
CHAPTER XIII. SELF-SACRIFICE
CHAPTER XIV. FAREWELLS
CHAPTER XV. IN DESPAIR
CHAPTER XVI. A LONG VOYAGE
CHAPTER XVII. ALMOST SHIPWRECKED
CHAPTER XVIII. SAVED
CHAPTER I.
UPTON RECTORY
So quiet is the small market town of Upton, that it is difficult to
believe in the stir and din of London, which is little more than an
hour's journey from it. It is the terminus of the single line of rails
branching off from the main line eight miles away, and along it three
trains only travel each way daily. The sleepy streets have old-fashioned
houses straggling along each side, with trees growing amongst them; and
here and there, down the roads leading into the the country, which are
half street, half lane, green plots of daisied grass are still to be
found, where there were once open fields that have left a little legacy
to the birds and children of coming generations. Half the houses are
still largely built of wood from the forest of olden times that has now
disappeared; and ancient bow-windows jut out over the side causeways.
Some of the old exclusive mansions continue to boast in a breastwork of
stone pillars linked together by chains of iron, intended as a defence
against impertinent intruders, but more often serving as safe
swinging-places for the young children sent to play in the streets.
Perhaps of all times of the year the little town looks its best on a
sunny autumn morning, with its fine film of mist, when the chestnut
leaves are golden, and slender threads of gossamer are floating in the
air, and heavy dews, white as the hoar-frost, glisten in the sunshine.
But at any season Upton seems a tranquil, peaceful, out-of-the-world
spot, having no connection with busier and more wretched places.
There were not many real gentry, as the townsfolk called them, living
near. A few retired Londoners, weary of the great city, and finding
rents and living cheaper at Upton, had settled in trim villas, built
beyond the boundaries of the town. But for the most part the population
consisted of substantial trades-people and professional men, whose
families had been represented there for several generations. As usual
the society was broken up into very small cliques; no one household
feeling itself exactly on the same social equality as another; even as
far down as the laundresses and charwomen, who could tell whose husband
or son had been before the justices, and which families had escaped that
disgrace. The nearest approach to that equality and fraternity of which
we all hear so much and see so little, was unfortunately to be found in
the bar-parlor and billiard-room of the Upton Arms; but even this was
lost as soon as the threshold was recrossed, and the boon-companions of
the interior breathed the air of the outer world. There were several
religious sects of considerable strength, and of very decided
antagonistic views; any one of whose members was always ready to give
the reason of the special creed that was in him. So, what with a variety
of domestic circumstances, and a diversity of religious opinions, it is
not to be wondered at that the society of Upton was broken up into very
small circles indeed.
There was one point, however, on which all the townspeople were united.
There could be no doubt whatever as to the beauty of the old Norman
church, lying just beyond the eastern boundary of the town; not mingling
with its business, but standing in a solemn quiet of its own, as if to
guard the repose of the sleepers under its shadow. The churchyard too,
was beautiful, with its grand and dusky old yew-trees, spreading their
broad sweeping branches like cedars, and with many a bright colored
flower-bed lying amongst the dark green of the graves. The townspeople
loved to stroll down to it in the twilight, with half-stirred idle
thoughts of better things soothing away the worries and cares of the
day. A narrow meadow of glebe-land separated the churchyard from the
Rectory garden, a bank of flowers and turf sloping up to the house.
Nowhere could a more pleasant, home-like dwelling be found, lightly
covered with sweet-scented creeping plants, which climbed up to the
highest gable, and flung down long sprays of blossom-laden branches to
toss to and fro in the air. Many a weary, bedinned Londoner had felt
heart-sick at the sight of its tranquillity and peace.
The people of Upton, great and small, conformist or nonconformist, were
proud of their rector. It was no unusual sight for a dozen or more
carriages from a distance to be seen waiting at the church door for the
close of the service, not only on a Sunday morning, when custom demands
the observance, but even in the afternoon, when public worship is
usually left to servant-maids. There was not a seat to be had for love
or money, either by gentle or simple, after the reading of the Psalms
had begun. The Dissenters themselves were accustomed to attend church
occasionally, with a half-guilty sense, not altogether unpleasant, of
acting against their principles. But then the rector was always on
friendly terms with them: and made no distinction, in distributing
Christmas charities, between the poor old folks who went to church or to
chapel, Or, as it was said regretfully, to no place at all. He had his
failings; but the one point on which all Upton agreed was, that their
church and rector were the best between that town and London.
It was a hard struggle with David Chantrey, this beloved rector of
Upton, to resolve upon leaving his parish, though only for a time, when
his physicians strenuously urged him to spend two winters, and the
intervening summer, in Madeira. Very definitely they assured him that
such an absence was his only chance of assuring a fair share of the
ordinary term of human life. But it was a difficult thing to do, apart
from the hardness of the struggle; and the difficulty just verged upon
an impossibility. The living was not a rich one, its whole income being
a little under L400 a year. Now, when he had provided a salary for the
curate who must take his duty, and decided upon the smallest sum
necessary for his own expenses, the remainder, in whatever way the sum
was worked, was clearly quite insufficient for the maintenance of his
young wife and child. They could not go with him; that was impossible.
But how were they to live whilst he was away? No doubt, if his
difficulty had been known, there were many wealthy people among his
friends who would gladly have removed it; but not one of them even
guessed at it. Was not Mrs. Bolton, the widow of the late archdeacon,
and the richest woman in Upton, own aunt to the rector, David Chantrey?
Next to Mr. Chantrey himself, Mrs. Bolton was the most eminent personage
in Upton. She had settled there upon the archdeacon's death, which
happened immediately after he had obtained the living for his wife's
favorite nephew. For some years she had been the only lady connected
with the rector, and had acted as his female representative. There was
neither mansion nor cottage which she had not visited. The high were her
associates; the low her proteges, for whose souls she labored. She was
at the head of all charitable agencies and benevolent societies. Nothing
could be set on foot in Upton under any other patronage. She was active,
untiring, and not very susceptible. So early and so completely had she
obtained the little sovereignty she had assumed, that when the rightful
queen came there was no room for her. The rector's wife was only known
as a pretty and pleasant-spoken young lady, who left all the parish
affairs in Mrs. Bolton's hands.
It is not to be wondered at, then, that no one guessed at David
Chantrey's difficulty, though everybody knew the exact amount of his
income. Neither he nor his wife hinted at it. Sophy Chantrey would have
freely given the world, had it been hers, to accompany her husband; but
there was no chance of that. A friend was going out on the same doleful
search for health; and the two were to take charge of each other. But
how to live at all while David was away? She urged that she could manage
very well on seventy or eighty pounds a year, if she and her boy went to
some cheap lodgings in a strange neighborhood, where nobody knew them;
but her husband would not listen to such a plan. The worry and fret of
his brain had grown almost to fever-height, when his aunt made a
proposal, which he accepted in impatient haste. This was that Sophy
should make her home at Bolton Villa for the full time of his absence;
on condition that Charlie, a boy of seven years old, full of life and
spirits, should be sent to school for the same term.
Sophy rebelled for a little while, but in vain. In thinking of the
eighteen long and dreary months her husband would be away, she had
counted upon having the consolation of her child's companionship. But no
other scheme presented itself; and she felt the sacrifice must be made
for David's sake. A suitable school was found for Charlie; and he was
placed in it a day or two before she had to journey down to Southampton
with her husband. No soul on deck that day was more sorrowful than hers.
David's hollow cheeks, and thin, stooping frame, and the feeble hand
that clasped hers till the last moment, made the hope of ever seeing him
again seem a mad folly. Her sick heart refused to be comforted. He was
sanguine, and spoke almost gayly of his return; but she was filled with
anguish. A strong persuasion seized upon her that she should see his
face no more; and when the bitter moment of parting was over, she
travelled back alone, heart-stricken and crushed in spirit, to her new
home under Mrs. Bolton's roof.