1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
|
<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
<HTML>
<HEAD>
<TITLE>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Brought Home, by Hesba Stretton</TITLE>
<META HTTP-EQUIV="content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=us-ascii">
<style type="text/css">
<!--
* { font-family: Times;}
P { text-indent: 1em;
margin-top: .75em;
font-size: 14pt;
margin-bottom: .75em; }
H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; }
HR { width: 33%; }
// -->
</style>
</HEAD>
<BODY>
<H1>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Brought Home, by Hesba Stretton</H1>
<PRE>
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
Title: Brought Home
Author: Hesba Stretton
Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7358]
[This file was first posted on April 20, 2003]
[Most recently updated May 3, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: US-ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, BROUGHT HOME ***
David Garcia, Tiffany Vergon, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks, and the
Online Distributed Proofreaders Team
</PRE>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h1>
BROUGHT HOME.
</h1>
<center>
<p>
BY
</p>
<p>
HESBA STRETTON.
</p>
</center>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
CONTENTS.
</h2>
<p>
<a href="#chapter01">CHAPTER I. UPTON RECTORY</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter02">CHAPTER II. ANN HOLLAND</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter03">CHAPTER III. WHAT WAS HER DUTY?</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter04">CHAPTER IV. A BABY'S GRAVE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter05">CHAPTER V. TOWN'S TALK</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter06">CHAPTER VI. THE RECTOR'S RETURN</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter07">CHAPTER VII. WORSE THAN DEAD</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter08">CHAPTER VIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter09">CHAPTER IX. SAD DAYS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter10">CHAPTER X. A SIN AND A SHAME</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter11">CHAPTER XI. LOST</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter12">CHAPTER XII. A COLONIAL CURACY</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter13">CHAPTER XIII. SELF-SACRIFICE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter14">CHAPTER XIV. FAREWELLS</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter15">CHAPTER XV. IN DESPAIR</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter16">CHAPTER XVI. A LONG VOYAGE</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter17">CHAPTER XVII. ALMOST SHIPWRECKED</a>
</p>
<p>
<a href="#chapter18">CHAPTER XVIII. SAVED</a>
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter01">CHAPTER I.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
UPTON RECTORY
</h3>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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 £400 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?
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter02">CHAPTER II.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
ANN HOLLAND
</h3>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"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.
</p>
<p>
"Come in, Mrs. Brown," she said; "Richard's not at home yet."
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"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.
</p>
<p>
"No, nothing," answered. Ann Holland; "nothing bad about Mr.
Chantrey, I hope. Have they had any bad news of him?"
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"You're right, Mrs. Brown," said Ann Holland, with a
gratified smile; "you may trust me with any secret."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter03">CHAPTER III.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
WHAT WAS HER DUTY?
</h3>
<p>
Ann Holland was a great favorite with Mrs, Bolton. The
elderly, old-fashioned woman held firmly to all old-fashioned
ways; knew her duty to God and her duty to her neighbor, as
taught by the Church Catechism, and faithfully fulfilled them
to the best of her power. She ordered herself lowly and
reverently to all her betters, especially to the widow of an
archdeacon. No new-fangled, radical notions, such as her
drunken brother picked up, could find any encouragement from
her. Mrs. Bolton always enjoyed an interview with her, so
marked was her deference. She had occasionally condescended
to visit Ann Holland in her kitchen, and sit on the
projecting angle of the three-cornered chair, a favor duly
appreciated by her delighted hostess. Mr. Chantrey ran in
often, as he was passing by, partly because he felt a real
friendship, for the true-hearted, struggling old maid, and
partly to see after her good-for-nothing brother. As Ann
Holland had said herself, she was ready to go through fire
and water for the sake of these friends and patrons of hers,
whose kindness was the brightest element in her life.
</p>
<p>
After much tearful deliberation, she received upon the daring
step of going to Bolton Villa, on an errand to Mrs. Bolton,
with a vague hope that she might discover how false this
cruel scandal was. There was a bridle of Mrs. Bolton's in the
shop, which had been sent for a new curb, and she would take
it home herself. Early the next afternoon, therefore. she
clad herself in her best Sunday clothes, and made her way
slowly along the streets toward the church. It was but slowly
for she rarely went out on a week day, when her neighbors'
shops were open; and there were too many attractions in the
windows for even her anxiety and consciousness of a solemn
mission to resist altogether.
</p>
<p>
The church and the rectory looked so peaceful amid the trees,
just tinged with the hues of autumn, that Ann Holland's
spirits insensibly revived. There was little sign of life
about the rectory, for no one was living in it at present but
Mr. Warden, the clergyman who had taken Mr. Chantrey's duty.
Ann Holland opened the church-yard gate and strolled
pensively up among the graves to the porch, that she might
rest a little and ponder over what she should say to Mrs.
Bolton. There was not a grave there that she did not know;
those lying under many of the grassy sods were as familiar to
her as the men and women now in full life in the neighboring
town. Just within sight, near the vestry window was a little
mound covered with flowers, where she had seen a little child
of David and Sophy Chantrey's laid to rest. A narrow path was
worn up to it; more bare and trodden than before Mr. Chantrey
had gone away. Ann Holland knew as well as if she had seen
her, that the poor solitary mother had worn the grass away.
</p>
<p>
The church door was open; for Mr. Warden had chosen to make
the vestry his study, and had intimated to all the parish
that there he might generally be found if any one among them
wished to see him in any difficulty or sorrow. Though this
was well known, no one of Mr. Chantrey's parishioners had
gone to him for counsel; for he was a grave, stern, silent
man, whose opinion it was difficult to guess at and
impossible to fathom. He was unmarried, and kept no servant,
except the housekeeper who had been left in charge of the
rectory. All society he avoided, especially that of women.
His abruptness and shyness in their presence was painful both
to himself and them. To Mrs. Bolton, however, he was
studiously civil, and to Sophy, his friend's wife, he would
gladly have shown kindness and sympathy, if he had only known
how. He often watched her tracing the narrow footworn track
to her baby's grave, and he longed to speak some friendly
words of comfort to her, but none came to his mind when they
encountered each other. No one in Upton, except Ann Holland,
had seen, as he had, how thin and wan her face grew; nor had
any one noticed as soon as he had done the strangeness of her
manner at times, the unsteadiness of her step, and the flush
upon her face, as she now and then passed to and fro under
the yew-trees. But he had never had the courage to speak to
her at such moments; and there was only a mournful suspicion
and dread in his heart, which he did his best to hide from
himself.
</p>
<p>
This afternoon Mrs. Bolton had sought him in the vestry,
where he had been silently brooding over his parish and its
sins and sorrows, in the dim, green light shining through the
lattice window, which was thickly overgrown with ivy. Mrs.
Bolton was a handsome woman still, always handsomely dressed,
as became a wealthy archdeacon's widow. Her presence seemed
to fill up the little vestry; and as she occupied his old,
high-backed chair, Mr. Warden stood opposite to her, looking
down painfully and shyly at the floor on which he stood,
rather than at the distinguished personage who was visiting
him.
</p>
<p>
"I come to you," she said, in a decisive, emphatic voice, "as
a clergyman, as well as my nephew's confidential friend. What
I say to you must go no farther than ourselves. We have no
confessional in our church, thank Heaven! but that which is
confided to a clergyman, even to a curate, ought to be as
sacred as a confession."
</p>
<p>
"Certainly," answered Mr. Warden, with painful abruptness.
</p>
<p>
"Sacred as a confession!" repeated Mrs. Bolton. "I must tell
you, then, that I am in the greatest trouble about my
nephew's wife. You know how ill she was last winter, after he
went away. A low, nervous fever, which hung over her for
months. She would not listen to my telling David about it,
and, indeed, I was reluctant to distress and disturb him
about a matter that he could not help. But she is very
strange now; very strange and flighty. Possibly you may have
observed some change in her?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," he replied, still looking down on the floor, but
seeing a vision of Sophy pacing the beaten track to the
little grave under the vestry window.
</p>
<p>
"When she was at the worst," pursued Mrs. Bolton, "and I had
the best advice in London for her, she was ordered to take
the best wine we could get. I told Brown to bring out for her
use some very choice port, purchased by the archdeacon years
ago. She must have perished without it; but
unfortunately—I speak to you as her pastor, in
confidence—she has grown fond of it."
</p>
<p>
"Fond of it?" repeated Mr. Warden.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," she answered, emphatically; "I leave the cellar
entirely in Brown's charge; a very trusty servant; and I find
that Mrs. Chantrey has lately been in the habit of getting a
great deal too much from him. But she will take anything she
can get that will either stupefy or excite her. She never
writes to David until her spirits are raised by stimulants of
one kind or another. It is a temptation I cannot understand.
I take a proper quantity, just as when the archdeacon was
alive, and I never think of exceeding that. I need no more,
and I desire no more. But Mrs. Chantrey grows quite excited,
almost violent at times. It makes me more anxious than words
can express."
</p>
<p>
There was a long pause, Mr. Warden neither lifting his head
nor opening his mouth. His pale face flushed a little, and
his lips quivered. David Chantrey was his dearest friend, and
an almost intolerable sense of shame and dread kept him
silent. His wife, of whom he always spoke so tenderly in all
his letters to him! The very spot where he was listening to
this charge against her, David's vestry, seemed to deepen the
shame of it, and the unutterable sorrow, if it should be
true.
</p>
<p>
"What would you counsel me to do?" asked Mrs. Bolton, after a
time. "Must I write to my nephew and tell him?"
</p>
<p>
"Do!" he cried, with sudden eagerness and emphasis; "do! Take
the temptation out of her way at once. Let everything of the
kind be removed from the house. Let no one touch it, or
mention it in her presence. Guard her as you would guard a
child from taking deadly poison."
</p>
<p>
"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Bolton. "Have no wine in my
house? You forget my station and its duties, Mr. Warden, I
must give dinner parties occasionally; I must allow beer to
my servants. It is absurd. Nobody could expect me to take
such a step as that."
</p>
<p>
"Listen to me," he said, earnestly, and with an authority
quite at variance with his ordinary shyness. "I do not
venture to hope for any other remedy. I have known men, ay,
and women, who have not dared to pass close by the doors of a
tavern for fear lest they should catch but the smell of it,
and become brutes again in spite of themselves. Others have
not dared even to think of it. If Mrs. Chantrey be falling
into this sin, there is no other course for you to pursue
than to banish it from your table, and, if possible, from
your house. It is better for her to die, if needs be, than to
live a drunkard."
</p>
<p>
"A drunkard!" echoed Mrs. Bolton. "I am sure I never used
such a word about Sophy. I cannot believe it possible that my
nephew's wife, a clergyman's wife, could become a drunkard,
like a woman of the lowest classes! And I cannot understand
how you, a clergyman, could seriously propose so
extraordinary a step. Why, there is no danger to me; nobody
could ever suspect me of being fond of wine. I have taken it
in moderation all my life, and I cannot believe it is my duty
to give it up altogether at my age."
</p>
<p>
"Very possibly it has never been your duty before," answered
Mr. Warden, "and now I urge it, not for your own sake, but
for hers. She has fallen into the snare blindfolded, and you
can extricate her, though at some cost to yourself. I feel
persuaded you can induce her to abstain, if you will do so
yourself. You call yourself a Christian—"
</p>
<p>
"I should think there can be no doubt about that," she
interrupted, indignantly; "the archdeacon never expressed any
doubt about it, and surely I may depend upon his judgment."
</p>
<p>
"Forgive me," said Mr. Warden. "I ought to have said you are
a Christian, and a Christian is one who follows his Lord's
example."
</p>
<p>
"Who drank wine himself, and blessed it," interposed Mrs.
Bolton, in a tone of triumph.
</p>
<p>
"The great law of whose life was self-sacrifice," he pursued.
"If one of his brethren or sisters had been a drunkard, can
you think of him filling up his own cup with wine and
drinking it, as they sat side by side at the same table?"
</p>
<p>
"I should be shocked at imagining anything so presumptuous,
not to call it blasphemous," she said. "We can only go by the
plain words of Scripture, which tell us that He turned water
into wine, and that He drank wine Himself. I am not afraid of
going by the plain words of Scripture."
</p>
<p>
"But we have only fragments of His history," replied Mr.
Warden, "and only a few verses of His teachings. Would you
say that Paul had more of the spirit of self-sacrifice than
Christ? Yet he said, 'It is good neither to eat flesh, nor to
drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth.' And
again, 'If meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no
flesh while the world standeth.' If the servant spoke so,
what do you think the Master would have answered if any one
had asked Him, 'Lord, what shall I do to save my brother from
drunkenness?' It will be a self-denial to you; people will
wonder at it, and talk about you; yet I say, if you would
truly follow your Lord and Saviour, there is no choice for
you. You can save a soul for whom Christ died; and is it
possible that you can refuse to do it?"
</p>
<p>
"I thought," said Mrs. Bolton, "that you would expostulate
with her, and warn her as her pastor; and I cannot but
believe that, now I have made it known to you, you are
responsible for her—at least more responsible than I
am. You must use your influence with her; and if she is deaf
to reason, we have done all we could."
</p>
<p>
"I cannot accept the responsibility," he answered, in a tone
of pain. "If she were dwelling under my roof, it would be
mine; but I cannot take your share of it. As your pastor, I
place your duty before you, and you cannot neglect it without
peril. As a snare to her soul it has become an accursed thing
in your household; and I warn you of it most earnestly,
beseeching you to hear in time to save yourself, and her, and
David from misery!"
</p>
<p>
"Mr. Warden," exclaimed Mrs. Bolton, "I am astonished at your
fanaticism!"
</p>
<p>
She had risen from her chair, and was about to sail out of
the vestry with an air of outraged dignity, when Mr. Warden
said, in a low tone, and with a heavy sigh, "See, there she
is!"
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bolton paused and turned toward the window, which
overlooked the little grave of her nephew's child, who had
been very dear to herself. Sophy had just sunk down beside
it. There was a slight strangeness and disorder about her
appearance, which no stranger might have noticed, but which
could not fail to strike both of them. She looked dejected
and unhappy, and hid her face in her hands, as though she
felt their gaze upon her. The clergyman laid his hand upon
Mrs. Bolton's arm with an unconscious pressure, and looked
earnestly into her clouded face.
</p>
<p>
"Look!" he said. "In Christ's name, I implore you to save
her."
</p>
<p>
"I will do what I can," she answered impatiently, "but I
cannot take your way to do it; it is irrational."
</p>
<p>
"There is no other way," he said mournfully, "and I warn you
of it."
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter04">CHAPTER IV.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
A BABY'S GRAVE
</h3>
<p>
Sophy Chantrey had strayed absently down to the churchyard in
one of those fits of restlessness and nervous despondency
which made it impossible to her to remain in the overcrowded
rooms of Bolton Villa or in the trim flower-garden
surrounding it. There was a continual vague sense of misery
in her lot, which she had not strength enough to cast off;
but at this moment she was not consciously mourning either
for her lost little one or for the absence of her husband and
boy. The sharpness and bitterness of her trouble were dulled,
and her brain was confused. Even this was a relief from the
heavy-heartedness that oppressed her at other times, and she
felt a comparative comfort in sitting half-asleep by her
child's grave, dreaming confusedly of happier days. She
started almost fretfully when Ann Holland's voice broke in
upon her drowsy languor.
</p>
<p>
"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Chantrey," she said, "but I
thought I might make bold to ask what news you've had from
Mr. Chantrey in Madeira?"
</p>
<p>
"David!" she answered absently; "David! Oh yes, I see. You
are Miss Holland, and he was always fond of you. Do you
remember him bringing me to see you just after our marriage?
He is getting quite well very fast, thank you. It is only
eight months now till he comes home; but that is a long
time."
</p>
<p>
The tears had gathered in her blue eyes, and fell one after
another down her cheeks as she looked up pitifully into Ann
Holland's kindly face.
</p>
<p>
"Ah! it is a long time, my dear," she replied, sitting down
beside her, though she had some dread of the damp grass; "but
we must all of us have patience, you know, and hope on, hope
ever. Dear, dear! to think how overjoyed he'll be, and how
happy all the folks in Upton will be, when he comes back! It
was hard to part with him; but when we see him again, strong
and hearty, all that'll be forgot."
</p>
<p>
"Oh, I've missed him so!" cried Sophy, with a burst of tears;
"I've been so solitary without him or Charlie. You cannot
think what it is. Sometimes I feel as if they were both dead,
and I was doomed to live here without them for ever and ever.
Everything seems ended. It is a dreadful feeling."
</p>
<p>
"And then, dear love," said Ann Holland, in her quietest
tones, "I know you just fall down on your knees, and tell God
all about it. That's how I do when my poor brother behaves so
bad, taking every penny, and pawning or selling all he can
lay hands on, to spend in drink. But you know better than me,
with all your learning, and music, and painting, and pretty
manners, let alone being a clergyman's wife; and when you are
that lonesome and sorrowful, you kneel down and tell God all
about it."
</p>
<p>
"No, no," sobbed Sophy, hiding her face again in her hands;
"I am so miserable—too miserable to be good, as I used
to be when David was at home."
</p>
<p>
The almost pleasant drowsiness was over now, and a swift tide
of thought and memory swept through her brain. The gulf on
whose verge she stood seemed to open before her, and she
looked down into it shudderingly. She could recollect the
temptation assailing her once before, when her baby died; but
then her husband was beside her, and his presence had saved
her, though not even he had guessed at her danger. What could
save her now, alone, with a perpetual weariness of spirit,
and a feeling of physical weakness amounting to positive
pain? Yet if she went but a few steps forward, she would sink
into the gloomy depths, which for the moment her quickened
conscience could so clearly perceive. If David could but be
at home now! If she could but have her little son to occupy
her time and thoughts!
</p>
<p>
"Dear, dear!" said Ann Holland's low and tender voice;
"nobody's too miserable for God not to love them. Why, a poor
thing like me can love my brother when he's as bad as bad can
be with drink. I could do anything for him out of pity; and
it's hard to think less of Him that made us. Sure He knows
how difficult it is to be good when we are miserable; and we
can't tire Him out. He'll help us out of our misery if we
keep stretching out our hands to Him. Nobody knows but Him
what we've all got to go through. It's because you're
lonesome, and fretting after old days. But they'll come back
again, dear love and we'll all be as happy as happy can be. I
know how you miss Mr. Chantrey, for I miss him badly, and
what must it be for you?"
</p>
<p>
Sophy lifted up her face, wet with tears, yet with a smile
breaking through them. Ann Holland's simple words of comfort
and hope had gone direct to her heart, and it seemed possible
for her to wait patiently now until David came home.
</p>
<p>
"You've done me good," she said, "and I shall tell David next
time I write to him."
</p>
<p>
"Dear, dear!" said Ann Holland, with a tone of surprise and
pleasure in her voice, "couldn't I do something better for
you? Couldn't I just go over to Master Charlie's school, and
take him a cake and a little whip out of the shop? It would
do me good, worlds of good; and he'd be glad, poor little
fellow! Mr. Chantrey's so good to my poor brother; he'd save
him from drink if he'd be saved, I know. I'd do anything for
your sake or Mr. Chantrey's. But there's Mrs. Bolton coming
out of the church, and I've a little business with her; so
I'll say good-day to you now, Mrs. Chantrey."
</p>
<p>
If at this point of her life Sophy Chantrey could have been
removed from the daily temptations which beset her, most
probably she would not have fallen lower into the degrading
sin, which was quickly becoming a habit. Until her husband's
enforced absence, she had been so carefully hedged in by the
numberless small barriers of a girl's sphere, so guided and
managed for by those about her, that it had been hardly
possible for any sore temptation to come near her. But now
suddenly cut adrift from her quiet moorings, she found
herself powerless to keep out of the rapid current which must
plunge her into deep misery and vice. There had not been a
doubt in her mind that she was not a real Christian, for she
had freely given a sentimental faith to the Christian dogmas
propounded to her by persons whom she held to be wiser and
better than herself. In the same manner she had taken the
customs and usages of modern life, always feeling satisfied
to do what others of her own class and rank did. Even now,
though she was conscious that there was some danger for
herself, she could not realize the half of the peril in which
she stood. After Ann Holland left her she lingered still
beside the little grave in a tranquil but somewhat
purposeless reverie. There could be no harm, she thought, in
taking just enough to deliver her from her very worst moments
of depression, or when she had to write cheerfully to her
husband. That was a duty, and she must keep a stricter guard
over herself than she had done lately. She would take exactly
what her aunt Bolton drank, and then she could not go wrong.
With this resolution she gathered a flower from the little
grave beside her, and, turning away, hastened out of the
churchyard.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Warden had scarcely glanced through the vestry window
since Mrs. Bolton had gone away in anger, but he was well
aware of Sophy's lingering beside the grave. He felt crushed
and unhappy. His friend Chantrey had solemnly committed the
parish to his care, and he to the utmost of his power had
strenuously fulfilled his duties. But what was he to do with
this new case? Except under strong excitement his
constitutional shyness kept him dumb, and how was he to
venture to expostulate with his friend's wife upon such a
subject? It seemed to be his duty to do something to prevent
this lonely and sorrowful girl from drifting into a
commonplace and degrading phase of sin. But how was he to
begin? How could he even hint at such a suspicion? Besides,
he could do nothing to remove her out of temptation. So long
as Mrs. Bolton persisted in her angry refusal to follow his
advice, she must be exposed daily to indulge an appetite
which she had not the firmness to resist.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter05">CHAPTER V.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
TOWN'S TALK
</h3>
<p>
Perhaps no two persons, outside that nearest circle of
kinship which surrounds us all, ever suffered more grief and
anxiety in witnessing the slow but sure downfall of a
fellow-being, than did Mr. Warden and Ann Holland while
watching the gradual working of the curse that was destroying
David Chantrey's wife.
</p>
<p>
It was a miserable time for Mr. Warden. Now and then he
accepted Mrs. Bolton's formal invitations to dine with her,
and those few acquaintances who were considered worthy to
visit at Bolton Villa. On the first occasion he had gone with
a faint hope that she had thought over his advice, and
resolved to act upon it. But there had been no such result of
his solemn warning, which had been so painful to him to
deliver. He abstained from taking wine himself, as he
believed Christ would have done for the sake of any one so
tempted to sin; but his example had no weight. There was a
pleasant jest or two at his asceticism, and that was all,
Sophy Chantrey took wine as the others did; and, in spite of
her resolution, more than the others did; whilst Mrs. Bolton
raised her eyebrows, and drew down the corners of her lips,
with an air of rebuke. No one knew the meaning of that look
except Mr. Warden. The other guests were only entertained by
Mrs. Chantrey's fine flow of merry humor, and remarked how
well she bore her husband's absence.
</p>
<p>
"You saw her, Mr. Warden?" said Mrs. Bolton to him, in a low
voice, when they reassembled in the drawing-room.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," he answered, sorrowfully.
</p>
<p>
"You saw how I looked at her as much as to warn her," pursued
Mrs. Bolton. "I am sure she understood me, yet she allowed
Brown to fill her glass again and again. What could I do
more? I have spoken to her in private; I could not speak to
her before our friends."
</p>
<p>
"I have told you before," he answered, "there is only one
thing you can do, and you refuse to do it."
</p>
<p>
"It would be ridiculous to do it," she said, sharply. "I am
not going to make myself a laughing-stock to all the world;
and I cannot shut her up in her room, and send her meals to
her like a naughty child. You ought to remonstrate with her."
</p>
<p>
"I will," he replied, "but it will be of little use, so long
as the temptation is there. Have you seriously and
prayerfully thought of your own duty as a Christian, in this
case? Are you quite sure you are acting as Christ himself
would have done?"
</p>
<p>
"None of us can act as He would have, done," she answered,
moving from away him. Yet her conscience was uneasy. There
was, of a truth, no doubt in her mind as to what the Lord
would have done. Yet she could not break through the habits
of a lifetime; no, not even to save the wife of her favorite
nephew. She did not like to give up the hospitable custom.
Her wines were good, bought from the archdeacon's own
wine-merchant, and she enjoyed them herself, and liked to
hear her guests praise them. No question as to the lawfulness
of such an enjoyment had ever arisen before now; but now it
troubled her secretly, though she was resolved not to give
way. If Sophy Chantrey could not keep within proper limits,
it was no fault of hers, and no one could blame her for
preserving a harmless custom.
</p>
<p>
It was not long before Mr. Warden found an opportunity of
speaking to Sophy, though it was an agony to him to do it. A
few words only were spoken before she knew what he meant to
say, and she interrupted him passionately.
</p>
<p>
"Oh! if David was but here!" she cried, "I could keep right
then. But I cannot bear it; indeed, I cannot bear it. The
house is so dreary, and there is nothing for me to think of;
and then I begin to go down, down into such a misery you do
not know anything of. I think I should go mad without it; and
after I have taken it, I feel mad with shame. Aunt Bolton has
told me what she said to you; and I can hardly bear to look
either of you in the face. What shall I do?"
</p>
<p>
"You must break yourself of the habit," he said pitifully;
"God will help you, if you only keep Him in your thoughts.
Promise me you will neither taste it, nor look at it again,
and I will take the same solemn pledge with you now, before
God."
</p>
<p>
"It would be of no use," she answered, in a hopeless tone,
"the instant I see it, I long for it; and I cannot resist the
longing. I've vowed on my knees not to take any for a day
only; and the moment I have sat down to dinner, I could
hardly bear to wait till Brown comes around. If I wake in the
night—and I wake so often!—I think of it the
first thing. If I could get right away from it, perhaps there
might be a chance; but how can I get away?"
</p>
<p>
"Have you ever thought of what it must lead to?" he asked,
wondering at the power the terrible sin had already gained
over her.
</p>
<p>
"Thought!" she cried, "I think of it constantly. David will
hate me when he comes home, if I cannot conquer it before
then. But what am I to do? I cannot write to him unless I
take it. No; I cannot even pray to God, when I am so utterly
miserable. It would be better for me to be some poor man's
wife, and drudge for my husband and children, than to have
nothing to do, and be so much alone. There must be some way
of escaping from it; but I cannot find it."
</p>
<p>
This way of escape—how could he find it for her? It was
a question that occupied his thoughts day and night. There
was one way, but Mrs. Bolton firmly persisted in closing it,
and no other seemed open to her. He could not make known this
difficulty to his friend, David Chantrey; for it would be a
death-blow to him literally. He would hasten home from
Madeira, at the very worst season of the year, as it was now
late in October, The risk for him would be too great. There
was no other home open to Sophy; and it did not seem possible
to make any change in the conditions of that home. She must
still be lonely and miserable, and still be exposed to daily
temptations. All he could do was so little, that he did it
without hope in the results.
</p>
<p>
If possible, Ann Holland was yet more troubled than he was.
By and by it became common town's-talk, and many a neighbor
visited her with the purpose of gossiping about poor Mrs,
Chantrey. But they found her averse to dwell upon the
subject, as if gossip had suddenly grown distasteful to her.
Many an hour when she was waiting for her drunken brother to
come in from the Upton Arms, she pondered over what she could
do to save the wife of her beloved Mr. Chantrey. She knew
better than Mr. Warden, who had never been in close domestic
contact with the sin, how terrible and repulsive was the
degradation of it; and she was heart-sick for Sophy and her
husband.
</p>
<p>
"There's one thing I've done," she said one day to Mrs.
Bolton, speaking to her of her brother's drunkenness; "he's
never seen me drink a drop of it since he came home drunk the
first time. I hate the very sight of it, or to hear people
talk of the good it's done them! Why, if it did me worlds of
good, and made my poor Richard the miserable wretch he is, I
couldn't touch it. And he knows it; he knows I do it for his
sake, and maybe he'll turn some day. But if he doesn't turn,
I couldn't touch what is ruining him."
</p>
<p>
"That's very well in your station, Ann," answered Mrs.
Bolton, "but it is quite different with us. We owe a duty to
society, which must be discharged."
</p>
<p>
"Very likely, ma'am," she replied meekly; "it's my feelings I
was speaking of, not exactly my duty. I hate the name of it;
and to think of the thousands and thousands of folks it
ruins! When you've seen anybody belonging to you ruined by it
you'll hate it, I know. But pray God that may never be!"
</p>
<p>
"Ann," said Mrs. Bolton, cautiously, "do you suppose any one
belonging to me could ever drink more than is right?"
</p>
<p>
"It's the town's-talk," answered Ann Holland, bursting into
tears; "everybody knows it. Oh! Mrs. Bolton, if you can do
anything to help her, now is the time to do it. It will get
too hard to be rooted up by and by. I know that by my poor
brother. He'll never leave it off till he's on his deathbed
and can't get it. James Brown, your butler, ma'am, is always
talking to him, and exciting him about what he's got charge
of in your cellars; and they sit here talking about it for an
hour at a time, till they go off to the Upton Arms. I hate
the very sound of it."
</p>
<p>
"But I must have cellars, and I must have a butler," said
Mrs. Bolton, somewhat angrily. She was fond of Ann Holland,
and liked the reverence she had always paid to her. But this
ridiculous notion of Mr. Warden's seemed to have taken
possession of the poor, uneducated woman's brain, and
threatened to undermine her influence over her. She cut short
her visit to her at this point, and returned home
uncomfortable and disturbed, wishing she had never offered
the shelter of her roof to her nephew's unhappy and
weak-minded wife.
</p>
<p>
Presently, as the dreary winter wore away, Mr. Warden began
to shun the sight of Sophy Chantrey. All his efforts to save
her, or even to check her rapid downfall, had proved vain;
and he turned from her sin with a resentment tinged with
disgust. But Ann Holland could feel no resentment or disgust.
If it had been in her power she would have watched over her
and cared for her night and day with unwearied tenderness. As
far as she could she sought to keep alive within her all
kinds of softening and pleasant influences. She went often to
see Charlie at school, sometimes persuading Sophy to go with
her, though more often the unhappy mother shrank from meeting
her little son's innocent greetings and caresses. The
terrible fits of depression which followed every indulgence
of her craving frequently unfitted her for any exertion. She
clung to Ann Holland's faithful friendship; but it was not
near enough or strong enough to keep her from yielding when
she was tempted.
</p>
<p>
But Sophy Chantrey had not yet fallen to the lowest
depths—perhaps never would fall. Her husband's return
would save her. Ann Holland looked forward to it as the only
hope.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter06">CHAPTER VI.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
THE RECTOR'S RETURN
</h3>
<p>
David Chantrey's term of exile was over, and the spring had
brought release to him. He was returning to England in
stronger health and vigor than he had enjoyed for some years
before his absence. It seemed to himself that he had
completely regained the strength that had been his as a young
man. He was a young man yet, he told himself—not six
and thirty, with long years of happy work lying before him.
The last eighteen months had been weary ones, though he could
not count them as lost time, since they had restored him to
health. The voyage home was a succession of almost perfectly
happy days, as he dwelt beforehand upon the joy that awaited
him. He had a packet of letters, those which had reached him
from home during his absence; and he read them through once
more in the long leisure hours of the voyage. Those from his
friend Warden and his aunt which bore a recent date had
certainly a rather unsatisfactory tone; but all of Sophy's
had been brighter and more cheerful than he had anticipated.
Every one of them longed for his return, that was evident.
Even Warden, who did not know where his fate would take him
to next, expressed an almost extravagant anxiety for his
speedy presence in his own parish.
</p>
<p>
He loved his parish and his people with a peculiar pride and
affection. It was twelve years since he had gone to
Upton—a young man just in orders, and in the full glow
of a fresh enthusiasm as to his duties. He believed no office
to be equal to that of a minister of Christ. And though this
glow had somewhat passed away, the enthusiasm had deepened
rather than faded with the lapse of years, His long illness
and exclusion from his office had imparted to it a graver
tone. In former days, perhaps, he had been too much set upon
the outer ceremonials of religion. He had been proud of his
church and the overflowing congregation which assembled in it
week after week testifying to his popularity. To pass along
the streets of his little town, and receive everywhere the
tokens of respect that greeted him, had been exceedingly
pleasant. He had bent himself to win golden opinions, after
quoting the words of Paul, "I am made all things to all men,
that by all means I might save some." And he had succeeded in
gaining the esteem of almost every class of his parishioners.
</p>
<p>
But during the long and lonely months of absence he had
learned to love his people after a different fashion. There
were some pleasant vices in his parish to which he had shut
his eyes; some respectable delinquents with whom he had been
on friendly terms, without using his privilege as a friend to
point out their misdeeds. There was not a high tone of
morality in his parish. Possibly he had been too anxious to
please his people. He was going back to them with a deeper
and stronger glow of enthusiasm concerning his duties and
work among them; but with a graver sense of his own weakness,
and a more humble knowledge of the Divine Father for whom he
was an ambassador.
</p>
<p>
His vessel reached Southampton the day before its arrival
could have been expected, and neither Sophy nor his friend
Warden was there to welcome him. But this was an additional
pleasure; he would take them all by surprise in the midst of
their preparations for his return. Warden had warned him that
there would be quite a public reception of him, with a great
concourse of his parishioners, and every demonstration of
rejoicing. It was in his nature to enjoy this; but still he
would like a few quiet hours with Sophy first, and these he
could secure by hastening home by the first train. He would
reach Upton early in the evening.
</p>
<p>
It was an hour of intense happiness, and he felt it to his
inmost soul. All the route was familiar to him after he had
started from London; the streets and suburbs rushing past him
swiftly, and the meadows, in the bright green and gold of
spring, which followed them. He knew the populous villages,
with their churches, where he was himself well known. Every
station seemed almost like a home to him. As he drew nearer
to Upton he leaned through, the window to catch the first
glimpse of his own church, and the blue smoke rising from his
own house; and a minute or two afterward, with a gladness
that was half a pain, he found himself once more on the
platform at Upton station.
</p>
<p>
"I am back again," he said, shaking hands with the
station-master with a hearty grasp that spoke something of
his gladness. "Is all going on well among you?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, Mr. Chantrey; yes, sir," he answered. "You're welcome
home, sir. God bless you! You've been missed more than any of
us thought of when you went away. You're needed here, sir,
more than you think of."
</p>
<p>
"Nothing has gone very wrong, I hope," said the rector,
smiling. He had faithfully done his best to provide a good
substitute in "Warden, but it was not in human nature not to
feel pleased that no one could manage his parish as well as
himself.
</p>
<p>
"No, no, sir," replied the station-master, "nothing but what
you'll put right again at once by being at home yourself. No,
there's nothing very wrong, I may say. Upton meant to give
you a welcome home to-morrow, with arches of flowers and
music. They'll be disappointed you arrived to-day, I know."
</p>
<p>
David Chantrey laughed, thinking of the welcome they had
given him when he brought Sophy home as his young wife. His
heart felt a new tenderness for her, and a throb of
impatience to find her. He bade a hasty good-evening to the
station-master, and walked off buoyantly toward the High
street, along which his path lay. The station-master and the
ticket-clerk watched him, and shook their heads
significantly; but he was quite unconscious of their
scrutiny. Never had the quiet little town seemed so lovely to
him. The quaint irregular houses stood one-half of them in
shadow, and the rest in the level rays of the May sunset; the
chestnut-trees, with their young green leaves and their white
blossoms lighting up each branch to the very summit of them;
the hawthorn bushes here and there covered with snowy bloom;
the children playing, and the swallows darting to and fro
overhead; the distant shout of the cuckoo, and the deep low
tone of the church clock just striking the hour—this
was the threshold of home to him; the outer court, which was
dearer to him and more completely his own than any other
place in the wide world could ever be.
</p>
<p>
No one was quick to recognize him in his somewhat foreign
aspect; the children at their play took no notice of him. All
the tradespeople were busy getting their shops a little in
order before the shutters were put up. He might perhaps pass
through the street as far as Bolton Villa without being
observed, and so be sure of a perfectly quiet evening. But as
he thought so his heart gave a great bound, for there before
him was Sophy herself hurrying along the uneven causeway, now
lost behind some jutting building, and then seen once more,
still hastening with quick, unsteady steps, as if bent on
some pressing errand. He did not try to overtake her, though
he could have done so easily. He felt that their first
meeting must not be in the street, for the tears that smarted
under his eyelids and dimmed his sight, and the quicker
throbbing of his pulses, warned him that such a meeting would
be no common incident in their lives. She had been his wife
for nine years, and she was far dearer to him now than she
had been when he married her. Eighteen months of their life
together had been lost—a great price to pay for his
restored health. But now a long, happy union lay before them.
</p>
<p>
He had not followed her for more than a minute or two when
she suddenly turned and entered Ann Holland's little shop.
Well, he could not take her by surprise better in any other
house in Upton. Perhaps it might even be better than at
Bolton Villa, amid its cumbrous surroundings; he always
thought of his aunt's house with a sort of shudder. If Sophy
had fortunately fixed upon this quiet house for paying the
good old maid a kindly visit, there was not another place
except their own home where he would rather receive her first
greeting—that is if the drunken old saddler did not
happen to be in. He paused to inquire from the journeyman,
still at work in the shop; learning that Richard Holland was
not at home, he passed impatiently to the kitchen beyond. Ann
Holland was just closing the door of her little parlor, and
David Chantrey approached her, hardly able to control the
agitation he felt.
</p>
<p>
"I saw my wife step in here," he said, holding out his hand
to her, but attempting to pass her and to open the door
before which she still stood. She could not speak for a
moment, but she kept her post firmly in opposition to him.
</p>
<p>
"My wife is here?" he asked, in a sharp impetuous tone.
</p>
<p>
"Yes; oh yes!" cried Ann Holland; "but wait a moment, Mr.
Chantrey. Oh, wait a little while. Don't go in and see her
yet."
</p>
<p>
"Why not?" he asked again, a sudden terror taking hold of
him.
</p>
<p>
"Sit down a minute or two, sir," she answered. "Mrs.
Chantrey's ill, just ailing a little. She is not prepared to
meet you just yet. You were not expected before to-morrow,
and she's excited; she hardly knows what she's saying or
doing. You'd better not speak to her or see her till she's
recovered herself a little."
</p>
<p>
"Poor Sophy!" cried David Chantrey, with a tremor in his
voice; "did she see me coming, then? Go back to her, Miss
Holland; she will want you. Is there nothing I can do for
her? It has been a hard time for her, poor girl!"
</p>
<p>
Ann Holland went back into the parlor, and he smiled as he
heard her take the precaution of turning the key in the lock.
He threw himself into the three-cornered chair, and sat
listening to the murmur of voices on the other side of the
door. It seemed a very peaceful home. The quaintness and
antiqueness of the homely kitchen chimed in with his present
feeling; he wanted no display or grandeur. This was no common
every-day world he was in; there was a strange flavor about
every circumstance. Impatient as he was to see Sophy, and
hold her once more in his arms, he could not but feel a sense
of comfort and tranquillity mingling with his more unquiet
happiness. There was a fire burning cheerily on the hearth,
though it was a May evening. Coming from a warmer climate, he
felt chilly, and he bent over the fire, stretching over it
his long thin hands, which told plainly their story of mere
scholarly work and of health never very vigorous, Smiling all
the time, with the glow of the flame on his face, with its
expression of tranquil gladness, as of one who had long been
buffeted about, but had reached home at last, he sat
listening till the voices ceased. A profound silence
followed, which lasted some time, before Ann Holland returned
to him saying softly, "She is asleep."
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter07">CHAPTER VII.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
WORSE THAN DEAD
</h3>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"She is asleep," he said, repeating her words in a lowered
voice, as if he was afraid of disturbing her.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," she answered.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"I never heard of it," said Mr. Chantrey; "they never told
me."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"But my wife," he said; "has she been ill all the time?"
</p>
<p>
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?
</p>
<p>
"Is my wife ill yet?" he demanded again, in a more agitated
voice.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
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?
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"What has this to do with my wife?" he asked, "for what
reason have my aunt and Mr. Warden lost patience with her?"
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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!
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"Let me go and see her," he said, in a choking voice.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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!"
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter08">CHAPTER VIII.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
HUSBAND AND WIFE
</h3>
<p>
How long he knelt there, Mr. Chantrey did not know. He felt
cramped and stiff, for he did not stir from his first
position; and he had uttered no other word of prayer. But at
last Sophy moved and turned her head; and he lifted up his
face at the sound. The moon was shining full into the room,
and they could see one another, but not distinctly, as in
daylight. She looked at him in dreamy silence for a few
moments, and then she timidly stretched out her hand, and
whispered, "David!"
</p>
<p>
"My wife!" he answered, laying his own cold hand upon hers.
</p>
<p>
For some few minutes neither of them spoke again. They gazed
at one another as though some great gulf had opened between
them, and neither of them could cross it. In the dim light
they could only see the pallid, outline of each other's face,
as though they had met in some strange, sad world. But
presently he leaned over her, and kissed her.
</p>
<p>
"Oh!" she cried, with a sudden loudness that rang through the
quiet room, "you know all! You know how wicked I am. But you
don't know how lonely and wretched I have been. I tried to
break myself of it I did try to keep from it; but it was
always there on the table when I sat down to my meals with
Aunt Bolton; and I could always find comfort in it. Oh! help
me! Don't cast me off; don't hate me. Help me."
</p>
<p>
"I will help you," he answered, earnestly; but he could say
no more. The mere sound of the words she spoke unnerved him.
</p>
<p>
"And I have made you miserable just as you are coming home!"
she went on. "I never meant to do that. But I was so
restless, looking forward to to-morrow; and aunt's maid
advised me to take a little, for fear I should be quite ill
when you came. I should have been all right to-morrow; and I
was so resolved never to touch it again, after you had come
home. You are come back quite strong, are you? There is no
more fear for you? Oh! I will conquer myself; I must conquer
myself. If it had not always been in my sight, and the
doctors had not ordered it, I should never have been so
wicked. Do you forgive me? Do you think God will forgive me?"
</p>
<p>
"Can you give it up?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"Oh! I must, I will give it up," she sobbed; "but if I do,
and if you forgive me, it can never be the same again. You
will not think the same of me—and people have seen
me—they all talk about it—and I shall always be
ashamed before them. I am a disgrace to you; Aunt Bolton has
said so again and again. Then there's Charlie; I'm not fit to
be his mother. That is quite true. However long I live,
people in Upton will remember it, and gossip about, it. If
they had let me die it would have been better for us all. You
could have loved me then."
</p>
<p>
"But I love you still," he answered, in a voice of tenderness
and pity; "you are very dear to me. How can I ever cease to
love you?"
</p>
<p>
Yet as he spoke a terrible thought flashed through his mind
that his wife might some day become to him an object of
unutterable disgust. An image of a besotted, drunken woman
always in his house, and bearing his name, stood out for a
moment sharply and distinctly before his imagination. He
shuddered, and paused; but almost before she could notice it,
he went on in low and solemn tones.
</p>
<p>
"Your sin does not separate you from me; you are my wife. I
must help you and save you at whatever cost. Your soul is
nearer to mine than any other; and what one human being can
do for the soul of another, it is my lot to do. Do not be
afraid of me, Sophy. You cannot estrange yourself from me;
and yon cannot wear out the patience of God. He is ever
waiting to receive back those who have wandered farthest from
him. Can I refuse love and pity, when He freely gives them in
full measure to you? Will Christ forsake you—He who
saved Mary Magdalen? He will cast out this demon that has
possession of you."
</p>
<p>
He was replying to some of the questions which had troubled
him, while he was kneeling at her side, before she was awake.
There was no separation possible of their lives. If she broke
away from him, or if he sent her away from his home, they
would still be bound together by ties that could never be
broken. Whatever depth she sank to, she was his wife, and he
must tread step by step with her the path that ran through
all the future. But if any one could help her, and lead her
back out of her present bondage, it was he; and he must not
fail her in any extremity for lack of pity and tenderness.
</p>
<p>
He was about to speak again, when a loud, rough noise broke
in upon the quiet of the house. It was nearly midnight; and
Ann Holland's drunken brother was stumbling and staggering
through his shop into the peaceful little kitchen, Sophy sat
up and listened. They could hear his thick, coarse voice
shouting out snatches of vulgar songs, mingled with oaths at
his sister, who was doing her utmost to persuade him to go
quietly to bed. His shambling step, dragging across the
floor, seemed about to enter the darkened room where they
were sitting; and Sophy caught her husband's arm, clinging to
it with fright. It was a more bitter moment for Mr. Chantrey
than even for her. The comparison thrust upon him was too
terrible. His delicate, tender, beloved wife, and this
coarse, brutal, degraded man! Was it possible that both were
bound by the chains of the same sin?
</p>
<p>
But Ann Holland succeeded before long in getting her brother
out of the way, and releasing them from their painful
imprisonment. The streets of Upton were hushed in utter
solitude and silence as they walked through them, speechless
and heavy-hearted; those streets which, on the morrow, were
to have been crowded with groups of his people, eager to
welcome him home. They passed the church, lit up with the
moonlight, clear enough to make every grave visible; a lovely
light, in which all the dead seemed to be sleeping restfully.
He sighed heavily as he passed by. Sophy was clinging to him,
sobbing now and then; for her agitation had subsided into a
weak dejection, which found no relief but in tears. Every
step they trod along the too familiar road brought a fresh
pang to him. For thousands of memories of happy days haunted
him; and a thousand vague fears dogged him. He dared not open
his heart either to the memories or the fears. Nothing was
possible to him, except a silent, continuous cry to God for
help.
</p>
<p>
"It is a melancholy coming home," Sophy murmured, as they
stood together on the threshold of their aunt's house. He had
not time to answer, for the door was opened quickly, and Mrs.
Bolton hurried forward to welcome him. She had been expecting
him for some time, for Ann Holland had sent word that both he
and Mrs. Chantrey were at her house. One glance at his
anxious and sorrowful face revealed to her the anguish of the
last few hours. Sophy crept away guiltily up stairs; and she
put her arm through his, and led him into the dining-room,
where a luxurious supper was spread for him.
</p>
<p>
"You know all about it, then?" said Mrs. Bolton, as he threw
himself into a chair by the fireside, looking utterly bowed
down and wretched.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," he answered. "Oh! aunt, could you do nothing for her?
Could you not prevent it? It is a miserable thing for a man
to come back to."
</p>
<p>
"I have done all I could," she replied, hesitatingly. "I have
been quite wretched about it myself; but what could I do? I
told your friend Mr. Warden there was nothing in reason I
would refuse to do; but his ideas were so impracticable they
could not be carried out."
</p>
<p>
"What were they?" he asked.
</p>
<p>
"Positively that I should abstain altogether myself," she
said; "and not only that, but I must refuse it to my guests,
and have nothing of the kind in my house; not even those
choice wines your uncle bought, Neither wine for myself nor
ale for my servants! It was quite out of the question, you
know. Mr. Warden was meddlesome to the very verge of
impertinence about it, until I was compelled to give up
inviting him to my house. He went so far as to doubt my being
a Christian! And it was of no use telling him I followed our
Lord's example more strictly by drinking wine than he did by
abstaining from it. He used his influence with Sophy to
persuade her to suggest the same thing, that I would keep it
altogether out of her sight at all times; but she soon saw
how impossible it was for a person of my station and
responsibility to do such a thing. I told her it was putting
total abstinence above religion."
</p>
<p>
"Did Sophy think that would save her?" asked Mr. Chantrey.
</p>
<p>
"She had a fancy it would," answered Mrs. Bolton, "but only
because Mr. Warden put it into her head. She was quite
reasonable about it, poor girl! I proved to her that our Lord
did not do it, nor some of the best Christians that ever
lived; and she was quite convinced. Even Ann Holland was
troublesome about it, begging me to do all kinds of
extraordinary things—to have Charlie here was one of
them, as if that could cure her—but I soon made her
understand her position and mine. I am sure nobody can be
more anxious than I am to do what is right. I am afraid it is
the development of an hereditary taste in your wife, David,
and nothing will cure it; for I have made many inquiries
about her family, and I hear several of her relations were
given to excess; so you may depend upon it, it is hereditary
and incurable."
</p>
<p>
There was little comfort for him in this speech, which was
delivered in a satisfied and judicial tone. Sophy's sin had
been present to Mrs. Bolton for so many months, and she had
grown so accustomed to analyze it, and argue about it, that
she could not enter into the sudden and direful shock the
discovery had been to her nephew. An antagonism had risen in
her mind about it, not only against Mr. Warden, but against
some faint, suppressed reproaches of conscience, which made
her secretly cleave to the idea that this vice was
hereditary, and consequently incurable. She was afraid also
of David reproaching her. But he did not. He was too crushed
to reason yet about his wife's fall, or what measures might
have been taken to prevent it. Long after his aunt had left
him, and not a sound was to be heard in the house, he sat
alone, scarcely thinking, but with one deep, poignant, bitter
sense of anguish weighing upon his soul. Now and then he
cried to God inarticulately; that dumb, incoherent cry of the
stricken spirit to the only Saviour.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter09">CHAPTER IX.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
SAD DAYS
</h3>
<p>
There was no doubt in Upton, when the people saw their rector
again, that he knew full well the calamity that had befallen
him. No one ventured to speak to him of it; but their very
silence was a measure of the gravity of his trouble. His
friend Warden told him more accurately than any one else
could have done, how it had gradually come about, and what
remonstrances he had made both to Mrs. Bolton and Sophy. Mr.
Chantrey was impatient to get into his own house, where he
could do what his aunt had refused to do, and where he could
shield his wife from all temptation to yield to the craving
for stimulants in any form. When they were at home once more,
with their little son with them, filling up her time and
thoughts, all would be well again.
</p>
<p>
But he did not know the force of the habit she had fallen
into. At first there were a few gleams of hope and
thankfulness during the pleasant days of summer, while it was
a new thing for Sophy to have her husband and child with her.
But he could not keep her altogether from temptation, while
they visited constantly at Bolton Villa, and the houses of
other friends. It was in vain that he abstained himself; that
he made himself a fanatic on the question, as all his
acquaintances said; Sophy could not go out without being
exposed to temptation, and she was not strong enough to
resist it. Before the next spring came, the people of Upton
spoke of her as confirmed in her miserable failing. There was
no one but herself who could now break off this fatal habit;
and her will had grown wretchedly feeble. The sin domineered
over her, and she felt herself a helpless slave to it. There
had been no want of firmness or tenderness on the part of her
husband; but it had taken too strong a hold upon her before
he came to her aid. The intolerable sense of humiliation
which she suffered only drove her to seek to forget it by
sinking lower into the depth of her degradation and his.
</p>
<p>
A great change came over the rector of Upton. He went about
among his parishioners, no longer gladly taking the
leadership among them, and claiming the pre-eminence as his
by right. It had been one of his most pleasant thoughts in
former days that he was the rector of the parish, chosen of
God, and appointed by men, to teach them truths good for
himself and them, and to go before them, seeking out the path
in which they should walk. But his own feet were now
stumbling upon dark mountains. He was quickly losing his
popularity among them; for whereas, while he was himself
happy and honored, he had not seen clearly all the evils, and
wrongs, and excesses of his parish, now he was growing, as
they said, more fanatical and ascetic than Mr. Warden had
been, who had won the name of a puritan among them. Why could
he not leave the Upton Arms and the numerous smaller taverns
alone, so long as the landladies and their daughters attended
church, as they had been need to do? His presence at the
dinner-parties of his friends was a check upon all hilarity;
and by and by they ceased to invite him, and then, half
ashamed to see his face, ceased to go to his church, where
his sermons had not the smooth and flowery eloquence of
former days.
</p>
<p>
Probably Mr. Chantrey knew better now what was good for his
people; he had clearer views of the snares and dangers that
beset them, and the sorrows that lie lurking on every man's
path. He saw more distinctly what Christ came to do; and how
he did it by complete self-abnegation, and by descending to
the level of the lowest. But he had no delight in standing up
in his pulpit in full face of his dwindling congregation.
Language seemed poor to him; and it had grown difficult to
him to put his burning thoughts into words. As the bitter
experience of daily life seared his very soul, he found that
no smooth, fit expressions of his self-communing rose to his
lips. It pained him to face his people, and speak to them in
old, trite forms of speech, while his heart was burning
within him; and they knew it, as they sat quiet in their
pews, looking up to him with inquisitive or indifferent eyes.
</p>
<p>
Mrs, Bolton could not escape her share of these troubles;
though she never accused herself for a moment as having had
any part in causing them. It was the archdeacon who had
obtained the living of Upton for her favorite nephew; and she
had settled there to be the patroness of every good thing in
the parish. Mr. Chantrey's popularity had been a source of
great satisfaction and self-applause to her. She had foreseen
how useful he would be; what a shining light in this somewhat
dark corner of the church. The increasing congregations, and
the number of carriages at the church-door, had given her
much pleasure. She had delighted in taking the lead, side by
side with her nephew, and in being looked up to in Upton, as
one who set an example in every good thing. But this
unfortunate failing in her nephew's wife, developed under her
roof and during his absence, had been a severe blow. No one
directly blamed her for it, except the late curate, Mr.
Warden, and a few extravagant, visionary persons, who deemed
it best to abstain totally from the source of so much misery
and poverty among their fellow-beings, and to take care, as
far as in them lay, to place no stumbling-block in the way of
feeble feet. But, strange to say, all the estimable people in
Upton regarded her with less veneration since her niece had
gone astray. Even Ann Holland was plainly less impressed and
swayed by the idea of her goodness; and there were many
others like Ann Holland. As for her nephew, he was gradually
falling away from her in his trouble. He would seldom go to
dine with her without Sophy; and he had urgent reasons to
decline every invitation for her. Their conversations upon
religious subjects, which had always tended to make her
comfortably assured of her own state of grace, had quite
ceased. David never talked to her now about his sermons, past
or future. He was in the "wasteful wilderness" himself, and
could not walk with her through trim alleys of the vineyards.
Now and then there fell from him, as from his friend,
unpractical notions of a Christian's duty; as if Christianity
consisted more in acts of self-denial than in an accurate
creed concerning fundamental doctrines. It was an uneasy time
for Mrs. Bolton; and her chief consolation was found in a
volume of sermons, published by the archdeacon, which made
her feel sure that all must be right with the widow of such a
dignitary.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter10">CHAPTER X.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
A SIN AND A SHAME
</h3>
<p>
It was May again; a soft, sunny day, with spring showers
falling, or gathering in glistening clouds in the blue sky.
The bells chimed for morning service, as the people came up
to church from the old-fashioned streets. They greeted one
another as they met in the churchyard, whispering that it had
been a very bad week for poor Mr. Chantrey. Every one knew
how uncontrollable his wife had been for some time past,
except a few strangers, who still drove in from a distance.
The congregation, some curiously, some wistfully, gazed
earnestly at him, as with a worn and weary face, and with
bowed-down head already streaked with gray, he took his place
in the reading-desk. Ann Holland wiped away her tears
stealthily, lest he should see she was weeping, and guess the
reason. In the rectory pew the young, fair-haired boy sat
alone, as he had often done of late; for his mother was to
unfit to appear in church.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Chantrey read the service in a clear, steady voice, but
with a tone of trouble in it which only a very dull ear could
have missed. When he ascended his pulpit, and looked down
with sad and sunken eyes upon his people, every face was
lifted up to him attentively, as he gave out the text, "Am I
my brother's keeper?" Mrs. Bolton moved uneasily in her pew,
for she knew he was going to preach a disagreeable sermon. It
was not as eloquent as many of his old ones; but it had a
hundredfold more power. His hearers had often been pleased
and touched before; now they were stirred, and made
uncomfortable. Their responsibilities, as each one the keeper
of his brother's soul, were solemnly laid before them. The
listless, contented indifference to the sins and sorrows of
their fellow-men was rudely shaken. Their satisfaction in
their own safety was attacked. As clearly as words could put
it, they were told that not one of them could go to heaven
alone; that there was no solitary path of salvation for any
foot to tread. As long as any fell because of temptation,
they were bound, as far as in them lay, to remove every kind
of temptation. If each one was not careful to be his
brother's keeper, then the voice of their brother's blood
would cry unto God against them. There was scarcely a person
present who could listen to their rector's sermon with
feelings of self-satisfaction.
</p>
<p>
He left his pulpit at the close of it, troubled and
exhausted. His little son followed him into the vestry to
wait until the congregation, that loved to linger a little
about the porch, should have dispersed. But hardly had he
entered, than, looking out, as it was his wont to do, upon
the grave of his other child, he saw a figure stretched
across it, asleep. Could it possibly be his wife? Large drops
of rain were beginning to fall upon her upturned face, but
they did not rouse her from her heavy slumber; nor did the
noise of many feet passing by along the churchyard path. It
was a moment of unutterable shame and agony to him. His
people saw her; they had heard of his trouble before, but now
they saw it; and they were lingering to look at her. He must
go out in the midst of them all, and they must see him take
his miserable wife home.
</p>
<p>
Those who were there that day will never forget the sight.
His people made way for him, as he passed among them, still
in the gown he had worn while preaching, with a rigid and wan
face, and eyes that seemed blind to every object except the
unhappy woman he could not save. His little boy was pressing
close behind him, but he bade him go back into the church,
and wait until he came for him. Then he knelt down beside his
wife in the falling rain, and lifted her gently, calling her
by her name, "Sophy! Sophy!" But her heavy head fell back
again upon the grave, and he was not strong enough to raise
her from it. He burst into tears, a passion of tears; such as
men only weep in hours of extreme anguish of mind. Slowly his
people melted away, helpless to do anything for him; except
two or three of his most familiar friends, who stayed to
assist him in taking the wretched wife back to her home.
</p>
<p>
Ann Holland lingered unseen in the porch until all were out
of sight. The child she loved so fondly was standing with the
great door ajar, holding it with his small hand, and peeping
out now and then. She called to him when all were gone, and
he came out of the church gladly, yet with an air of concern
on his round, rosy face.
</p>
<p>
"My mother is ill, very ill," he said, putting his hand into
hers. "I saw her lying on baby's grave. Couldn't anything be
done for her to make her well? Isn't there any doctor clever
enough to cure her?"
</p>
<p>
"I don't know, dear," answered Ann Holland.
</p>
<p>
"My father never lets me go to see her when she's worst," he
went on, "only Sarah goes into her room, and him. She talks
and laughs often, and yet my father says she is ill. When I
am a man I shall be a doctor, and learn how to make her well.
But it will be a long time before I am clever enough for
that, I'm afraid. My father says she's too ill for anybody to
come to see us; isn't it a pity?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes, my dear," she answered.
</p>
<p>
"She can never hear me say my hymns now," he said; "and when
she's not so ill that my father won't let me see her, she
sits crying, crying ever so; and if I want to play with her,
or read to her, she can't bear it, she says. I should think
there ought to be somebody to cure her, if we could only find
out. My father scarcely ever laughs now, because she's so
ill; and when he plays with me he only looks sad, and he
speaks in a quiet voice as if it would make her worse. Do
try, Miss Holland, and ask everybody that comes to your house
if they don't know of some very, very clever doctor for my
mother."
</p>
<p>
"I will try," she said. "I'll do all I can. But you may run
home now, Master Charlie, See! There's your father coming
back for you,"
</p>
<p>
"I know I sha'n't see my mother again to-day," he answered;
"good-by, and remember, please."
</p>
<p>
She watched him running across the little meadow to his
father; and then she turned away, and walked slowly through
the street homeward. Little knots of the towns-people
lingered still about the doorways, discussing their rector's
troubles. Though most of them greeted her, anxious to hear
her opinion as one who was considered on friendly terms with
the rector's family, she evaded their questionings, and
passed on to the solitude of her own dwelling. It had been
solitary now for some days, for her brother had disappeared
early in the week; having stripped the house of money, and
set off on one of his vagrant tramps, of which she knew
nothing except that he always returned penniless, and
generally with the good clothes she provided for him
exchanged for worthless rags. How many years it was that her
life had been embittered by his drunkenness she could hardly
reckon, so many had they been. These strange absences of his
had at first been a severe trial to her; but of late years
they had been a holiday time of rest, except for the
continual anxiety she felt on his behalf. Her quaint and
quiet kitchen, as she unlocked the door and entered it,
seemed a haven of refuge, where she could indulge in the
tears she had kept under control till now. The love she felt
for Mr. Chantrey was so deep and true, that any sorrow of his
must have grieved her. But she knew so well what this sorrow
was! She knew through what long years it might last; and how
hopeless it might grow before the end came. Looking back upon
her own blighted life, she could foresee for him only a
weary, miserable, ever-deepening wretchedness. The Sunday
afternoon passed by slowly, and the evening came, The soft
sunshine and spring showers of the morning were gone; and a
sullen sweep of rain, driven by the east wind, was beating
through the streets. A neighbor looked in to say she had seen
the curate from the next parish pass through the town toward
the church; and she thought Mr. Chantrey would very likely
not be there. But Ann Holland had already decided not to go.
At any moment she might hear her brother's shambling step
draw near the door, and his fingers fumbling at the latch.
She could not bear the neighbors to see him when he came off
one of his vagabond tramps, dirty and ragged as he usually
was. She must stay at home again for him; again, as she had
done hundreds of times, mourning pitifully over him, and
ready to receive him patiently, impenitent as he was. She
went up stairs to make his bed quite ready for him; and to
put out of his way everything that could by any chance hurt
him, if he should stumble and fall in his drunken weakness.
When she returned to the kitchen, she lighted a candle, and
opened the old family Bible, with its large type, which
seemed to her a more sacred book than the little one she used
daily. But she could not read; the words passed vaguely and
without meaning beneath her eyes. Her mind was full of the
thought of her unhappy brother, and Mr. Chantrey's miserable
wife.
</p>
<p>
It was past her usual hour of going to bed before she made up
the kitchen fire to be in readiness, lest her brother should
knock her up at any hour during the night. At the last moment
she opened the street-door, and stood listening for a little
while, as she always did when he was not at home. The rain
was still sweeping through the street, which was as silent as
if the town had been deserted. The gas-lights in the lamps
flickered with the wind, and lit up the pools and channels of
water running down the pavements.
</p>
<p>
But just as she turned to go in, her quick ear caught the
sound of distant footsteps, growing louder as they came in
her direction. It was the tramp of several feet, marching
slowly like those of persons bearing a heavy burden. She
waited to see who and what it could be so late this Sunday
night; and soon, under the flickering lamps, she caught sight
of several men, carrying among them a hurdle, with a
shapeless heap upon it. A sudden, vague panic seized her, and
she hastily retreated inside her house, shutting and barring
the door. She said to herself she did not wish to see what
they were carrying past. But were they going past? She heard
them still, tramping slowly on toward her house; would they
pass by with their burden? She put down the light, for her
hand trembled too much to hold it; and she stood listening,
her ears quickened for every sound, and her white face turned
toward the closed and fastened door.
</p>
<p>
A knock came upon it, which almost caused her to shriek
aloud. Yet it was a quiet rap, and a neighbor's voice
answered as she asked tremulously who was there. She hastened
to open the door, so welcome was the sound of the well-known
voice; but there, opposite to her, in the driving rain,
rested the hurdle, with the confused mass lying huddled
together upon it. The men who bore it were silent, standing
with their faces turned toward her; all of them strangers,
except the one neighbor, who was on her threshold.
</p>
<p>
"They found him lying out in the fields near the Woodhouse
farm," said her neighbor, in a loud whisper; "he'd strayed
there, we reckon."
</p>
<p>
"Is he dead?" she asked, mechanically.
</p>
<p>
"Not dead, bless your heart! no!" was the answer; "we'll
carry him in. There now! Don't take on. There's a special
providence over folks like him; they never come to much harm,
you know. Show us where to lay him."
</p>
<p>
Ann Holland made way for the men to pass her, as they carried
their burden into the quiet, pleasant kitchen. She followed
with the light, and looked down upon him; her brother, who
had played with her, and learned the same lessons, when they
were innocent little children together. His gray hair was
matted, and his bloated face smeared with dust and damp. He
was barefooted and bareheaded. But as she gazed down upon
him, and listened to his heavy struggle for breath, she cried
in a tone of terror. "He is dying."
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter11">CHAPTER XI.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
LOST
</h3>
<p>
An hour later the house was comparatively quiet again. A
doctor had been, and said nothing could be done for Richard
Holland, except to let him die where he was undisturbed. The
men who had carried him home had dispersed, or had adjourned
to the Upton Arms, to drink, and to talk over this close of a
drunkard's life. The news had in some way reached the
Rectory; and now only Mr. Chantrey and Ann Holland watched
beside him. They had laid him, as he was, on the little
white-covered sofa in the parlor, never so soiled before. Mr.
Chantrey sat gazing at the degraded, dying man. No deeper
debasement could come to any human being; almost the likeness
of a human being had been lost. The mire and slough of the
ditch into which he had fallen still clung to him; for only
his face had been hastily washed clean by his sister's hand;
a face that had forfeited all intelligence and seemliness; a
coarse, squalid, disfigured face. Yet Ann was not repulsed by
it; her tears fell upon it; and once she had bent over it,
and kissed it gently. Now and then she put her mouth close to
the deafened ear, and spoke to him, calling him by fond
names, and imploring him to give some sign that he heard, and
knew her. But there was no sign. The heavy breathing grew
more thick and labored, yet feebler as the time passed slowly
on. David Chantrey marvelled at the poor sister's patience
and tenderness.
</p>
<p>
"Don't trouble to stay with me, sir," she said, at last, "I
thought perhaps he'd come to himself, and you'd say a word to
him. But there's no hope of that now."
</p>
<p>
"No," he answered, "I will not go, Ann," and his-voice
trembled with dread. "Do you think my wife could ever be as
bad as this?"
</p>
<p>
"God forbid!" she cried, earnestly. "God keep her from it!
Oh! if she could but see; if she could but know! But he
wasn't always like this. He was a kind, good-natured, clever
man once. It's drinking that's ruined him."
</p>
<p>
"I will stay with you to the end," said Mr. Chantrey; "it is
fit for me. You are teaching me a lesson of patience, Ann.
All this day I have been thinking if it would be possible for
me to give up my wife, and send her away from me, to end her
days apart from mine. I have been in despair; in the very
deeps. But now; why! even if I knew she would die thus, I
cannot forsake her."
</p>
<p>
"Ay! we must have patience," she answered. "I always hoped to
win him back again, but it was too strong for him and me. God
knows how he's been tempted on all hands; even those that
call themselves religious, and go to church regular as can
be. He used to cry to me sometimes, and promise to turn over
a new leaf; and then somebody perhaps that he looked up to
would treat him at the Upton Arms. He might have been a good
man, if he'd been left alone."
</p>
<p>
"Let us pray together for him and ourselves," said Mr.
Chantrey, kneeling down once again by the little couch, as he
had knelt the night of his return home. Ann still held her
brother's head upon her arm, and her bowed face nearly rested
upon it. But all words failed David Chantrey. "Father!" he
cried, "Father!" There was nothing more that he could say. It
was the single, despairing call of a soul that was full of
trouble; that was "laid in the lowest pit, in darkness, in
the deeps." But the bewildered brain of the dying man caught
the cry, and he muttered it over to himself; "Father! father!
where is he?"
</p>
<p>
"It's God, our Father who art in heaven," said Ann Holland,
uttering the words very slowly and distinctly in his ear;
"try to think of Him, and pray to Him. He'll hear you, even
now."
</p>
<p>
"Father!" he muttered again, "why! he'd be ashamed of his
boy."
</p>
<p>
"It's God," she said, keeping down her sobs, "you've no other
father. Think of Him: God, who loves you."
</p>
<p>
"He'd be ashamed of me," repeated the dying man.
</p>
<p>
For a minute or two he kept on whispering to himself words
they could not hear, except the one word "shame." Then all
was still. The miserable end had come; and neither love nor
patience could avail him anything on this side the grave. He
had gone as a drunkard into the presence of his Judge.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter12">CHAPTER XII.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
A COLONIAL CURACY
</h3>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"Aunt," he said one evening, when they two were alone
together in her fantastic drawing-room, "I have resigned my
living."
</p>
<p>
"Resigned your living!" she repeated, in utter amazement,
"resigned Upton Rectory!"
</p>
<p>
She could hardly pronounce the words; and she gazed at him
with an air of bewilderment which brought a smile to his
careworn face.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," he answered, "life has grown intolerable to me here."
</p>
<p>
"And what do you mean to do?" she asked.
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"A curate to Warden! a curate in New Zealand!" ejaculated
Mrs. Bolton. "David, are you mad?"
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"And Sophy?" gasped Mrs. Bolton; "what do you mean to do with
her? Where shall you leave her?"
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
"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?"
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
"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."
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter13">CHAPTER XIII.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
SELF-SACRIFICE
</h3>
<p>
All Upton was thrown into a ferment by the unexpected news
that their rector had resigned his living, and was about to
emigrate to New Zealand. At first it was declared too strange
to be true. Then in a few of the lower class taverns it was
said to be too good to be true; but in the Upton Arms, where
the landlady considered it her duty to be regular at church,
and even the landlord thought it the thing to go there pretty
often, a civil amount of regret was expressed. It was the
fault of his wife, said most of the respectable parishioners,
who unfortunately did not know when she had had enough of a
good thing. Even those who were in the same plight with
herself threw a stone at poor Sophy when they heard that
their pleasant-spoken, affable, popular rector, as he used to
be, was about to flee his country. Very few sympathized with
him. He was taking an unheard-of, preposterous, fanatical
course. How could a man in his senses give up a living of
£400 a year, with a pretty rectory and glebe-land, for
a colonial curacy?
</p>
<p>
But there was one person who heard the news, and brooded over
it silently, with very different feelings. The last few
months had been very tranquil ones for Ann Holland. The one
anxiety of her quiet life had been removed, and after the
first sorrow was passed she had found her home a very
peaceful place without her brother. Her old neighbors could
come in now to take tea with her without any dread of being
rudely disturbed. The business did not suffer; it was rather
increasing, and she had had some thoughts of employing a
second journeyman. But to hear that Mr. Chantrey was going to
leave Upton, and that very soon she should see neither him
nor Charlie, who made her house so merry whenever he ran in,
was as great a blow to her as to Mrs. Bolton.
</p>
<p>
Ann Holland had been born in the house she lived in, and had
never dwelt anywhere else. All her world lay within the
compass of a few miles from it, among the farm-houses where
her business or her early friendships had made her acquainted
with the inhabitants. The people of Upton only were her
fellow-countrymen; all others were foreigners, and to her,
lawful objects of mistrust. Every other land save her own
seemed a strange and perilous place. Of New Zealand she had
not even any vague ideas, for it was nothing but a name to
her. She had far clearer views of heaven, of that other world
into which she had seen so many of her childhood's friends
pass away. To lie down upon her bed and die would have been a
familiar journey to her compared with that strange voyage
across boundless seas to a country of which she knew nothing
but the name.
</p>
<p>
Yet they were going—Mr. Chantrey, with his failing
health; Mrs. Chantrey, a victim to a miserable vice; and
Charlie, the young, inexperienced boy. What a helpless set!
She tried to picture them passing through the discomforts and
dangers of a savage life, as she supposed it to be; Mr.
Chantrey ill, poor, friendless, and homeless. Upon her screen
were the announcements of his coming to the living, of his
marriage, the birth of both children, and the death of one.
She read them over word for word, with eyes fast filling and
growing dim with tears. Very soon there would be another
column in the newspaper telling of his resignation and
departure—perhaps shortly afterward of his death. He
would die in that far-off country, with no one to care for
him or nurse him except his unhappy wife. She could not bear
to think of it. She must go with them.
</p>
<p>
But how could she ever bear to quit Upton? All her own people
were buried in the churchyard there, and she kept their
graves green with turf, and their headstones free from moss.
She had no memories or associations anywhere else, and she
clung to all such memories and cherished them fondly. There
was no one in Upton who knew the pedigrees of every family as
she did. Even her household goods, old and quaint as they
were, had a halo from the light of other days about them. How
many persons, dead and gone now, had she seen sit opposite to
her in that old arm-chair! How often had childish faces
looked laughingly at themselves in her pewter plates? Her
mother's chairs and sofa, worked in tent-stitch, which only
saw the daylight twice a year—what would become of
them, and what common uses would they be put to in any other
house? Her heart failed her when she thought of leaving these
things. It was not, moreover, simply leaving them, as she
would have to do when she died, but she must see them sold
and scattered before her eyes, and behold the vacant places
empty and forlorn, without their old belongings. Could she
bear to be so uprooted?
</p>
<p>
"Sir," she said one evening, when Mr. Chantrey, worn out with
the conflict of his own parting with his people, was sitting
depressed and silent by her fireside, "Mr. Chantrey, are you
thinking of taking out a servant with you?"
</p>
<p>
"No," he answered; "the cost would be too much. You forget we
are going to be poor folks out yonder, Ann. Don't you
remember telling me it might have been better for my wife if
she had had to work hard for Charlie and me?"
</p>
<p>
"That was long ago," she replied; "it's different now. Who's
to mind you if you are ill? and who's to see Master Charlie
kept nice, like a gentleman's son? I've been thinking it
would break my heart to sit at home thinking of you all.
There is nothing to keep me here, now my poor brother's gone.
Take me with you, sir."
</p>
<p>
"No, no!" he exclaimed, vehemently—so vehemently that
she knew how his heart leaped at the thought of it; "you must
not sacrifice yourself for us. What! give up this pleasant
home of yours, and all your old friends?! No; it cannot be."
</p>
<p>
"There'd be trouble in it," she said; "but it would be a
harder trouble to think of you in foreign parts, with none
but savages about you, and no roof over your head, and wild
beasts marauding about."
</p>
<p>
"Not so bad as that," he interrupted, smiling so cheerfully
that her own face brightened. "There are no wild beasts, and
not many natives, and I shall have a home of my own
somewhere."
</p>
<p>
"I could never sleep at nights," she went on, "or eat my
bread in comfort, for wondering about you. I don't want to be
a cost to you; and when I've sold all, I shall have a little
sum of money in hand that will keep me a year or two after my
passage is paid. I'm not too old for work yet. If it's too
bad a place for me to go to, what must it be for you? And
you're not as strong as you ought to be, sir. If anything
should happen to you out there, you'd like to know I was with
them you love, taking care of them."
</p>
<p>
"It would be a greater comfort than I can tell," said Mr.
Chantrey, in a tremulous voice. "Now and then the thought
crosses my mind that I might die yonder; and what would
become of Sophy and Charlie, left so desolate? There's
Warden; but he is too austere and harsh, good as he is. But,
Ann, I ought not to let you come."
</p>
<p>
"There's no duty to keep me at home," she answered. "If my
poor brother was alive, I could never forsake him, you know;
but that is all over now. And I could have patience with her,
poor lady! Aye, I'd have patience for her own sake as well as
yours. She could never try me as I've been tried. And I've
great hopes of her. Maybe if James, poor fellow, could have
broken off all his old ways, and begun again fresh, turning
over a new leaf where folks hadn't seen the old one, he might
have been saved. I've great hopes of Mrs. Chantrey; and
nobody could help her as I could. It seems almost as if our
blessed Lord laid this thing before me, and asked me to do it
for his sake. Sure if he asked me to go all round the world
for him, I couldn't say no. To go to New Zealand with folks I
love will be nothing to him leaving heaven, with his Father
and the holy angels there, to live and work like a poor man
in this world, and to die on the cross at the end of all."
</p>
<p>
Her voice fell into its lowest and tenderest key as she spoke
these last words, and the tears stood in her eyes, as if the
thought of Christ's life, so long familiar, had started into
a new meaning for her. The opportunity for copying Him more
literally than she had ever done before was granted to her,
and her spirit sprang forward eagerly to seize it. Mr.
Chantrey sat silent, yet with a lighter heart than he had had
for months. He felt that if Ann Holland went out with them
half his load would be gone. There was a brighter hope for
Sophy, and there would be a sure friend for his boy, whatever
his own fate might be. Yet he shrank from accepting such a
sacrifice, and could only see the selfishness of doing so at
the first moment.
</p>
<p>
"You must take another week to think of it," he said.
</p>
<p>
But when the week was ended Ann Holland was more confirmed in
her wish than before. The news that she was going out with
Mr. Chantrey's family caused as great a stir in the town as
that of the rector's resignation. The Hollands had always
been saddlers in Upton, and all the true old Upton people had
faithfully adhered to them, never being tempted away by
interlopers from London or other places, who professed to do
better work at lower prices. To be sure the last male Holland
was gone, but every one knew that his only share in the
business for many years had been the spending of the money it
brought in. That Ann Holland should give up her good trade
and go out as servant to the Chantreys—for so it was
represented by the news-bearers—was an unheard-of,
incredible thing. Many were the remonstrances she had to
listen to, and to answer as best she could.
</p>
<p>
It was a bitter day for Ann Holland when she saw her
treasured household furniture sold by auction and scattered
to the four winds. Many of her old neighbors bought for
themselves some mementoes of the place they knew so well, but
the bulk of the larger articles were sold without sentiment
or feeling. It was a pang to part with each one of them, as
they were carried off to some strange or hostile house to be
put to common uses. The bare walls and empty rooms that were
left, which she had never seen bare and empty before, seemed
terribly new, yet familiar to her. She wandered through them
for a few minutes, loitering in each one as she thought of
all that had happened to her during her monotonous life; and
then, with a sorrowful yet brave heart, she walked along the
street to the rectory, which was already dismantled and bare
like the home she had just left.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter14">CHAPTER XIV.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
FAREWELLS
</h3>
<p>
During these busy weeks Mrs. Bolton had looked on in almost
sullen silence, except when now and then she had broken out
into a passionate invective of her nephew's madness. He had
never been indifferent to the luxuries and refinements that
give a charm to life, and her nature could not comprehend how
all these were poisoned at their source for him. He was eager
to exchange them for a chance of a true home, however lowly
that home might be. He would willingly have gone to the wilds
of Siberia, if by so doing he could secure his wife's
reformation An almost feverish haste possessed him. To carry
her away from Upton, from England, and to enter upon a quite
new career in a strange place, and to accomplish this plan
quickly, absorbed him nearly to the exclusion of any other
thought. Mrs. Bolton felt herself very much neglected and
greatly aggrieved. Her plans were frustrated and her comforts
threatened, yet her nephew hardly seemed to think of
her—he for whom she had done so much, who would not
have been even rector of Upton but for the late archdeacon.
</p>
<p>
Yet she relented a little from her displeasure as the day for
parting came. She was as fond of him and his boy as her
nature would allow. Sophy had never been otherwise than an
object of her jealousy, and now she positively detested her.
But when Mr. Chantrey came on the last evening to sit an hour
or two with her, and she saw, as with newly-opened eyes, his
care-worn face and wearied, feeble frame, her heart quite
melted toward him.
</p>
<p>
"Remember," she said, eagerly, "you can come back again
whenever yon choose, as soon as you grow sure how useless
this mad scheme is. I wish I could have persuaded you to keep
on your living, but yon are too wilful. You are welcome to
draw upon me for funds to return at any time, and I shall
supply them gladly, and give you a home here. If yon find
your expectations fail, promise me to come back."
</p>
<p>
"And bring Sophy with me?" he asked, with almost a smile.
</p>
<p>
"No, no," she answered, shrinking involuntarily from the idea
of having her in her house. "Oh, my poor boy! what can yon
do?"
</p>
<p>
"I can only bear the burden sin lays upon me," he said. "It
is not permitted to us to shake off the iniquities of others.
All of us, more or less, must share in the sufferings of
Christ, bearing our portion of the sins of the world, which
he bore, even unto death. I am ready to die, if that will
save my poor Sophy from her sin.
</p>
<p>
"But all that makes a Christian life so miserable!" exclaimed
Mrs. Bolton.
</p>
<p>
"If in this life only we have hope in Christ, then are we of
all men most miserable," he answered.
</p>
<p>
"And you would teach that we must give up everything," she
cried, "all advantages, and blessings, and innocent
indulgences, and pleasures of every kind?"
</p>
<p>
"If the sins or temptations of those about call for such a
sacrifice, we must give them up, every one," he replied;
"they are no longer blessings or innocent indulgences. If God
calls upon us to make some sacrifice, and we refuse to do it,
do you think he will yield like some weak parent, who will
suffer his child to run the risk of serious injury rather
than give him present pain? The whole law of our life is
sacrifice, as it was the law of Christ's life. It is possible
that some small self-denial at the right moment may spare us
some costly expiation later on. Christianity must perish if
it loses sight of this law."
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bolton did not answer him. Was he thinking of her own
refusal to remove temptation out of the way of his wife when
she first began to fall into her fatal habit? He was not in
reality thinking of her at all, but her conscience pricked
her, though her pride kept her silent. It was such an
unheard-of course for a person in her station, that none but
fanatics could expect her to take it. Quixotic, irrational,
eccentric, visionary, were words that flitted incoherently
through her brain; but her tongue refused to utter them. Was
Christ then so prudent, so cautious, so anxious to secure
innocent indulgences and to grasp worldly advantages? Could
she think of Him making life easy and comfortable to Himself
while hundreds of thousands, nay, millions of unhappy souls
were hurrying each year into misery and ruin?
</p>
<p>
There was not much conversation between her and her nephew;
for as a parting draws very near, our memories refuse to
serve us, and we forget to say the many, many things we may
perhaps never again have any season for saying. They bade one
another farewell tenderly and sorrowfully; and he went out,
under the tranquil, starry sky, to wander once more beside
the grave of his little child, and under the old gray walls
of his church. He had not known till now how hard the trial
would be. Up to this time he had been kept incessantly
occupied with the numberless arrangements necessary for so
great a change; but these were all completed. He had said
farewell to his people; but the aching of his own great
personal grief and shame had prevented him from feeling that
separation too forcibly. But the stir and excitement were
over for the hour. Here there were no cold, curious eyes
fastened upon him; no fear of any harsh voice putting into
words of untimely lamentation the unacknowledged reason of
his departure. The beloved familiar places, so quiet yet so
full of associations to him, had full power over his spirit;
and he could not resist them. The very ivy-leaves rustling
against the tower, and the low, sleepy chirp of the little
birds disturbed by his tread, were dear to him. What, then,
was the church itself, every lineament of which he knew as
well as if they were the features of a friend? It was a
beautiful old church; but if it had been the homeliest and
barest building ever erected, he must still have mourned over
the pulpit, where he had taught his people; the pews, where
their listening faces were lifted up to him; the little
vestry, where he had spent so many peaceful hours. And the
small mound, blooming with flowers, under which his child
slept, how much power had that over him! He paced restlessly
up and down beneath the solemn yew-trees, his heart breaking
over them all. To-morrow by this time he would have left them
far behind him; and never more would his eyes behold them, or
his feet tread the path he had so often trod. They seemed to
cry to him like living, sentient things. To and fro he
wandered, while the silent stars and the waning moon, lying
low in the sky above the church, looked down upon him with a
pale and mournful light. At last the morning came; and he
remembered that to-day he must quit them all, and sail for a
far-off country.
</p>
<p>
The vessel Mr. Chantrey had chosen for the long voyage was a
merchant ship, sailing for Melbourne, under a captain who had
been an early friend of his own, and who knew the reason for
his leaving England. No other cabin passengers had taken
berths on board her, though there were a few emigrants in the
steerage. Captain Scott, himself a water-drinker, had
arranged that no intoxicating beverages, in any form, should
appear in the saloon. The steward was strictly forbidden to
supply them to any person except Mr. Chantrey himself. This
enforced abstinence, the complete change of scene, and the
fresh sea-breezes during the protracted voyage, he reckoned
upon as the best means of restoring his wife to health of
body and mind. Ann Holland, too, would watch over her as
vigilantly and patiently as himself; and Charlie would be
always at hand to amuse her with his boyish chatter. A bright
hope was already dawning upon him.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter15">CHAPTER XV.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
IN DESPAIR
</h3>
<p>
It was early in June when they set sail; and as the vessel
floated down the Channel somewhat slowly against the western
wind Ann Holland spent most of her time on deck, watching,
often with dim eyes, the coasts of England, as they glided
past her. She could still hardly realize the change that had
torn her so completely away from her old life. It made her
brain swim to think of Upton, and the old neighbors going
about the streets on their daily business, and the
church-clock striking out the hours; and the sun rising and
setting, and the days passing by, and she not there. It felt
all a dream to her; an odd, inexplicable, endless dream,
which never could become as real as the old days had been.
Her thoughts were all busy with the past, recalling faces and
events long ago forgotten; she scarcely ever looked on to the
end of the voyage. The sea was calm, and the soft wind sang
low among the rigging, while point after point along the
shores stole by, and were lost to sight almost unheeded,
though she could not turn her steadfast, sorrowful gaze from
them till she could see them no more. Yet when Mr. Chantrey,
reproaching himself for bringing her, asked her if she
repented, she was always ready to say heartily that she would
not go back, and leave them, for the world.
</p>
<p>
Charlie alone of them all was quite happy in the change. For
the last nine months he had been constantly at school; seldom
going home, and then but for a day or two, when his mother
was at her best. The boy found himself all at once set free
from school restraints, restored to his father and mother,
who had no one else to interest them; and with all the
delights of a ship and a voyage added to his other joys. He
was wild with happiness. There was not one thing left him to
wish for; for even his mother's nervous state of health could
not cast any gloom upon his gladness. He had grown accustomed
to think of her as a confirmed invalid; and when she came on
deck he would sit quietly beside her for a little while, and
lower his clear young voice in speaking to her, without
feeling that his short-lived self-control damped his
pleasure. But she was not often there long enough to test his
devotion too greatly.
</p>
<p>
Sophy Chantrey was passing through a season of intense
misery, both of mind and body; more bitter even than the
wretchedness she had felt when she could indulge the craving
that had taken so deep a hold upon her. There was nothing
voluntary in her abstinence, and consequently neither
pleasure nor pride in being able to exercise self-command.
Her health was greatly enfeebled; and her mind had been
weakened almost to childishness. She felt as if her husband
was treating her cruelly; yet she could see keenly that it
was she who had brought ruin upon his future prospects, as
well as those of her boy. She had never been able to sink
into utter indifference; and she could not forget, strive as
she would, all the happy past, and the unutterably wretched
present. Here, on board ship, there was no chance for her to
procure the narcotics, with which she had lulled her
self-reproaches formerly. Her longing for such stimulants
amounted almost to delirium. She could not sleep for want of
them; and all day long she thought of them, and cried for
them, until her husband and Ann Holland could scarcely
persevere in refusing them to her. It seemed to them at times
as if she must lose her reason, the little that remained to
her, and become insane, unless they yielded to her vehement
entreaties. Even when, after the first week was gone, and the
craving was in some measure deadened, her spirits did not
rally. She would lie still on deck when her husband carried
her there, or on the narrow berth in their cabin, with eyes
closed, and hands listlessly folded, an image of despair.
</p>
<p>
"Sophy!" he cried one day, when she had not stirred, or
raised her eyelids for hours; "Sophy, do you wish to kill
me?"
</p>
<p>
"I have killed you," she muttered, still without moving, or
looking at him.
</p>
<p>
"Sophy," he answered, "you are dreaming Look up, and see me
here alive, beside you Life lies before us yet; for you and
me together."
</p>
<p>
"No" she said, "don't I know it is death to you to be tied to
me as you are? I am a curse to you, and you hate and loathe
me, as I do myself. But we cannot get rid of each other, you
and me. Oh! if I could but die, and set you free!"
</p>
<p>
"I do not hate you," he answered, tenderly; "you are still
very dear to me. I do not wish to be free from you."
</p>
<p>
"Then you ought," she cried, with sudden passion; "you ought
to hate that which degrades and shames you. I am dragging you
down to ruin; you and Charlie. Do you think I do not know it?
Oh! if I could but die. Perhaps I may live for many, many
years yet; live to be an old woman, a drunken old wretch!
Think what it will be to live for years and years with a lost
creature like me. It is death, and worse than death, for
you."
</p>
<p>
"But why should you be lost?" he asked; "have you never
thought of One who came to seek and to save that which is
lost?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes; He found me once," she said, in tones of despair, "He
found me once; but I strayed away again, wilfully, in spite
of His love, and all He had done for me. I knew what He had
done, and how He loved me; yet I went away from Him wilfully.
I chose ruin; and now He leaves me to my choice."
</p>
<p>
"This is the delusion of a sick brain," he answered; "you
have no power to think rightly of our Lord. Listen to what I
can tell you about Him, and His love for you."
</p>
<p>
"No," she interrupted; "none of you others know, you people
who have never fallen like me. You do not know what it is to
feel yourselves given up and sold to sin. You and Ann Holland
think you can save me by keeping temptation out of my way;
but I know that as soon as it comes again I shall be as weak
as water against it."
</p>
<p>
"Have you no wish to be saved, then?" he asked, his heart
sinking within him at her hopeless words.
</p>
<p>
"Wish to be saved!" she repeated; "did the rich man in
torments wish to be saved? He only asked for one drop of
water to cool his tongue but for a moment. He knew he could
not be saved, and he did not pray for it."
</p>
<p>
"Do you think that I have no wish for your salvation?" he
asked. "Am I leaving you in your sin? Have I done nothing,
given up nothing, to secure it? Has Ann Holland given up
nothing?"
</p>
<p>
"Oh! you have," she cried. "You are doing all you can for me,
but it is useless."
</p>
<p>
"Christ has done more," he said. "His love for you passes
ours infinitely. Then if you have not wearied out ours, can
you possibly exhaust his? He can stoop to you in all your
misery and sinfulness, if you will but stretch out your hand
toward Him. There is no sin He will not forgive, and none He
cannot conquer, if you will but rouse yourself to work with
Him. Against your own will He cannot save you."
</p>
<p>
"I will try," she murmured.
</p>
<p>
Yet time after time the same subject, almost in the same
words, was renewed. Sophy's enfeebled brain could not long
retain the thought of a divine love and power, which was
ceaselessly though secretly striving to reclaim her. There
was no opportunity for her to exert her own will, for she
could not be tempted in her present circumstances, and the
strength gained by such an exertion was impossible to her.
Again and again, with untiring patience, did Mr. Chantrey
give ear to her despairing utterances, and meet them with
soothing arguments. But often he felt himself on the verge of
despair, doubtful of the truths he was trying so earnestly to
implant again in her heart. In the smooth happy days of old,
both of them had believed them. But now he asked himself,
Does God indeed care? Does He see and know? Is He near at
hand, and not afar off?
</p>
<p>
Their vessel had entered the tropical seas, and a profound
unbroken monotony reigned around them. They had not sighted
land since the shores of England had sunk below the horizon.
A waste of waters encircled them, and a dead calm prevailed.
Through the sultry and hazy atmosphere no rain fell in
cooling showers. Day after day the sea was of perfect
stillness, and an oppressive silence, as of death, brooded
over the low, regular heaving of the waters. The dry torrid
heat was exhausting, and the ship with its idle sails made
but little way across the quiet sea. Mr. Chantrey's weakened
frame suffered greatly, and even Ann Holland's brave and
cheery spirit almost sank into despondency.
</p>
<p>
"If it hadn't been for Mrs. Chantrey," she thought
mournfully, "we should all have been at Upton now, as happy
as the day's long. The summer's at its height there, and the
harvest is being gathered in. How cool it would be under the
chestnut-trees, or under the church walls! Mr. Chantrey's
sinking, plain enough, and what is to become of us if he
should die before we get to that foreign land? Dear, dear!
whoever would go to sea if they could get only a place to lay
their heads on land?"
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter16">CHAPTER XVI.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
A LONG VOYAGE
</h3>
<p>
It was a dreary and monotonous time. After the sun had gone
down, red and sullen, through the haze, and when the ship
left a long track of phosphorescent light sparkling behind
it, Mr. Chantrey would pace up and down the deck, as he had
often walked to and fro in the churchyard paths in the
starlight. He had many things to think of. For his wife his
hope was strengthening; a dim star shone before him in the
future. Her brain was gradually regaining clearness, and her
mind strength. Something of the old buoyancy and elasticity
was returning to her, for she would play sometimes with her
child merrily, and her laugh was like music to him. But how
would it be in the hour of temptation, which must come? She
said her craving for stimulants was passing away; but how
would she bear being again able to procure them? He would
watch over her and guard her as long as he lived, but what
would become of her if he should die?
</p>
<p>
This last question was becoming every day more and more
urgent. The exhausting oppressive heat and the protracted
voyage were sapping his strength, and he knew it. The fresh
sweet sea-breezes on which he had reckoned had failed him,
and he was consciously nearer death than when he left
England. He longed eagerly for life and health, that he might
see his wife and child in happier circumstances before he
died. To leave them thus seemed intolerable to him. What was
he to do with his boy? He could not leave him in the care of
a mother not yet delivered from the bondage of such a fatal
sin. Yet to separate him harshly from her would almost
certainly doom her to continue in it. If life might be spared
to him only a few years longer, he would probably see her
once more a fitting guardian for their child. The growing
hope for her, the dim dread for himself—these two held
alternate sway over him as he paced to and fro under the
southern skies.
</p>
<p>
Captain Scott, his friend, urged upon him that there was one
remedy open to him, and only one on board the ship. The long
stress and strain upon his physical as well as his mental
health had weakened him until his strength was slowly ebbing
away; his heart beat feebly, and his whole system had fallen
under a nervous depression. Now was the time when, as a
medicine, the alcohol, which was poison and death to his
wife, would prove restoration to him. Could he but keep up
his vital powers until the voyage was ended, all would be
well with him. His life might be prolonged for those few
years he so ardently desired. He could still watch over his
wife, and protect his child during boyhood, and die in
peace—young perhaps, but having accomplished what he
had set his mind upon. But Sophy? How could she bear this
unexpected temptation? He did not suppose he could
effectually conceal it from her, for of late she had clung to
him like a child, following him about humbly and meekly, with
a touching dependence upon him, striving to catch his eye and
to smile faintly when he looked at her, as a child might do
who was seeking to win forgiveness. She was very feeble and
delicate still, her appetite was as dainty as his own, and
the heat oppressed her almost as much as himself. Yet that
which might save him would certainly destroy her.
</p>
<p>
Day after day the debate with Captain Scott was resumed. But
there was no real debate in his own mind. He would gladly
take the remedy if he could do so with safety to his wife,
but not for a thousand lives would he endanger her soul. Not
for the certainty of prolonging his own years would he take
from her the merest chance of overcoming her sin. To do it
for an uncertainty was impossible.
</p>
<p>
There was hope for him still, if the vessel could but get
past these sultry seas into a cooler climate. One good fresh
sea-breeze would do him more good than any stimulant, and
they were slowly gliding to latitudes where they might meet
them at any hour. Once out of the tropics, and around the
Cape of Good Hope, there would be no fear of exhausting heat
in the air they breathed. All his languor would be gone and
the rest of the voyage would bring health and vigor to his
fevered frame. Only let them double the Cape, and a new life
in a new world lay before them.
</p>
<p>
His brain felt confused and delirious at times, but he knew
it so well that he grew used to sit down silently in the bow
of the ship, and let the dizzy dreams pass over him, careful
not to alarm his wife or Ann Holland. Cool visions of the
pleasant English home he had quitted for ever; the shadows
and the calm of his church, where the sunshine slanted in
through narrow windows made green with ivy-leaves; the
rustling of leaves in the elm-trees on his lawn in the soft
low wind of a summer's evening; the deep grassy glades of
thick woods, where he had loved to walk; the murmuring and
tinkling of hidden brooks—all these flitted across his
clouded mind as he sat speechless, with his throbbing head
resting upon his hands. Often his wife crouched beside him,
herself silent, thinking sadly how he was brooding over all
the wrong and injury she had done him, yet fearing in her
humiliation to ask him if it were so. Her repentance was very
deep and real, her love for him very true. Yet she dreaded
the hour when she must face temptation again. She could not
even bear to think of it.
</p>
<p>
But shortly after they had passed the southern tropic, as
they neared the Cape, the climate changed suddenly, with so
swift an alteration that from sultry heat of a torrid summer
they plunged almost directly into the biting cold of winter.
As they doubled the Cape a strong north-west gale met them,
with icy cold in its blast. The ropes were frozen, and the
sails grew stiff with hoar-frost. Rough seas rolled about
them, tossing the vessel like a toy upon their waves. The
change was too sudden and too great. All the passengers were
ill, and David Chantrey lay down in his low, narrow berth,
knowing well that no hope was left to him.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter17">CHAPTER XVII.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
ALMOST SHIPWRECKED
</h3>
<p>
Sophy Chantrey was left alone to nurse her dying husband, for
Ann Holland was lying ill in her own cabin, ignorant of his
extremity. Captain Scott came down for a minute or two, but
he could not stay beside him. His presence was sorely needed
on deck, yet he lingered awhile, looking sorrowfully at his
friend. Sophy watched him with a clearer and keener glance in
her blue eyes than he had ever yet seen in them.
</p>
<p>
"What is the matter with him?" she asked, following him to
the cabin door.
</p>
<p>
"As near dying as possible," he answered, gruffly. He
believed that a good life had been sacrificed to a bad one,
and he could not bring himself to speak softly to the woman
who was the cause of it.
</p>
<p>
"Dying!" she cried. There was no color to fade from her face,
but the light died from her eyes, and the word faltered on
her lips.
</p>
<p>
"Yes," he answered, "dying."
</p>
<p>
"Sophy, come to me," called her husband, in feeble tones.
</p>
<p>
She left the captain, and returned at once to his side. The
low berth was almost on the floor, and she had to kneel to
bring her face nearer to his. It was night, and the only
light was the dim glimmer of an oil-lamp, which the captain
had hung to the ceiling, and which swung to and fro with the
lurching of the ship. The wind was whistling shrilly among
the rigging, and every plank and board in the vessel groaned
and creaked under the beating of the waves. Now and then her
feet were ankle-deep in water, and she dreaded to see it
sweep over the low berth. In the rare intervals of the storm
she could hear the hurried movements overhead, and the shouts
of the sailors as they called to one another from the
rigging. But vaguely she heard, and saw, and felt. Her
husband's face, white and haggard and thin, with his gray
hair and his eyes sunken with unshed tears, was all that she
could distinctly realize.
</p>
<p>
"Sophy," he said, "do not leave me again."
</p>
<p>
He held out his hand, and she laid hers into it, shuddering
as she felt its chilly grasp. Her head fell on to the pillow
beside his, and her lips, close to his ear, spoke to him
through sobs.
</p>
<p>
"Is there nothing that can be done?" she cried. "It is I who
have killed you. Must you really die for my sin, and leave
us?"
</p>
<p>
"I think I must die," he said, touching her head softly with
his feeble hand. "I would live for you if I could—for
you and my poor boy. Sophy, promise me while I can hear you,
while you can speak to me, promise me you will never fall
into this sin again."
</p>
<p>
"How can I?" she cried. "I have killed you, and now who will
care?"
</p>
<p>
"God will care," he said, faintly, "and I shall care;
wherever I may be I shall care. Promise me, my darling, my
poor girl!"
</p>
<p>
"I promise you," she answered, with a deep sob.
</p>
<p>
"You will never let yourself enter into temptation?"
</p>
<p>
"Never!" she cried.
</p>
<p>
"Never taste it; never look at it; never think of it, if
possible. Promise," he whispered again.
</p>
<p>
"Never!" she sobbed; "never! Oh, live, and you shall see me
conquer. God will help me to conquer, and you will help me.
Do not leave us. O God, do not let him die!"
</p>
<p>
But he did not hear her. A faintness and numbness that seemed
like death, which had been creeping languidly through his
veins for some time, darkened his eyes and sealed his lips.
He could not see her, and her voice sounded far away. She
called again and again upon him, but there was no answer. The
deep roar of the storm on the other side of the frail wooden
walls thundered continuously, and the groan of the straining
planks grated upon her ear as she listened intently for one
or more word from him. Was she then alone with him, dying?
Was there no help, nothing that could be at least attempted
for his help? Through the uproar and tumult she caught the
sound of some one stirring in the saloon. She sprang to the
door, and met Captain Scott on the point of opening it.
</p>
<p>
"Come," said she frantic with terror; "he is dead already."
</p>
<p>
The captain bent over the dying man, and with the promptitude
of one to whom time was of the utmost value passed his hand
rapidly over his benumbed and paralyzed body.
</p>
<p>
"No, not dead," he exclaimed; "but he's sinking fast, and
there's only one remedy. You can leave him to die, or you can
save him, Mrs. Chantrey. There is no one else to nurse him,
and every moment is precious to me. Here's a brandy-flask.
Give him some at once; force a few drops through his teeth,
and watch the effect it has upon him. As he swallows it give
him a little more every few minutes. Watch him carefully; it
will be life or death with him. If I can get down again I'll
come in to see you, but I am badly wanted on deck this
moment. There's enough there, but not too much, remember. Get
him warm, if possible. God bless you, Mrs. Chantrey."
</p>
<p>
He had been busily heaping rugs and blankets upon his
friend's insensible form; and now, with a hearty grasp of the
hand, and an earnest glance into her face, he hurried away,
leaving Sophy alone once more.
</p>
<p>
A shudder of terror ran through her, and she called to him
not to leave her; but he did not hear. She stood in the
middle of the cabin, looking around as if for help, but there
was none. The craving, which had been starved within her by
the forced abstinence of the last few weeks, awoke again with
insufferable fierceness. She was cold herself, chilled to the
very heart; her misery of body and soul were extreme. The dim
light and the ceaseless roar of the storm oppressed her. The
very scent of the brandy seemed to intoxicate her, and steal
away her resolution. If she took but a very little of it, she
reasoned with herself, she would be better fitted for the
long, exhausting task of watching her husband. How would she
have strength to stand over him through the cold, dark hours
of the night, feeble and worn out as she already felt
herself? For his sake, then, she must taste it; she would
take but a very little. The captain had said there was not
more than enough; but surely he would give her more, to save
her husband's life. Only a little, just to stay the
intolerable craving.
</p>
<p>
Sophy poured out a small, portion into the little horn
belonging to the flask. The strong spirituous scent excited
her. How warm, and strong, and useful it would make her to
her husband in his extremity! Yet still she hesitated.
Suppose she could not resist the temptation to take more, and
yet more, until she lost her consciousness, and left him to
perish with cold and faintness? She knew how often she had
resolved to take but a taste, enough to drive away the
painful dejection of the passing hour; and how fatally her
resolution had failed her, when once she had yielded. If she
should fail now, if the temptation conquered her, there was
no shadow of a hope for him. When she came to her senses
again he would be dead.
</p>
<p>
Why did not somebody come to her help? Where was Ann Holland,
that she should be away just at the very moment when her
presence was most desirable and most necessary? How could
Captain Scott think of trusting her with poison? How could
she do battle with so close and subtle a tempter? So long a
battle, too; though all the dreary hours of the storm! Only a
little while ago she had made a solemn promise never to fall
into this sin, never to enter into temptation. But she had
been thrust into temptation unawares, in an instant, with no
one to help her, and no time to gather strength for
resistance. Even David himself could not blame her if she
broke her promise. It should be only a taste; it could not be
more than that, for the flask was not full; and now she came
to think of it she could not get on deck to ask the captain
for more, because the hatches were closed. That would save
her from taking too much. She would keep the thought before
her that every drop she swallowed was taken from her dying
husband, for whom there was barely enough. She could only
taste it, and she did it for his sake, not her own.
</p>
<p>
She lifted the little horn to her lips; but before tasting
the stimulant, she glanced round, as she had often done
before, to see if any one was looking at her; a stealthy
cunning movement, born of the sense of shame she had never
quite lost. Every nerve was quivering with excitement, and
her heart was beating quickly. But her glance fell upon her
husband's face turned toward her, yet with no watchful,
reproachful eyes fastened upon her. The eyelids half closed;
the pallid, hollow cheeks; the head fallen back upon the
pillow, looked like death. Was he then gone from her already?
Had she suffered his flickering life to die out altogether,
while she had been dallying with temptation? With a wild and
very bitter cry Sophy Chantrey sprang to his side, and forced
a few drops of the eau-de-vie between his clenched teeth.
Again and again, patiently, she repeated her efforts,
watching eagerly for the least sign of returning animation.
Every thought of herself was gone now; she became absorbed
between alternate hope and dread. He was alive still; slowly
the death-like pallor was passing away, faint tokens of
returning circulation tingled through his benumbed veins. The
beating of his heart was stronger, and his hands seemed less
icily cold. But so slowly, and with so many intermissions,
did the change creep on, that she did not dare to assure
herself that he was reviving. Now and then the scent made her
feel sick with terror; for she knew that his life depended
upon her unceasing attention, and the tempter was still
beside her, though thrust back for the time by her
newly-awakened will. "I will not let him die!" she cried to
herself; yet she was inwardly fearful of failing in her
resolution, and leaving him to die. Would the daylight never
come? Would the storm never cease?
</p>
<p>
It was raging more wildly than ever; and Captain Scott found
it impossible to go below, even though his friend was
probably dying. Sophy was left absolutely alone. It seemed to
her like an eternity, as she knelt beside her husband,
desperately, fighting against sin, and intently watching for
some sure sign of life in him. He was not dead, that was
almost all she knew. The night was dark still, and very
lonely. There was no one who saw her, none to care for her;
and her misery was very great.
</p>
<p>
Was there none who cared? A still small voice in her own
soul, long unheard, but speaking clearly through the din of
the storm around and within her, asked, "Does not Christ
care? He who came to seek and to save that which was lost? He
whom God sent into the world to be the Captain of salvation,
and to suffer being tempted, that He might be able to succor
all those who are tempted?" For a moment she listened
breathlessly as if some new thing had been said to her.
Christ really cared for her; really knew her extremity in
this dire temptation; was ready with His help, if she would
but have it. Could it be true? If He were beside her,
witnessing her temptation and her struggling, seeing and
entering into all the bitterness of the passing hours, why!
then such a presence and such a sympathy were a thousand
times greater and better than if all the world beside had
been by to cheer her. Why had she never realized this before?
He knew; God knew; she was not alone, because the Father
Himself was with her.
</p>
<p>
She had no time to pray consciously, in so many words of set
speech; but her whole heart was full of prayer and hope. The
terror of temptation was gone; nay, for the time, the
temptation itself was gone, for she was lifted up far above
it. She could use the powerful remedy on which her husband's
life depended with no danger to herself. Her thoughts ran
busily forward into a blissful future. How happy they would
all be again! How diligently she would guard herself! Her
life henceforth should be spent as under the eye of God.
</p>
<p>
At last the morning dawned, and a gray light stole even
through the darkened portholes—a faint light, but
sufficient for her to see her husband's face more clearly.
His heart beat under her hand with more vigor, and the color
had come back to his lips. She could see now how every drop
he swallowed brought, a more healthy hue to his face. He had
attempted to speak more than once, but she laid her hand on
his mouth to enforce silence until his strength was more
equal to the effort. At last he whispered earnestly that she
could not refuse to listen.
</p>
<p>
"Sophy," he said, "is it safe for you?"
</p>
<p>
"Yes," she answered; "God has made it safe for me."
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
<a name="chapter18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a>
</h2>
<h3>
SAVED
</h3>
<p>
The gale off the Cape of Good Hope was weathered at last, and
the vessel sailed into smoother seas. The bitterness of the
cold was over, and only fresh invigorating breezes swept
across the water. Nothing could have been more helpful toward
Mr. Chantrey's recovery, except his new freedom from sorrow.
His trouble had passed away like the storm. He could not but
trust that the same strength which had been given to his wife
in her hour of fiercest temptation would be still granted to
her in ordinary trials, from which he could not always shield
her. Sophy herself was full of hope. She felt her will, so
long enslaved, regaining its former freedom, and her brain
recovering its old clearness. The pleasures and duties of
life had once more a charm for her. It was as though some
madness and delusion had passed away, and she was once more
in her right mind.
</p>
<p>
The voyage between Australia and New Zealand, taken in a
crowded and comfortless steamer, was a severe testing time
for her. It lasted for several days, and she could not be
kept from the influence of the drinking customs of those on
board. But she never quitted the side either of her husband
or Ann Holland. In New Zealand, where no one knew the story
of her past life, except Mr. Warden, it was more easy to face
the future, and to carry out the reformation begun in her.
They were poor, far poorer than she had ever expected to be,
and she had harder work than she had been accustomed to do;
but such exertions were beneficial to her. Ann Holland, as a
matter of course, lived with them in their little home, from
which Mr. Chantrey was often absent while visiting the
distant portions of his large parish, which extended over
many miles. But Ann was not left to do all the drudgery of
the household unaided. Sophy Chantrey would take her share in
her every duty, and seldom sat down to sew or write unless
Ann was ready to rest also. The old want of something to do
could never revisit her; the old sense of loneliness could
not come back. There was her boy to teach, and her simple,
homely neighbors to associate with. The customs and
conventionalities of English life had no force here, and she
was free to act as she pleased. As the years passed by, David
Chantrey lost forever a secret lurking dread lest his wife's
sin should be only biding its time. He could go away in
peace, and return home gladly, having almost forgotten the
reason of his exchanging the pleasant rectory of Upton for
the hard work of a colonial living.
</p>
<p>
From time to time letters reached them from Mrs. Bolton,
complaining bitterly of the changes introduced by the new
rector, whose customs and opinions constantly clashed with
her own. She found herself put on one side, and quietly
neglected in all questions concerning the parish; while her
influence gradually died away. Again and again she urged her
nephew to return to England, promising that she would make
him her heir, and procure for him a living as valuable as the
one he had resigned. She could not understand that to a man
like David Chantrey the calm happy consciousness of days well
spent, and the grateful remembrance of a terrible sorrow
having been removed, were better than anything earth could
give. The old pride he had once felt in his social position
and personal popularity could never lift up its crest again.
He had gone down to the Valley of Humiliation, and there, to
his surprise, he found "that the air was pleasant, and that
here a man shall be free from the noise and hurryings of this
life, and shall not be let and hindered in his contemplation,
as in other places he is apt to be." His laborious simple
life suited him, and no entreaties or promises of Mrs. Bolton
could recall him to England.
</p>
<p>
Eight tranquil years had passed by when Sophy Chantrey
detected in her husband a degree of preoccupation and
reticence that had long been unusual to him. For a few days
he kept the secret; but at last, just as she began to feel
she could bear his reserve no longer he spoke out.
</p>
<p>
"Sophy," he said, "I have had some letters from England."
</p>
<p>
"From Aunt Bolton?" she asked, with a faint undertone of
vexation in her voice, for Mrs. Bolton's letters always
revived bitter memories in her mind.
</p>
<p>
"No," he answered, holding out to her a large bulky packet;
"they are from the bishop—our English bishop, you
know—just a few lines; and from the Upton people. It
seems that the living is about to be vacant again, for
Seymour has had a very good one presented to him in the
north; and the parishioners have petitioned the bishop, and
petitioned me to accept the charge again. See, here are
hundreds of signatures, and the churchwardens tell me every
man and woman in the parish would have signed if there had
been room. The bishop speaks very kindly about it, too, and
they want my answer by the mail going out next week."
</p>
<p>
"And what will you say?" asked Sophy breathlessly.
</p>
<p>
"It is for you to say," he answered; "you must decide. Could
you go back happily, Sophy? As for me, I never loved, or
shall love, any place like Upton. I dream of it often. Yet I
could not return to it at any great cost to you, be sure of
that. You must answer the question. We have been very happy
together here, all of us; and you and I have been truer
Christians than perhaps we could ever have been if we had
stayed at home. If you decide to settle here, I for one will
never regret it."
</p>
<p>
"Would it be safe for me to go back?" she faltered.
</p>
<p>
"As safe for you as for me," he answered emphatically; "do
not be afraid of that. A sin conquered and uprooted, as yours
has been, is less likely to overcome us than some new
temptation. I have no fear of that."
</p>
<p>
For the next few days Sophy Chantrey went through her daily
work as in a dream. There were many things to weigh and
consider, and her husband left her to herself, acting as if
he had dismissed the subject altogether from his mind. For
herself she shrank from returning among the people who had
known her in her worst days, and whose curious suspicious
eyes would be always watching her, and bringing to her mind
sad recollections. She knew well that all her life long there
would be the memory of her sin kept alive in the hearts of
her husband's parishioners if he went back as rector of
Upton. Yet she could not resolve to banish him from the place
he loved so well, and the people who were so eager to have
him with them again as their pastor. There was nothing to be
dreaded on account of his health, which was fully
reestablished. There was her boy, too, who was growing old
enough to require better teaching than they could secure for
him in the colony. Ann Holland would be overjoyed to think of
seeing Upton again, and to return to her old friends and
townsfolk. No; they must not be doomed to continual exile for
her sake. She must take up the cross that lay before her,
from which she had so long escaped, and be willing to bear
the penalty of her transgressions, learning that no sins,
though forgiven, can be blotted out as far as their
consequences are concerned—can never be, through
endless years, as though they had never been.
</p>
<p>
"We must go home to Upton," she said to her husband the
evening before the mail left for England. "I have considered
everything, and we must go."
</p>
<p>
"Willingly, Sophy? Gladly?" he asked, looking keenly into her
face, so changed from when he had seen it first. What lines
there were upon it which ought not to have been there so
early, he knew well. How different it was from the fair fresh
face of his young wife when they first went home to Upton
Rectory. Yet he loved her better now than then.
</p>
<p>
"Willingly, though not gladly yet," she answered; "but do not
argue with me. Do not try to persuade me against my own
decision. You all came out for my sake, and I am bent upon
returning for yours. In time I shall be as glad that I
returned as you are that you came out, though I am not glad
now. I shall be a standing lesson to the people of Upton."
</p>
<p>
"But I do not wish my wife to be a lesson," he said fondly.
Yet he could not urge her to alter her decision. The old home
and the old church, which he had diligently tried to forget,
thrust themselves as freshly and imperiously upon his memory
as if he had left them but yesterday. He had not known how
great his sacrifice had been when he had given them up in his
misery. Ann Holland and his boy shared his delight, and
before they sailed for home Sophy herself found that she
could take very real pleasure in their new prospects.
</p>
<p>
Mrs. Bolton did not live to welcome them back to Upton. The
last few years had been years of vexation and loneliness to
her, and there had been no one to care for her and to help
her to bear her troubles. She had been ailing for some time,
and the trying changes of the spring hastened her death
before her favorite nephew could reach England. The hired
nurses who attended her through her last illness heard her
often muttering to herself, as if her enfeebled brain was
possessed by one idea, "If any will come after Me, let him
deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me."
The words haunted her, and once she said, in an awed voice
and with a look of pain, "He that taketh not up his cross and
followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me." "Not worthy of me!"
she repeated, mournfully, "not worthy of me!"
</p>
<p>
The rector of Upton and his wife have dwelt among their own
people again for some years. Though the story is still
sometimes told of Mrs. Chantrey's sin, the life she leads
among them is a better lesson than perhaps it could have been
had she never fallen. They see in her one who has not merely
been tempted, but who has conquered and escaped from the
tyranny of a vice shamefully common among us. There is hope
for the feeblest and the most degraded when they hear of her,
or when they learn the story from her own lips. For if by the
sorrowful confession she can help any one, she does not
shrink from making it, with tears often, but with a profound
thankfulness for the deliverance wrought out for her by those
who made themselves "fellow-workers with God."
</p>
<p>
Ann Holland found her shop and pleasant kitchen transformed
into a fashionable draper's establishment, with plate glass
windows down to the pavement. But she did not need a home.
David and Sophy Chantrey would not have parted from her if
the old house had not been gone. A few of her old-fashioned
goods she managed to gather together again, to furnish her
own room at the rectory, and among them was the screen
containing the newspaper records of events at Upton. One long
column gives a high-flown description of the rector's return
to his old parish, and Ann feels a glow of pleasant pride at
seeing her own name there in print.
</p>
<hr>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<BR>
<PRE>
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, BROUGHT HOME ***
This file should be named bhome10h.htm or bhome10h.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, bhome11h.htm
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, bhome10ah.htm
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.
Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.
Most people start at our Web sites at:
<a href="http://gutenberg.net">http://gutenberg.net</a> or
<a href="http://promo.net.pg">http://promo.net/pg</a>
These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).
Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.
<a href="http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext04">http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext04</a> or
<a href="ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext04">ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext04</a>
Or /etext03, 02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90
Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.
Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):
eBooks Year Month
1 1971 July
10 1991 January
100 1994 January
1000 1997 August
1500 1998 October
2000 1999 December
2500 2000 December
3000 2001 November
4000 2001 October/November
6000 2002 December*
9000 2003 November*
10000 2004 January*
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.
We need your donations more than ever!
As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.
We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.
As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.
In answer to various questions we have received on this:
We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.
While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.
International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.
Donations by check or money order may be sent to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109
Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.
We need your donations more than ever!
You can get up to date donation information online at:
<a href="http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html">http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html</a>
***
If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:
<a href="mailto:hart@pobox.com">Michael S. Hart [hart@pobox.com]</a>
Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.
We would prefer to send you information by email.
**The Legal Small Print**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.
To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word
processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:
[*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to
let us know your plans and to work out the details.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.
The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com
[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]
*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*
</PRE>
</BODY>
</HTML>
|
