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David Garcia, Tiffany Vergon, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks, and the
Online Distributed Proofreaders Team

BROUGHT HOME.

BY

HESBA STRETTON.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. UPTON RECTORY

CHAPTER II. ANN HOLLAND

CHAPTER III. WHAT WAS HER DUTY?

CHAPTER IV. A BABY'S GRAVE

CHAPTER V. TOWN'S TALK

CHAPTER VI. THE RECTOR'S RETURN

CHAPTER VII. WORSE THAN DEAD

CHAPTER VIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE

CHAPTER IX. SAD DAYS

CHAPTER X. A SIN AND A SHAME

CHAPTER XI. LOST

CHAPTER XII. A COLONIAL CURACY

CHAPTER XIII. SELF-SACRIFICE

CHAPTER XIV. FAREWELLS

CHAPTER XV. IN DESPAIR

CHAPTER XVI. A LONG VOYAGE

CHAPTER XVII. ALMOST SHIPWRECKED

CHAPTER XVIII. SAVED

CHAPTER I.

UPTON RECTORY

So quiet is the small market town of Upton, that it is difficult to
believe in the stir and din of London, which is little more than an
hour's journey from it. It is the terminus of the single line of rails
branching off from the main line eight miles away, and along it three
trains only travel each way daily. The sleepy streets have old-fashioned
houses straggling along each side, with trees growing amongst them; and
here and there, down the roads leading into the the country, which are
half street, half lane, green plots of daisied grass are still to be
found, where there were once open fields that have left a little legacy
to the birds and children of coming generations. Half the houses are
still largely built of wood from the forest of olden times that has now
disappeared; and ancient bow-windows jut out over the side causeways.
Some of the old exclusive mansions continue to boast in a breastwork of
stone pillars linked together by chains of iron, intended as a defence
against impertinent intruders, but more often serving as safe
swinging-places for the young children sent to play in the streets.
Perhaps of all times of the year the little town looks its best on a
sunny autumn morning, with its fine film of mist, when the chestnut
leaves are golden, and slender threads of gossamer are floating in the
air, and heavy dews, white as the hoar-frost, glisten in the sunshine.
But at any season Upton seems a tranquil, peaceful, out-of-the-world
spot, having no connection with busier and more wretched places.

There were not many real gentry, as the townsfolk called them, living
near. A few retired Londoners, weary of the great city, and finding
rents and living cheaper at Upton, had settled in trim villas, built
beyond the boundaries of the town. But for the most part the population
consisted of substantial trades-people and professional men, whose
families had been represented there for several generations. As usual
the society was broken up into very small cliques; no one household
feeling itself exactly on the same social equality as another; even as
far down as the laundresses and charwomen, who could tell whose husband
or son had been before the justices, and which families had escaped that
disgrace. The nearest approach to that equality and fraternity of which
we all hear so much and see so little, was unfortunately to be found in
the bar-parlor and billiard-room of the Upton Arms; but even this was
lost as soon as the threshold was recrossed, and the boon-companions of
the interior breathed the air of the outer world. There were several
religious sects of considerable strength, and of very decided
antagonistic views; any one of whose members was always ready to give
the reason of the special creed that was in him. So, what with a variety
of domestic circumstances, and a diversity of religious opinions, it is
not to be wondered at that the society of Upton was broken up into very
small circles indeed.

There was one point, however, on which all the townspeople were united.
There could be no doubt whatever as to the beauty of the old Norman
church, lying just beyond the eastern boundary of the town; not mingling
with its business, but standing in a solemn quiet of its own, as if to
guard the repose of the sleepers under its shadow. The churchyard too,
was beautiful, with its grand and dusky old yew-trees, spreading their
broad sweeping branches like cedars, and with many a bright colored
flower-bed lying amongst the dark green of the graves. The townspeople
loved to stroll down to it in the twilight, with half-stirred idle
thoughts of better things soothing away the worries and cares of the
day. A narrow meadow of glebe-land separated the churchyard from the
Rectory garden, a bank of flowers and turf sloping up to the house.
Nowhere could a more pleasant, home-like dwelling be found, lightly
covered with sweet-scented creeping plants, which climbed up to the
highest gable, and flung down long sprays of blossom-laden branches to
toss to and fro in the air. Many a weary, bedinned Londoner had felt
heart-sick at the sight of its tranquillity and peace.

The people of Upton, great and small, conformist or nonconformist, were
proud of their rector. It was no unusual sight for a dozen or more
carriages from a distance to be seen waiting at the church door for the
close of the service, not only on a Sunday morning, when custom demands
the observance, but even in the afternoon, when public worship is
usually left to servant-maids. There was not a seat to be had for love
or money, either by gentle or simple, after the reading of the Psalms
had begun. The Dissenters themselves were accustomed to attend church
occasionally, with a half-guilty sense, not altogether unpleasant, of
acting against their principles. But then the rector was always on
friendly terms with them: and made no distinction, in distributing
Christmas charities, between the poor old folks who went to church or to
chapel, Or, as it was said regretfully, to no place at all. He had his
failings; but the one point on which all Upton agreed was, that their
church and rector were the best between that town and London.

It was a hard struggle with David Chantrey, this beloved rector of
Upton, to resolve upon leaving his parish, though only for a time, when
his physicians strenuously urged him to spend two winters, and the
intervening summer, in Madeira. Very definitely they assured him that
such an absence was his only chance of assuring a fair share of the
ordinary term of human life. But it was a difficult thing to do, apart
from the hardness of the struggle; and the difficulty just verged upon
an impossibility. The living was not a rich one, its whole income being
a little under L400 a year. Now, when he had provided a salary for the
curate who must take his duty, and decided upon the smallest sum
necessary for his own expenses, the remainder, in whatever way the sum
was worked, was clearly quite insufficient for the maintenance of his
young wife and child. They could not go with him; that was impossible.
But how were they to live whilst he was away? No doubt, if his
difficulty had been known, there were many wealthy people among his
friends who would gladly have removed it; but not one of them even
guessed at it. Was not Mrs. Bolton, the widow of the late archdeacon,
and the richest woman in Upton, own aunt to the rector, David Chantrey?

Next to Mr. Chantrey himself, Mrs. Bolton was the most eminent personage
in Upton. She had settled there upon the archdeacon's death, which
happened immediately after he had obtained the living for his wife's
favorite nephew. For some years she had been the only lady connected
with the rector, and had acted as his female representative. There was
neither mansion nor cottage which she had not visited. The high were her
associates; the low her proteges, for whose souls she labored. She was
at the head of all charitable agencies and benevolent societies. Nothing
could be set on foot in Upton under any other patronage. She was active,
untiring, and not very susceptible. So early and so completely had she
obtained the little sovereignty she had assumed, that when the rightful
queen came there was no room for her. The rector's wife was only known
as a pretty and pleasant-spoken young lady, who left all the parish
affairs in Mrs. Bolton's hands.

It is not to be wondered at, then, that no one guessed at David
Chantrey's difficulty, though everybody knew the exact amount of his
income. Neither he nor his wife hinted at it. Sophy Chantrey would have
freely given the world, had it been hers, to accompany her husband; but
there was no chance of that. A friend was going out on the same doleful
search for health; and the two were to take charge of each other. But
how to live at all while David was away? She urged that she could manage
very well on seventy or eighty pounds a year, if she and her boy went to
some cheap lodgings in a strange neighborhood, where nobody knew them;
but her husband would not listen to such a plan. The worry and fret of
his brain had grown almost to fever-height, when his aunt made a
proposal, which he accepted in impatient haste. This was that Sophy
should make her home at Bolton Villa for the full time of his absence;
on condition that Charlie, a boy of seven years old, full of life and
spirits, should be sent to school for the same term.

Sophy rebelled for a little while, but in vain. In thinking of the
eighteen long and dreary months her husband would be away, she had
counted upon having the consolation of her child's companionship. But no
other scheme presented itself; and she felt the sacrifice must be made
for David's sake. A suitable school was found for Charlie; and he was
placed in it a day or two before she had to journey down to Southampton
with her husband. No soul on deck that day was more sorrowful than hers.
David's hollow cheeks, and thin, stooping frame, and the feeble hand
that clasped hers till the last moment, made the hope of ever seeing him
again seem a mad folly. Her sick heart refused to be comforted. He was
sanguine, and spoke almost gayly of his return; but she was filled with
anguish. A strong persuasion seized upon her that she should see his
face no more; and when the bitter moment of parting was over, she
travelled back alone, heart-stricken and crushed in spirit, to her new
home under Mrs. Bolton's roof.

CHAPTER II.

ANN HOLLAND

Bolton Villa was not more than a stone's throw from the rectory and the
church. Sophy could hear the same shrieks of the martins wheeling about
the tower, and the same wintry chant of the robins amid the ivy creeping
up it. The familiar striking of the church clock and the chime of the
bells rang alike through the windows of both houses. But there was no
sound of her husband's voice and no merry shout of Charlie's, and the
difference was appalling to her. She could not endure it.

Mrs. Bolton was exceedingly proud of her villa. It had been bought
expressly to please her by the late archdeacon, and altered under her
own superintendence. Her tastes and wishes had been studied throughout.
The interior was something like a diary of her life. The broad oak
staircase was decorated with flags and banners from all the countries
she had travelled through; souvenirs labelled with the names of every
town she had visited, and the date of that event, lay scattered about.
The entrance-hall, darkened by the heavy banners on the staircase, was a
museum of curiosities collected by herself. The corners and niches were
filled with plaster casts of famous statuary, which were supposed to
look as fine as their marble originals in the gloom surrounding them.
Every room was crowded with ornaments and knick-knacks, all of which had
some association with herself. Even those apartments not seen by guests
were no less encumbered with mementoes that had been discarded from time
to time in favor of newer treasures. Mrs. Bolton never dared to change
her servants, and it cannot be wondered at, that while offering a home
to her nephew's wife, she could not extend her invitation to a
mischievous boy of seven.

But however interesting Bolton Villa might be to its mistress, it was
not altogether a home favorable for the recovery of a bowed-down spirit,
though Mrs. Bolton could not understand why Sophy, surrounded with so
many blessings and with so much to be thankful for, should fall into a
low, nervous fever shortly after she had parted with her husband and
child. The house was quiet, fearfully quiet to Sophy. There was a
depressing hush about it altogether different from the cheerful
tranquillity of her own home. Very few visitors broke through its
monotony, for Mrs. Bolton's social pinnacle was too high above her
immediate neighbors for them to climb up to it; whilst those whose
station was somewhat on a level with hers lived too faraway, or were too
young and frivolous for friendly intercourse. There were formal
dinner-parties at stated intervals, and occasionally a neighboring
clergyman to be entertained. But these came few and far between, and
Sophy Chantrey found herself very much alone amid the banners and
souvenirs that banished her boy from the house.

Mrs. Bolton herself was very often away. There was always something to
be done in the parish which should by right have been Sophy's work, but
her aunt had always discouraged any interference and David had been
quite content to keep her to himself, as there was so able a substitute
for her in the ordinary duties of a clergyman's wife. She had made but
few acquaintances, and it was generally understood that Mrs. Chantrey
was quite a cipher. No one ever expected her to become prominent in
Upton.

About half-way down the High street of Upton stood a small old-fashioned
saddler's shop, the door of which was divided across the middle, so as
to form two parts, the upper one always thrown open. Above the doorway,
under a low-gabled roof, hung a cracked and mouldering sign-board,
bearing the words "Ann Holland, Saddler." All the letters were faded,
yet a keen eye might detect that the name "Ann" was more distinct than
the others, as if painted at a later date. Within the shop an old
journeyman was always to be seen, busy at his trade, and taking no heed
of any customer coming in, unless the ringing of a bell on the lower
half of the door remained unnoticed, when he would shamble away to call
his mistress. In an evening after the twilight had set in, and it was
too dark for her own ornamental stitching of the saddlery. Ann Holland
was often to be found leaning over the half-door of her shop, and ready
to exchange a friendly good-night, or a more lengthy conversation, with
her townsfolk as they passed to and fro. She was a rosy, cheery-looking
woman, still under fifty, with a pleasant voice and a friendly word for
every one, and it was well known that she had refused several offers of
marriage, some of them very eligible for a person of her station. There
was not one of the townspeople she had not known from their earliest
appearance in Upton, and she had the pedigree of all the families, high
and low, at her finger-ends. New-comers she could only tolerate until
they had lived respectably and paid their debts punctually for a good
number of years. She had a kindly love of gossip, a simple real interest
in the fortunes of all about her. There was little else for her to think
of, for books and newspapers came seldom in her way, and were often far
above her comprehension when they did, Upton news that would bring tears
to her eyes or a laugh to her lips was the food her mind lived upon. Ann
Holland was almost as general a favorite as the rector himself.

It was some months after David Chantrey had gone to Madeira that Ann
Holland was lingering late one evening over her door, watching the
little street subside into the quietness of night. The wife of one of
her best customers was passing by, and stopped to speak to her.

"Have you happened to hear any talk of Mrs. Chantrey?" she asked. Her
voice fell into a low and mysterious tone, and she glanced up and down
the street lest any one should chance to be within hearing. Ann Holland
quickly guessed there was something important to be told, and she opened
the half door to her neighbor.

"Come in, Mrs. Brown," she said; "Richard's not at home yet."

She led the way into the room behind the shop, as pleasant a place as
any in all Upton, except for the scent of the leather, which she had
grown so used to that its absence would have seemed a loss. It was a
kitchen spotlessly clean, with an old-fashioned polished dresser and
shelves above it filled with pewter plates and dishes, upon which every
gleam of firelight twinkled. A tall mahogany clock, with its head
against the ceiling, and the round, good-humored face of a full moon
beaming above its dial-plate, stood in one corner; while in the opposite
one there was a corner cupboard with glass doors, filled with antique
china cups and tea-pots, and a Chinese mandarin that never ceased to
roll its head to and fro helplessly. Bean-pots of flowers, as Ann
Holland called them, covered the broad window-sill; and a screen,
adorned with fragments of old ballads, and with newspaper announcements
of births, deaths, and marriages among Upton people, was drawn across
the outer door, which opened into a little garden at the back of the
house. There was a miniature parlor behind the kitchen, filled with
furniture worked in tent stitch by Ann Holland's mother, and carefully
covered with white dimity; but it was only entered on most important
occasions. Even Mr. Chantrey had never yet been invited into it; for any
event short of a solemn crisis the kitchen was considered good enough.

"You haven't heard anything of Mrs, Chantrey, then?" repeated Mrs.
Brown, still in low and important tones, as she seated herself in a
three-cornered chair, a seat of honor rather than of ease, as one could
not get a comfortable position without sitting sideways.

"No, nothing," answered. Ann Holland; "nothing bad about Mr. Chantrey, I
hope. Have they had any bad news of him?"

Mrs. Brown was first cousin to Mrs. Bolton's butler, and was naturally
regarded as an oracle with regard to all that went on at Bolton Villa.

"Oh no, he's all right: not him, but her," she answered, almost in a
whisper; "I can't say for certain it's true, for Cousin James purses up
his mouth ever so when it's spoken, of; but cook swears to it, and he
doesn't deny it, you know. I shouldn't like it to go any farther; but I
can depend on yon, Miss Holland. A trusted woman like you must be choked
up with secrets, I'm sure. I often and often say, Ann Holland knows some
things, and could tell them, too, if she'd only open her lips."

"You're right, Mrs. Brown," said Ann Holland, with a gratified smile;
"you may trust me with any secret."

"Well, then, they say," continued Mrs, Brown, "that Mrs. Chantrey takes
more than is good for her. She's getting fond of it, you know; anything
that'll excite her; and ladies, can get all sorts of things, worse for
them a dozen times than what poor folks take. They say she doesn't know
what she's saying often."

"Dear, dear!" cried Ann Holland, in a sorrowful voice; "it can't be
true, and Mr. Chantrey away! She's such a sweet pleasant-spoken young
lady; I could never think it of her. He brought her here the very first
week after they came to Upton, and she sat in that very chair you're set
on, Mrs. Brown, and I thought her the prettiest picture I'd seen for
many a year; and so did he, I'm sure. It can't be true, and him such a
good man, and such a preacher as he is, with all the gentry round coming
in their carnages to church."

"Well, it mayn't be true," answered Mrs. Brown, slowly, as if the
arguments used by Ann Holland were almost weighty enough to outbalance
the cook's evidence; "I hope it isn't true, I'm sure. But they say at
Bolton Villa it's a awful lonely life she do lead without Master
Charlie, and Mrs. Bolton away so much. It 'ud give me the horrors, I
know, to live in that house with all those white plaster men and women
as big as life, standing everywhere about staring at you with blind
eyes. I should want something to keep up my spirits. But I'm sure nobody
could be sorrier than me if it turned out to be true."

"Sorry!" exclaimed Ann Holland, "why, I'd cut my right hand off to
prevent it being true. No words can tell how good Mr. Chantrey's been to
me. Everybody knows what my poor brother is, and how he'll drink and
drink for weeks together. Well, Mr. Chantrey's turned in here of an
evening, and if Richard was away at the Upton Arms, he's gone after him
into the very bar-room itself, and brought him home, just guiding him
and handling him like a baby, poor fellow! Often and often he's promised
to take the pledge with Richard, but he never could get him to say Yes.
No, no! I'd go through fire and water before that should be true."

"Nobody could be sorrier than me," persisted Mrs. Brown, somewhat
offended at Ann Holland's vehemence; "I've only told you hearsay, but it
comes direct from the cook, and Cousin James only pursed up his mouth. I
don't say it's true or it's not true, but nobody in Upton could be
sorrier than me if my words come correct. It can't be hidden under a
bushel very long, Miss Holland; but I hope as much as you do that it
isn't true."

Yet there was an undertone of conviction in Mrs. Brown's manner of
speaking that grieved Ann Holland sorely. She accompanied her departing
guest to the door, and long after she was out of sight stood looking
vacantly down the darkened street. There was little light or sound there
now, except in the Upton Arms, where the windows glistened brightly, and
the merry tinkling of a violin sounded through the open door. Her
brother was there, she knew, and would not be home before midnight. He
had been less manageable since Mr. Chantrey went away.

She could not bear to think of Mrs. Chantrey falling into the same sin.
The delicate, pretty, refined young lady degrading herself to the level
of the poor drunken wretch she called her brother! Ann Holland could not
and would not believe it; it seemed too monstrous a scandal to deserve a
moment's anxiety. Yet when she went back into her lonely kitchen, her
eyes were dim with tears, partly for her brother and partly for Sophy
Chantrey.

CHAPTER III.

WHAT WAS HER DUTY?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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