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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