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Updated: June 24, 2025
My Lord, The small rectory of Wroote, in the diocese and county of Lincoln, adjoining to the Isle of Axholme, is in the gift of the Lord Chancellor, and more then seven years since it was conferred on Samuel Wesley, Rector of Epworth.
In the long silence, looking at her, slowly very slowly Hetty understood. After understanding there followed another long silence, until Hetty drew herself up against the bole of the tree and shivered. "Come back to the house, mother. You had best take my arm." Mr. Wesley slept that night at Lincoln, and rode back the next afternoon, reaching Wroote a little before nightfall.
Across the field below, hemmed about and intersected with dykes of sluggish water, two wagons moved slowly, each with a group of labourers about it: for to-night was the end of the oat-harvest, and they were carrying the last sheaves of Wroote glebe.
The first was from her mother at Wroote, and told her that to-day or to-morrow her father would be arriving at Kelstein with her sister Patty. Hetty had been expecting this for some weeks. Wesley the notion of proffering yet another of his daughters. Two days after receiving the letter he had ridden over to Kelstein with the proposal. Grantham had accepted almost effusively, and she was to come.
"To Wroote?" "As a moth to the old cruel flame, dear. They will not take me in: but I know where to find a bedroom. Women have curious fancies at times; and I feel as if I may die very likely, and I want to see their faces first." She stepped to him and kissed him hurriedly, hearing her husband's step on the stairs. "Remember to speak with Molly!"
That Dick Ellison fuddled himself upon it was notorious, and on her last visit to Wroote she had heard scandalous tales of John Romley, who had come to haunt the taverns in and about Epworth, singing songs and soaking with the riff-raff of the neighbourhood until turned out at midnight to roll homeward to his lonely lodgings.
From Samuel Wesley to his son John Wroote, March 21, 1726. Dear Mr. Fellow-Elect of Lincoln, I have done more than I could for you. On your waiting on Dr. Morley with this he will pay you 12 pounds. You are inexpressibly obliged to that generous man. We are all as well as can be expected. Your loving father, Samuel Wesley. From the same to the same Wroote, April I, 1726.
Since I was here I gave consent to his marrying one of my seven daughters, and they are married accordingly; and though I can spare little more with her, yet I would gladly give them a little glebe land at Wroote, where I am sure they will not want springs of water. But they love the place, though I can get nobody else to reside on it.
They would compass heaven and earth to make one proselyte; and the strange thing to me is that John at least does it in a cold mechanical way, almost as if his own mind stood outside of the process. Father is set on his inheriting Wroote and Epworth cures, John on saving his own soul; let them come to terms or fight it out between them.
"Molly," wrote her father, "miraculously gets money even in Wroote, and has given the first fruit of her earning to her mother, lending her money, and presenting her with a new cloak of her own buying and making, for which God will bless her." Her secret dissent did not escape the Rector's eye, so alert for every sign of defiance: but in his expanding sense of success he let it pass.
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