A COLONIAL CURACY
The death of Richard Holland might have had a salutary effect upon Sophy
Chantrey, if it had not been for the shock of learning how deeply she
had disgraced herself and her husband in the sight of his people. She
felt that she could never again face those who had seen her on that
Sunday morning. She shut herself up in her room, refusing to admit any
one, except the servant who waited upon her, and steadily set herself
against any communication with the world outside. Even her husband she
would hardly speak to; and her child she would not see. The strain and
stress of her remorse was more than she could bear. Before the week was
gone, she had fled for forgetfulness to the vice which bound her in so
heavy a chain. All the cunning of her nature, so strangely perverted,
was put into action to procure a supply of the stimulants she craved;
and she escaped from her misery for a little while by losing herself in
suicidal lethargy and stupefaction.
Mr. Chantrey himself felt it to be impossible to meet the gaze of his
usual congregation; he shrank even from walking through the streets of
his own town, while his shame was fresh upon him. He exchanged duties
with fellow-clergymen, and so evaded the immediate difficulty. But he
knew that this could not go on for long. He could not conscientiously
retain a position such as he held, if he had not the moral and mental
strength necessary for the discharge of its obligations. Strength of all
kinds seemed to fail him. His physical vitality was low; the health he
had gained in Madeira had been too severely taxed since his return. He
had fought bravely against the mental feebleness that was creeping
gradually over him with a paralyzing languor; but he knew he could not
bear the conflict much longer. Everything was telling against him. He
would fain have proved to his people that a man can live out a noble,
useful, Christ-like life, under crushing sorrows, and shame that was
worse than sorrow. But it was not in him to do it. He found himself
feeble and crippled, in the very thick of life's battle; and it appeared
to him that his position as rector of the parish rendered his feebleness
tenfold disastrous.
But this decay of power came slowly, though surely. By the close of his
second winter in England he felt within himself that he must quit his
country again, if he wished to live only a few years longer. There had
been no bright sunny spot of gladness for him, no gleam of hope
throughout the whole winter. He had been compelled to send his boy away
again to school, to shield him from seeing the disgrace of his mother.
His friends had almost ceased to come to his house, and he had no heart
to go to theirs. It was only now and then that he accepted his aunt's
invitations to dine alone with her.
"Aunt," he said one evening, when they two were alone together in her
fantastic drawing-room, "I have resigned my living."
"Resigned your living!" she repeated, in utter amazement, "resigned
Upton Rectory!"
She could hardly pronounce the words; and she gazed at him with an air
of bewilderment which brought a smile to his careworn face.
"Yes," he answered, "life has grown intolerable to me here."
"And what do you mean to do?" she asked.
"I am going out to my friend Warden," he replied, "who has a charge in
New Zealand; he promises me a curacy under him, if I can get nothing
better. But I am sure of a charge of my own very soon."
"A curate to Warden! a curate in New Zealand!" ejaculated Mrs. Bolton.
"David, are you mad?"
"Not mad, but in most sober sadness," he said. "Life is impossible to me
here, and under my circumstances; and I wish to live a few years longer
for Sophy's sake, and my boy's. New Zealand is the very place for me."
"But you can go away again for a year or two," said his aunt, "and come
back when your health is restored. The bishop will give you permission
readily. You must not give up your living because your health fails."
"The bishop has my resignation, and my reasons for it," answered Mr.
Chantrey, "and ho has accepted it kindly and regretfully, he says; but
he fully approves of it. All there is to be done now is to sell our
household goods, and sail for a new home, in a new world."
"And Sophy?" gasped Mrs. Bolton; "what do you mean to do with her? Where
shall you leave her?"
"She must come with me," he said; "I shall never leave her again. It
will be a new chance for her: and with God's help she may yet conquer.
Even if she cannot, it will be easier for me to bear my burden among
strangers than here, where every one knows all about us. A missionary
curate in New Zealand will be a very different personage from the rector
of Upton."
He looked at his aunt with a smile, and an expression of hope, such as
had not lit up his gray face for many a month. This new life opening
before him, with all its social disadvantages, and many privations,
would give his wife such an opportunity for recovery as the
conventionalities of society at home could not furnish. Hope had visited
him again, and he cherished it as a most welcome visitant.
"Good Heavens!" cried Mrs. Bolton, lost in astonishment, "David, you
must not throw yourself away in this manner! I will see the bishop
myself, and recall to his memory his old friendship for the archdeacon.
He cannot have promised the living yet to any one. What would become of
me, here in Upton, settled as I am, with a stranger in the rectory? Why
did you not ask my advice before taking such a rash step?"
"Because I should not have followed your advice," he answered. "I
settled the whole matter in my own mind before I broached it even to
Warden. It is the only chance for us both. I am a broken, defeated man."
"Oh, my boy!" she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, "I cannot consent
to your going away. You have always been my favorite nephew; and I could
not endure to see a stranger in your place. It is all Sophy's fault. And
why should you sacrifice your life, and Charlie's, for her? Let some
place at a distance be found for her; no one will blame you, and you
will not suffer so much from the disgrace, if you do not witness it.
Only stay in Upton, and all I have shall be yours. It will be a happy
place to you again, if you will only wait patiently for brighter days."
"No," he said, sorrowfully; "it has been a pleasant place to me, but it
can never be so again. I must go for Sophy's sake. There is no hope for
her here; there is hope for her among new scenes and fresh influences. I
have spoken to her about it, and she is eager to go; she feels that
there would be a chance for her. To turn away from my purpose now would
be to doom her to her sin without hope of deliverance. It would be
impossible for me to do that."
It was a terrible blow to Mrs. Bolton. She foresaw endless
mortifications and heartburnings for herself in the presence, and under
the rule, of a strange rector at Upton, over whom she would have no more
authority or influence than any other parishioner. Besides, she was
really fond of her nephew, and anxious to make his life smooth and
agreeable to him. No one could be blind to the fact that his health was
giving way again, and she thought with some apprehension of the life of
hardship and poverty he was choosing. That he should throw away all that
was desirable and advantageous for the sake of his wife, who was merely
a trouble and dishonor to him, was an infatuation that she could not
understand. He pointed out to her that he was also losing his influence
over his people, and she maintained that even this was no reason why he
should give up a suitable living and a pleasant rectory. At last, angry
with him, and apprehensive for her future position in the parish, she
refused to listen any longer to his representations, and spent the few
weeks that intervened before their departure in a state of offended
estrangement.