ANN HOLLAND
Bolton Villa was not more than a stone's throw from the rectory and the
church. Sophy could hear the same shrieks of the martins wheeling about
the tower, and the same wintry chant of the robins amid the ivy creeping
up it. The familiar striking of the church clock and the chime of the
bells rang alike through the windows of both houses. But there was no
sound of her husband's voice and no merry shout of Charlie's, and the
difference was appalling to her. She could not endure it.
Mrs. Bolton was exceedingly proud of her villa. It had been bought
expressly to please her by the late archdeacon, and altered under her
own superintendence. Her tastes and wishes had been studied throughout.
The interior was something like a diary of her life. The broad oak
staircase was decorated with flags and banners from all the countries
she had travelled through; souvenirs labelled with the names of every
town she had visited, and the date of that event, lay scattered about.
The entrance-hall, darkened by the heavy banners on the staircase, was a
museum of curiosities collected by herself. The corners and niches were
filled with plaster casts of famous statuary, which were supposed to
look as fine as their marble originals in the gloom surrounding them.
Every room was crowded with ornaments and knick-knacks, all of which had
some association with herself. Even those apartments not seen by guests
were no less encumbered with mementoes that had been discarded from time
to time in favor of newer treasures. Mrs. Bolton never dared to change
her servants, and it cannot be wondered at, that while offering a home
to her nephew's wife, she could not extend her invitation to a
mischievous boy of seven.
But however interesting Bolton Villa might be to its mistress, it was
not altogether a home favorable for the recovery of a bowed-down spirit,
though Mrs. Bolton could not understand why Sophy, surrounded with so
many blessings and with so much to be thankful for, should fall into a
low, nervous fever shortly after she had parted with her husband and
child. The house was quiet, fearfully quiet to Sophy. There was a
depressing hush about it altogether different from the cheerful
tranquillity of her own home. Very few visitors broke through its
monotony, for Mrs. Bolton's social pinnacle was too high above her
immediate neighbors for them to climb up to it; whilst those whose
station was somewhat on a level with hers lived too faraway, or were too
young and frivolous for friendly intercourse. There were formal
dinner-parties at stated intervals, and occasionally a neighboring
clergyman to be entertained. But these came few and far between, and
Sophy Chantrey found herself very much alone amid the banners and
souvenirs that banished her boy from the house.
Mrs. Bolton herself was very often away. There was always something to
be done in the parish which should by right have been Sophy's work, but
her aunt had always discouraged any interference and David had been
quite content to keep her to himself, as there was so able a substitute
for her in the ordinary duties of a clergyman's wife. She had made but
few acquaintances, and it was generally understood that Mrs. Chantrey
was quite a cipher. No one ever expected her to become prominent in
Upton.
About half-way down the High street of Upton stood a small old-fashioned
saddler's shop, the door of which was divided across the middle, so as
to form two parts, the upper one always thrown open. Above the doorway,
under a low-gabled roof, hung a cracked and mouldering sign-board,
bearing the words "Ann Holland, Saddler." All the letters were faded,
yet a keen eye might detect that the name "Ann" was more distinct than
the others, as if painted at a later date. Within the shop an old
journeyman was always to be seen, busy at his trade, and taking no heed
of any customer coming in, unless the ringing of a bell on the lower
half of the door remained unnoticed, when he would shamble away to call
his mistress. In an evening after the twilight had set in, and it was
too dark for her own ornamental stitching of the saddlery. Ann Holland
was often to be found leaning over the half-door of her shop, and ready
to exchange a friendly good-night, or a more lengthy conversation, with
her townsfolk as they passed to and fro. She was a rosy, cheery-looking
woman, still under fifty, with a pleasant voice and a friendly word for
every one, and it was well known that she had refused several offers of
marriage, some of them very eligible for a person of her station. There
was not one of the townspeople she had not known from their earliest
appearance in Upton, and she had the pedigree of all the families, high
and low, at her finger-ends. New-comers she could only tolerate until
they had lived respectably and paid their debts punctually for a good
number of years. She had a kindly love of gossip, a simple real interest
in the fortunes of all about her. There was little else for her to think
of, for books and newspapers came seldom in her way, and were often far
above her comprehension when they did, Upton news that would bring tears
to her eyes or a laugh to her lips was the food her mind lived upon. Ann
Holland was almost as general a favorite as the rector himself.
It was some months after David Chantrey had gone to Madeira that Ann
Holland was lingering late one evening over her door, watching the
little street subside into the quietness of night. The wife of one of
her best customers was passing by, and stopped to speak to her.
"Have you happened to hear any talk of Mrs. Chantrey?" she asked. Her
voice fell into a low and mysterious tone, and she glanced up and down
the street lest any one should chance to be within hearing. Ann Holland
quickly guessed there was something important to be told, and she opened
the half door to her neighbor.
"Come in, Mrs. Brown," she said; "Richard's not at home yet."
She led the way into the room behind the shop, as pleasant a place as
any in all Upton, except for the scent of the leather, which she had
grown so used to that its absence would have seemed a loss. It was a
kitchen spotlessly clean, with an old-fashioned polished dresser and
shelves above it filled with pewter plates and dishes, upon which every
gleam of firelight twinkled. A tall mahogany clock, with its head
against the ceiling, and the round, good-humored face of a full moon
beaming above its dial-plate, stood in one corner; while in the opposite
one there was a corner cupboard with glass doors, filled with antique
china cups and tea-pots, and a Chinese mandarin that never ceased to
roll its head to and fro helplessly. Bean-pots of flowers, as Ann
Holland called them, covered the broad window-sill; and a screen,
adorned with fragments of old ballads, and with newspaper announcements
of births, deaths, and marriages among Upton people, was drawn across
the outer door, which opened into a little garden at the back of the
house. There was a miniature parlor behind the kitchen, filled with
furniture worked in tent stitch by Ann Holland's mother, and carefully
covered with white dimity; but it was only entered on most important
occasions. Even Mr. Chantrey had never yet been invited into it; for any
event short of a solemn crisis the kitchen was considered good enough.
"You haven't heard anything of Mrs. Chantrey, then?" repeated Mrs.
Brown, still in low and important tones, as she seated herself in a
three-cornered chair, a seat of honor rather than of ease, as one could
not get a comfortable position without sitting sideways.
"No, nothing," answered. Ann Holland; "nothing bad about Mr. Chantrey, I
hope. Have they had any bad news of him?"
Mrs. Brown was first cousin to Mrs. Bolton's butler, and was naturally
regarded as an oracle with regard to all that went on at Bolton Villa.
"Oh no, he's all right: not him, but her," she answered, almost in a
whisper; "I can't say for certain it's true, for Cousin James purses up
his mouth ever so when it's spoken, of; but cook swears to it, and he
doesn't deny it, you know. I shouldn't like it to go any farther; but I
can depend on yon, Miss Holland. A trusted woman like you must be choked
up with secrets, I'm sure. I often and often say, Ann Holland knows some
things, and could tell them, too, if she'd only open her lips."
"You're right, Mrs. Brown," said Ann Holland, with a gratified smile;
"you may trust me with any secret."
"Well, then, they say," continued Mrs. Brown, "that Mrs. Chantrey takes
more than is good for her. She's getting fond of it, you know; anything
that'll excite her; and ladies, can get all sorts of things, worse for
them a dozen times than what poor folks take. They say she doesn't know
what she's saying often."
"Dear, dear!" cried Ann Holland, in a sorrowful voice; "it can't be
true, and Mr. Chantrey away! She's such a sweet pleasant-spoken young
lady; I could never think it of her. He brought her here the very first
week after they came to Upton, and she sat in that very chair you're set
on, Mrs. Brown, and I thought her the prettiest picture I'd seen for
many a year; and so did he, I'm sure. It can't be true, and him such a
good man, and such a preacher as he is, with all the gentry round coming
in their carnages to church."
"Well, it mayn't be true," answered Mrs. Brown, slowly, as if the
arguments used by Ann Holland were almost weighty enough to outbalance
the cook's evidence; "I hope it isn't true, I'm sure. But they say at
Bolton Villa it's a awful lonely life she do lead without Master
Charlie, and Mrs. Bolton away so much. It 'ud give me the horrors, I
know, to live in that house with all those white plaster men and women
as big as life, standing everywhere about staring at you with blind
eyes. I should want something to keep up my spirits. But I'm sure nobody
could be sorrier than me if it turned out to be true."
"Sorry!" exclaimed Ann Holland, "why, I'd cut my right hand off to
prevent it being true. No words can tell how good Mr. Chantrey's been to
me. Everybody knows what my poor brother is, and how he'll drink and
drink for weeks together. Well, Mr. Chantrey's turned in here of an
evening, and if Richard was away at the Upton Arms, he's gone after him
into the very bar-room itself, and brought him home, just guiding him
and handling him like a baby, poor fellow! Often and often he's promised
to take the pledge with Richard, but he never could get him to say Yes.
No, no! I'd go through fire and water before that should be true."
"Nobody could be sorrier than me," persisted Mrs. Brown, somewhat
offended at Ann Holland's vehemence; "I've only told you hearsay, but it
comes direct from the cook, and Cousin James only pursed up his mouth. I
don't say it's true or it's not true, but nobody in Upton could be
sorrier than me if my words come correct. It can't be hidden under a
bushel very long, Miss Holland; but I hope as much as you do that it
isn't true."
Yet there was an undertone of conviction in Mrs. Brown's manner of
speaking that grieved Ann Holland sorely. She accompanied her departing
guest to the door, and long after she was out of sight stood looking
vacantly down the darkened street. There was little light or sound there
now, except in the Upton Arms, where the windows glistened brightly, and
the merry tinkling of a violin sounded through the open door. Her
brother was there, she knew, and would not be home before midnight. He
had been less manageable since Mr. Chantrey went away.
She could not bear to think of Mrs. Chantrey falling into the same sin.
The delicate, pretty, refined young lady degrading herself to the level
of the poor drunken wretch she called her brother! Ann Holland could not
and would not believe it; it seemed too monstrous a scandal to deserve a
moment's anxiety. Yet when she went back into her lonely kitchen, her
eyes were dim with tears, partly for her brother and partly for Sophy
Chantrey.