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قراءة كتاب Working in the Shade Lowly Sowing brings Glorious Reaping
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Working in the Shade Lowly Sowing brings Glorious Reaping
Riverton Park was soon left pretty much to itself, just exchanging civil calls now and then with the principal neighbours, and being left out of the circle of fashionable intimacy.
Three families, however, kept up a closer acquaintance, which ripened, more or less, into friendship. About a mile and a half from the Park, on the side that was farthest from Franchope, lived Mr Arthur Wilder, a gentleman of independent means, with a wife, a grown-up son, and three daughters. Horace Jackson was soon on the most intimate terms with young Wilder, and with his sisters, who had the reputation of being the most earnest workers in all good and benevolent schemes, so that in them the clergyman of their parish had the benefit of three additional right hands; while their parents and brother gave time, money, and influence to many a good cause and useful institution.
Adjoining the Riverton estate, in the direction of Franchope, was, as has been already stated, the property of the elderly Miss Stansfield, whose niece, Mary, has been introduced to our readers. The old lady was an early caller on the colonel’s family, having made a special effort to rouse herself to pay the call, as she rarely left her own grounds. She at once took to Colonel Dawson; and, whether or no the liking was returned on his part, he frequently visited his infirm neighbour, and would spend many a quiet hour with her, to her great satisfaction. The old lady was one who wished to do good, and did it, but not graciously. So she had won respect and a good name among her dependants, but not love. The world called her selfish, but the world was wrong. She was self-absorbed, but not selfish in the ordinary sense of the term. She acted upon principle of the highest kind; her religion was a reality, but she had been used ever to have her own way, and could not brook thwarting or contradiction; while her ailments and infirmities had clustered her thoughts too much round herself, and had generated a bitterness in her manner and speech, which made the lot of her niece, who was her constant companion, a very trying one.
To the north of Riverton Park was the estate of Lady Willerly. Her ladyship was one of those impetuous characters who are never content unless they are taking castles by storm; she must use a hatchet where a penknife would answer equally well or better. She was a widow, and dwelt with her only child Grace, a grown-up daughter, in her fine old family mansion, in the midst of her tenants and the poor, who lived in a state of chronic alarm lest she should be coming down upon them with some new and vigorous alteration or improvement. Her daughter was in some respects like her mother, as full of energy, but with a little more discretion; bright as a sunbeam, and honest as the day; abounding also in good works. Such were the three families who maintained an intimacy with Colonel Dawson, when the rest of the neighbouring gentry dropped off into ordinary acquaintances.
Chapter Three.
“The New School.”
When the family had occupied Park House about four months, a great deal of curiosity and excitement was felt by the inhabitants of Bridgepath, the little hamlet of five hundred persons in the rear of Riverton Park, in consequence of sundry cart-loads of bricks, stone, and lime being deposited on a field which was situated a few yards from the principal beer-shop. The colonel was going to build, it seemed,—but what? Possibly a full-grown public-house. Well, that would be a very questionable improvement. Was it to be a school, or a reading-room?
There was a school already, held in the parlour of the blacksmith’s cottage, where a master attended on week-days, weather permitting, and imparted as much of the three R’s as the children, whose parents thought it worth while to send them, could be induced to acquire under the pressure of a moderate amount of persuasion and an immoderate amount of castigation.
The master came in a pony-cart from Franchope, and returned in the same the moment the afternoon school broke up, so that his scholars had ample opportunity, when he was fairly gone, to settle any little disputes which might have arisen during school hours by vigorous fights on the open green, the combatants being usually encouraged to prolong their encounters to the utmost by the cheers of the men who gathered round them out of the neighbouring beer-shops.
As for religious instruction, the master, it is true, made his scholars read a portion of the Scriptures twice a week, and learn a few verses. But they would have been almost better without this; for the hard, matter-of-fact way in which he dealt with the Holy Book and its teachings would make the children rather hate than love their Bible lesson.
And what was done for the improvement, mental or spiritual, of the grown-up people? Nothing. Neither church nor chapel existed in the place. A few old and middle-aged people walked occasionally to the nearest place of worship, some two miles off; but nine-tenths of the villagers went nowhere on a Sunday—that is to say, nowhere where they could hear anything to do them good, though they were ready enough to leave their homes on the Sabbath to congregate where they could drink and game together, and sing profane and immoral songs.
So Bridgepath was rightly called “a lost place;” and indeed it had been “lost” for so many years, that there seemed scarcely the remotest prospect of its being “found” by any one disposed to do it good. However, even in this dark spot there was a corner from which there shone a little flickering light. John Price and his family tenanted a tolerably roomy cottage at the entrance to the village, close to the horse-pond. The poor man had seen better days, having acted as steward to the young squire from the time he came into the property till he disappeared with his infant son and an old nurse who had lived for nearly two generations on the Riverton estate. Poor John had served the squire’s father also as steward, and loved the young master as if he had been his own child; and it was known that, when ruin fell on the young man, the poor steward was dragged down also to poverty, having been somehow or other involved in his employer’s ruin. But never did John Price utter a word that would throw light on this subject to anyone outside his own family. All he would let people know was, that the squire had left him his cottage rent-free for his life,—which was, indeed, all that the master had to leave his faithful servant.
The worthy man had struggled hard to keep himself and his family; but now he was bed-ridden, and had been so for some five or six years past. However, he had a patient wife, who made the most and best of a very little, and loving children, some of them in service, who helped him through. And he found a measure of peace in studying his old, well-worn Bible, though he read it as yet but ignorantly. Still, what light he had he strove to impart to those of the villagers who came to sit and condole with him; while his wife, and an unmarried daughter who lived at home, both deploring the wickedness of Bridgepath, tried to throw in a word of scriptural truth now and then, for the sake of instructing and improving their heathenish neighbours.
It may be well imagined, then, with what interest all the villagers, but especially the Prices, including John himself, as he was propped up in bed and gazed through the casement, marked the numerous carts bringing building materials of all kinds to the village. All doubts on the subject, however, were soon brought to an end by a call from the colonel at John’s house in the early part of November. After a few kind inquiries about his health and family, Colonel Dawson informed him that he was going to build at once a school and master’s house in Bridgepath, with a reading-room attached to it, and to place there a married man of thorough Christian principles; one who would not only look after the ordinary teaching of