WORSE THAN DEAD
Ann Holland sat down on the other side of the hearth, opposite her
rector; but she could not lift up her eyes to his face. There was no on
in the world whom she loved so well. His forbearance and kindness toward
her unfortunate brother, who was the plague and shame of her life, had
completely won for him an affection that would have astonished him if he
could have known its devotion. This moment would have been one of
unalloyed delight to her had there been no trouble lurking for him, of
which he was altogether unaware. So rejoiced she was at his return that
it seemed as if no event in her monotonous life hitherto had been so
happy; yet she was terrified at the very thought of his coming
wretchedness. When Sophy had fled to her with the cry that her husband
was come, and she dared not meet him as she was, she had seen in an
instant that she must prevent it by some means or other. The hope that
Mr. Chantrey's return would bring about a reformation in his wife had
grown faint in her heart, for during the last few months the sin had
taken deeper and deeper root; and now, the day only before she expected
him, she had not had strength to resist the temptation to it. Sophy had
been crying hysterically, and trembling at the thought of meeting him as
she was; and she had made Ann promise to break to him gently the
confession she would otherwise be compelled to make herself. Ann Holland
sat opposite to him, with downcast eyes, and a face almost heart-broken
by the shame and sorrow she foresaw for him.
"She is asleep," he said, repeating her words in a lowered voice, as if
he was afraid of disturbing her.
"Yes," she answered.
"It is strange," he said, after a short pause; "strange she can sleep
now. Has she been ill? Sophy always assured me she was quite well and
strong. It is strange she can sleep when she knows I am here."
"She was very ill and low after you went, sir," she replied; "it was
like as if her heart was broken, parting with you and Master Charlie
both together. Dear, dear! it might have been better for her if you'd
been poor folks, and she'd had to work hard for you both. She'd just
nothing to do, and nobody to turn to for comfort, poor thing. Mrs.
Bolton meant to be kind, and was kind in her way: but she fell into a
low fever, and the doctors all ordered her as much wine and support as
ever she could take."
"I never heard of it," said Mr. Chantrey; "they never told me."
"No; they were fearful of your coming back too soon," she went, on;
"and, thank God, you are looking quite yourself again, sir. All Upton
will be as glad as glad can be, and the old church'll be crammed again.
Mr. Warden's done all a man could do; but everybody said he wasn't you
and we longed for you back again, but not too soon--no, no, not too
soon."
"But my wife," he said; "has she been ill all the time?"
For a minute or two she could not find words to answer his question. She
knew that it could not be long before he learned the truth, if not from
her or his wife, then from Mrs. Bolton or his friend Mr. Warden. It was
too much the common talk of the neighborhood for him to escape hearing
of it, even if she could hope that Mrs. Chantrey would have strength of
mind enough to cast off the sin at once. Now was the time to break it to
him gently, with quiet and friendly hints rather than with hard words.
But how was she to do it? How could she best soften the sorrow and
disgrace?
"Is my wife ill yet?" he demanded again, in a more agitated voice.
"Not ill now," she answered, "but she's not quite herself yet. You'll
help her, sir. You'll know how to treat her kindly and softly, and bring
her round again. There's a deal in being mild and patient with folks.
You know my poor brother, as fierce as a tiger, and that obstinate,
tortures would not move him; but he's like a lamb with you, Mr.
Chantrey. I think sometimes if he could live in the same house with you,
if he'd been your brother, poor fellow you'd save him; for he'll do
anything for you, short of keeping away from drink. You'll bring Mrs.
Chantrey round, I'm sure."
Mr. Chantrey smiled again, as the comparison between the drunken old
saddler and his own fair, sweet young wife, flitted across his brain.
Ann Holland, in her voluble flow of words, hit upon curious
combinations. Still she had not removed his anxiety about his wife. "Was
Sophy suffering from the effects of the low, nervous fever yet?
"Yes; I'll take care of my wife," he said, glancing toward the parlor
door; "it has been a sore trial, this long separation of ours. But it's
over now; and she is dearer to me than ever she was."
"Ay! love will do almost everything," she answered, sadly, "and I know
you will never get tired or worn out, if it's for years and years. A
thing like this doesn't come right all at once; but if it comes right at
last, we have cause to be thankful. Mr. Warden has not had full
patience; and Mrs. Bolton lost hers too soon. Neither of them knows it
as I know it. You can't storm it away; and it's no use raving at it.
Only love and patience can do it; and not that always. But we are bound
to bear with them, poor things! even to death. We cannot measure God's
patience with our measure."
Ann Holland's voice trembled, and her eyes filled with tears, which
glistened in the firelight. She could not bear to speak more plainly to
her rector, whom she loved and reverenced so greatly. She could not
think of him as being brought down on a level with herself, the sister
of a known drunkard. It seemed a horrible thing to her; this sorrow
hanging over him, of which he was so utterly unconscious. Mr. Chantrey
had fastened his eyes upon her as if he would read her inmost thoughts.
His voice trembled a little too, when he spoke.
"What has this to do with my wife?" he asked, "for what reason have my
aunt and Mr. Warden lost patience with her?"
"Oh! it's best for me to tell you, not them," she said, the tears
streaming down her cheeks; "it will be very hard for you to hear,
whoever says it. Everybody knows it; and it could never be kept from
you. But you can save her, Mr. Chantrey, if anybody can. It's best for
me to tell you at once. She was so ill, and low, and miserable; and the
doctors kept on ordering her wine, and things like that; and it was the
only thing that comforted her, and kept her up; and she got to depend
upon it to save her from loneliness and wretchedness, and now she can't
break herself of taking it--of taking too much."
"Oh! my God!" cried Mr. Chantrey. It was a cry from the very depths of
his spirit, as by a sudden flash he saw the full meaning of Ann
Holland's faltered words. Sophy had fled from him, conscious that she
was in no fit state to meet him after their long separation. She was
sleeping now the heavy sleep of excess. Was it possible that this was
true? Could it be anything but a feverish dream that he was sitting
there, and Ann Holland was telling him such an utterly incredible story?
Sophy, his wife, the mother of his child!
But Ann Holland's tearful face, with its expression of profound grief
and pity, was too real for her story to be a dream. He, David Chantrey,
the rector of Upton, whom all men looked up to and esteemed, had a wife,
who was whispered about among them all as a victim to a vile and
degrading sin. A strong shock of revulsion ran through his veins, which
had been thrilling with an unquiet happiness all the day. There was an
inexplicable, mysterious misery in it. If he had come home to find her
dead, he could have borne to look upon her lying in her coffin, knowing
that life could never be bright again for him; but he would have held up
his head among his fellow-men. It would have been no shame or
degradation either for him or her to have laid her in the tranquil
churchyard, beside their little child, where he could have seen her
grave through his vestry window, and gone from it to his pulpit, facing
his congregation, sorrowful but not disgraced. He was just coming back
to his people with higher aims, and greater resolves, determined to
fight more strenuously against every form of evil among them; and this
was the first gigantic sin, which met him on his own threshold and his
own hearth.
"She's so young," pleaded Ann Holland, frightened at the ashy hue that
had spread over his face, "and she's been so lonesome. Then it was
always easy to get it, when she felt low; for Mrs. Bolton's servants
rule the house, and there's the best of everything in her cellars. James
Brown says he could never refuse Mrs. Chantrey, she was so miserable,
poor thing! But now you will take her home; and she'll have you, and
Master Charlie. You'll save her, sir, sooner or later; never fear."
"Let me go and see her," he said, in a choking voice.
Ann Holland opened the door so carefully that the latch did not click or
the hinges creak; and, shading the light with her hand, she stood beside
him for a minute or two, as he looked down upon his sleeping wife. She
did not dare to lift her eyes to his face; but she knew that all the
light and glow of gladness had fled from it, and a gray look of terror
had crept across it. He was a very different man from the one who had
been seated on her hearth a short half-hour ago. He bade her leave him
alone, and without a light, and she obeyed him, though reluctantly, and
with an undefined fear of him in his wretchedness.
It seemed to Mr. Chantrey as if an age had passed over him. As persons
who are drowning see in one brief moment all the course of their past
lives, with its most trivial circumstances, so he seemed to have looked
into his own future, stretching before him in gloom and darkness, and
foreseen a thousand miserable results springing from this fatal source.
She was his wife, dearer to him than any other object in the world; but
after she had repented and reformed, as surely she would repent and
reform, she could never be to him again what she had been. There Was a
faint gleam of moonlight stealing into the familiar room, and he could
just distinguish her form lying on the white-covered sofa. With an
overwhelming sense of wretchedness and bewilderment he fell upon his
knees beside her, and burying his face in his hands, cried again, "Oh!
my God!"