Working in the Shade Part 5

Mary Stansfield pursued her quiet work at Bridgepath amongst the poor, being welcomed by all, but by none so cordially as by John Price and his family, who seemed quite different people now from what they used to be.

And why? Just because they had exchanged resignation for G.o.d's peace.

Their characters and conduct were outwardly the same; but there was a new light in them and reflected from them, even the light that s.h.i.+nes in hearts where Jesus dwells as a Saviour known and loved, a light which brightens the heavy clouds of earthly sadness and spans them with a rainbow of immortal hope. And not only so, but, in consequence of the entrance of this purer light, a change for the better was taking place in the bodily health of the poor bed-ridden man--for a wounded spirit had had a good deal to do with his physical infirmities--so that there seemed a likelihood that he would be able in time to leave his sick-bed and go forth once more, not indeed to laborious work, but to fill some light post which the colonel had in store for him.

It was on a lovely afternoon that he was sitting up in his arm-chair, dressed in clothes which he had never thought to put on again. He was listening to the gentle but earnest voice of Mary Stansfield, as she read to him from the Word of G.o.d, and spoke a few loving and cheering words of her own upon the pa.s.sage she had selected. A shadow fell across her book; she looked up. The colonel and his nephew stood in the open doorway.

"Don't let us interrupt you, Miss Stansfield," said the former; "I was only looking round with my nephew, who has not been here before, to see how things are going on in Bridgepath. We will call again!"

They pa.s.sed on, and Miss Stansfield resumed her reading. But somehow or other John Price's attention seemed to wander--he looked disturbed, and fidgeted in his chair; and so his visitor, thinking that he had been read to as long as he could hear with comfort and profit in his weak state, closed the book, and rose to leave.

"Oh, don't go, miss!" cried the old man in a distressed voice. "I'm so sorry; but something as I can't exactly explain just took away my thoughts and troubled me when the colonel came to the door. But go on, go on, miss; I'm never tired of hearing the good news from your lips."

"No, John," replied Miss Stansfield; "I think we shall do for to-day.

You are not strong enough yet to bear much strain of mind or body; and Colonel Dawson will be coming in directly, and will like to have a word with you, and so, I am sure, will Mr Horace; so I will say good-bye."

The other looked scared and bewildered, and made no reply. "Poor John!"

said his kind visitor to herself, as she left the cottage and went on her way; "I am afraid I have tired him. And yet I think there must be something more than that which troubles him."

A few minutes later the colonel and his nephew entered John Price's house. "Come in, Horace," said Colonel Dawson; "you have not yet been introduced to one who will, I hope, be spared to be a great helper in the good work in Bridgepath, though he does not look much like a worker at present. But the Lord has been doing great things for him already, and, I doubt not, means to do greater things for him yet."

The young man stepped forward up to the old man's chair, and held out his hand to him. John Price grasped it eagerly with both his own thin, wasted hands, and looking at him with a half-astonished, half-distressed gaze, said abruptly, in a hoa.r.s.e, choking voice, "What's your name?"

"My name?" said the young man, smiling at his earnestness. "My name, old friend, is Horace Jackson."

"Horace--Horace!" muttered the other in a tone of great excitement; "it must be--nay, it cannot be--and yet it must be. Are you sure, sir, your name's Jackson?"

The young man, surprised at such a question, was about to reply, when the colonel, coming forward, stooped over the old man and whispered a few words in his ear. The poor invalid immediately sank back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment; then he sat up again, and took part in the conversation, but in a dreamy sort of way, keeping his face steadily turned away from his younger visitor. But as the colonel and his nephew were leaving the cottage, he fixed upon the latter a look so full of anxiety and interest, that it was quite clear that Horace Jackson had opened unwittingly a deep spring of feeling in John Price's heart, which the old man found it almost impossible to repress. As his visitors retired, Colonel Dawson, looking back, put his finger on his lips, to which sign John Price slowly bent his head.

In a few minutes the colonel returned alone. "I have left my nephew at the school," he said, "to give the children a questioning on what they have been lately learning; and now, John, I shall be able to clear up your doubts and fears, and to set your mind at rest on a subject which I see affects you deeply." A long and interesting communication was then made by the colonel to his humble friend, at the close of which the invalid seemed as if he could have sprung out of his chair for very gladness, while the tears poured from his eyes, and his lips murmured words of thankfulness.

As Colonel Dawson was leaving, he turned and said with a smile, "Remember, John, not a word to any one at present--not till I give you leave."

"All right, sir; you may depend upon me. The Lord be praised!" was the reply; and as the old man said the words, every wrinkle in his careworn face seemed running over with light. But for the present Horace Jackson did not call at his cottage again, though he now and then appeared in the village, and was to be seen on more than one occasion accompanying Miss Stansfield on her return from Bridgepath.

And now it began to be rumoured about in the neighbourhood that an attachment was springing up between the colonel's nephew and Mary Stansfield; and all true-hearted people rejoiced, knowing what a blessing the union of two such earnest workers would prove, as, of course, they would one day, if spared, succeed to the Riverton estate.

The world, however, was both surprised and disgusted, having hoped "better things" of the young man. As for the Wilders, they were full of dark and bitter sayings on the subject--the younger Mr Wilder especially, who was never tired of remarking to his acquaintance, when the subject was broached, that "Miss Stansfield had contrived to play her cards well." This observation was not lost on the busy-bodies and scandal-mongers who abounded in Franchope, as they do in most country- towns, where there is not so much of active business stirring as will furnish sufficient material for gossip to those who love to act as unpaid news-agents in publis.h.i.+ng their neighbours' real or supposed more private doings from house to house.

There happened to live at the outskirts of the little town an elderly lady possessed of singular activity in all her members, especially that most unruly one, the tongue. Give her a little bit of local news or a hard saying to report, and she would never rest till she had distributed the information throughout her entire acquaintance, with a little garnish of her own to the savoury dish, according to the taste or appet.i.te of her hearers. Loved by none, feared by all, her calls were received with apparent cordiality, partly from a natural relish in many for questionable news, and partly from a desire to stand well with one who had the reputations of her neighbours and a.s.sociates more or less in her power. Young Wilder's remark on Miss Stansfield's engagement was a choice morsel of scandal to old Mrs Tinderley, and was duly reported in every house to which she had access. But that was not all. Meeting Mary Stansfield herself one day near her aunt's house, Mrs Tinderley grasped her warmly by the hand--though hitherto they had never done more than just exchange civil greetings by word of mouth--and congratulated her upon her happy prospects. Miss Stansfield, who knew the old lady's character well, was about to pa.s.s on, after a word or two of civil acknowledgment, but the other would not let her part from her so hastily.

"My dear," she exclaimed in an earnest half-whisper, "isn't it really shameful that people should say the ill-natured things they do, calling you a hypocrite, and selfish of all things in the world? And young Mr Wilder too--to think of his saying that 'you've played your cards well.'

Really, it's too bad. But, my dear Miss Stansfield, if I were you I wouldn't mind it."

The old lady paused, expecting to see a blush of vexation and annoyance on her young companion's face; but she was disappointed.

"Thank you, Mrs Tinderley," replied Mary Stansfield. "I suppose you mean well by repeating to me these foolish remarks. I can a.s.sure you that I do _not_ mind them, as my conscience quite acquits me in the matter, and my happiness in no degree depends on the judgment of those who have made or reported them."

So saying, she went quietly on her way, leaving poor Mrs Tinderley in a state of utter bewilderment.

To Colonel Dawson the attachment, which was soon avowed on his nephew's part, was a matter of the sincerest satisfaction; as it was also to the elder Miss Stansfield, who had learned to take great pleasure in the society of Horace Jackson, and to see in him those excellences of a true Christian character which would make him a suitable husband to her invaluable niece. She was pained, however, at the hard things which had been said on the subject, as reported to her by an acquaintance of Mrs Tinderley's, and spoke to the colonel on the subject.

"I am sure, Colonel Dawson," she said, "dear Mary is without blame in this matter. The idea of _her_ acting selfishly or 'playing her cards,'

such a thing is altogether preposterous. I cannot imagine how people can be so wicked as to make such cruel and unjust remarks."

"Ah, my dear friend," replied the colonel, smiling, "let it pa.s.s, the world will have its say. I am sure your dear niece will have no wish, as I know she has no need, to vindicate her character from such aspersions. She has just gone straight forward in the path of duty, and has met Horace while in that path; and to my mind there would be somewhat of selfishness, or, at any rate, of undue self-consciousness, on her part were she to trouble herself, or to allow her friends to trouble themselves, to defend her conduct in this matter. We are, of course, as Christians, to abstain from all appearance of evil, and to give no handle to the enemies of the truth against us or our profession; but it does not, therefore, follow that we are to decline a path which plainly opens before us in G.o.d's providence, just because that path may be a smooth one, or may lead to a position of wealth and influence. To choose another path which will gain us high credit for self-denial, because we turn away from that which is naturally more attractive to ourselves, may after all be only another though subtler form of selfishness. Surely the right course is just to go in honesty of purpose unreservedly where G.o.d's hand is plainly guiding us and he will take care both of our character and of his own cause in connection with that character, as he orders everything else that is really essential to the welfare and usefulness of each of his own dear children."

CHAPTER NINE.

RUBY GRIGG.

Horace Jackson had come to take a deep interest in the inhabitants of Bridgepath, especially since his engagement; for Mary Stansfield's heart was thoroughly in her work in that once benighted place, and she was only too glad to lead one now so dear to her to concern himself in the truest welfare of those in Bridgepath who were still living without thought of any world but this.

Things had indeed greatly improved through the diligent and loving exertions of the excellent schoolmaster, who was evidently determined to tread down all opposition that came in his way by the firm and weighty, though gentle, steps of a steady and consistent Christian walk. His task, it is true, was no easy one, for parents and scholars seemed for a time to be in league against all endeavours on his part to remove existing abuses. It was all very right, they allowed, that he should teach the children head-knowledge--this they were content to put up with; but as for his influencing the heart, or inducing them to change their conduct, and thereby to give up the pleasures of sin in which they had so long delighted, this was not to be tolerated; they were determined not to submit to it. And so the boys, when they could no longer carry on their encounters and settle their differences with the fist after school without interruption and remonstrance from the master, revenged themselves for this interference with their privileges by a thousand little sly tricks and bits of mischief at his expense, and with the full approbation, or, at any rate, connivance, of their friends.

As for the grown-up people generally, they gave the good master and his loving wife to understand, when they paid friendly visits to the parents of the scholars, that the inhabitants of the hamlet could do just as well if left to themselves; that they were too old now to go to school; and as for the master's religious teaching, they had already quite as much religion amongst them as was necessary for their comfort and well- being: in fact, the schoolmaster and his wife would best consult their own interests and the peace of the place by being keepers at home and looking after their own household out of school hours.

Nor was this all. The good man having, in one of his Sunday evening addresses in the schoolroom, spoken some very plain though kindly words against sinful courses too prevalent in Bridgepath, an a.s.sault was made on his little garden one night during the following week, so that when he looked over his flower-beds next morning he found them all trampled over, his rose-trees cut down, and the flower roots torn up and thrown about in all directions.

As he rose from the examination of what remained of a favourite tree, his eyes encountered those of one of his most determined opponents in the village. The man was staring over the wall, and when his eyes met those of the schoolmaster, he inquired with a grin how his roses were getting on. With a slight flush on his face, but yet with a smile on his lips, the master replied very slowly, "I shall have to kill some of you for this." Before the evening this little sentence had been reported in every house in Bridgepath.

"So you're a-going to kill some of us, master. I thought you was one of them peaceable Christians," sneered a man to the schoolmaster as he was pa.s.sing by the door of one of the beer-shops, before which a number of men were a.s.sembled with their pipes and pots. There was a general scornful laugh at this speech. Nothing dismayed, however, the schoolmaster stood still, and facing his opponent, said, "Yes, I said I would kill some of you, and I mean it; and if you will come up to the schoolroom to-night at eight o'clock, I will tell you all how and why."

"Let's go and hear him," said one of the drinkers. "Ay, let us," said another.

By eight o'clock the schoolroom was half filled with men, women, and children. The master was standing at his desk ready to receive them, and when the school clock had struck the hour, began as follows:--

"Now, my friends and neighbours, I feel sure that you'll give me a quiet hearing, as you have come that you may know why I said I must kill some of you. You've done me harm, some of you, but I've done you none; so the least you can do is to listen to me patiently."

"Ay, ay," said one or two voices, and there was a hush of earnest attention.

The master then unlocked his desk, and taking out a printed paper, read it out clearly and with due spirit and emphasis. It was the admirable tract ent.i.tled "The Man who Killed his Neighbour." When he had finished reading there was a general murmur of satisfaction, and all were deeply attentive as he went on to say, "Now, dear friends, that's the way I mean to kill some of you: I mean to do it by patience, by kindness, and by returning good for evil, as the good man in the tract did. I'm sorry of course, that my roses have been cut down and my flower-beds trampled on. But let that pa.s.s; I shan't fret over it, nor try to find out who did it. But I do want to get you to believe that my great desire and aim is to do you good; and if I can manage, by G.o.d's help, to persuade you of this, I shall have killed the enemy that is living in your hearts against me, and we shall be happy and good friends."

No one offered any reply, and the meeting broke up; but the master had gained his object. Many who had been set against him were now thoroughly ashamed of themselves; nearly every door was gladly opened to himself and his wife; and one morning, when he came out into his garden, he found that some unknown hands had planted new rose-trees in the place of those which had been destroyed. So the good man was making a way steadily for the spread of the truth.

Nevertheless, the evil one had still many devoted followers, especially among the tipplers. As one of these unhappy men was one day emerging from a beer-shop in Bridgepath, with flushed face and uncertain step, he ran against Horace Jackson, who was just then pa.s.sing through the village. Uttering a loud oath, the man was about to move on, when Horace, catching him by the arm, compelled him to stand still, while he sharply reproved him for his drunkenness and profanity. A little staggered and abashed, the man muttered something that sounded half like an apology; and then, shaking himself free from Horace's grasp, pointed with his pipe across the green, and said scoffingly, "'Tain't of no use speaking to me. If you wants a good hard piece to try your hand on, see what you can do with Ruby Grigg yonder;" saying which, he plunged back into the beer-shop.

Vexed and annoyed at this encounter, Horace was just about to hasten on, when his eyes fell on the man to whom the poor drunkard had referred him; and who was seated not far-off on the other side of the green, upon the steps of a large travelling van. The young man's heart died within him as he gazed at the strange uncouth being to whom he was invited to try and do some good.

Reuben Gregson, popularly known as "Ruby Grigg," was anything but a jewel in appearance. He wore at this time a very long coat, whose original colour, whatever it might have been, had now faded into a yellowish dirty brown in those parts which still remained unpatched.

Trousers just reaching a little below the knee, and repaired here and there with remnants of staring blue cloth of various shapes and sizes, were succeeded by yellowish grey stockings, and by shoes which, if they ever enjoyed the luxury of blacking, must have last done so at a very remote period. A hat, which had once been black and of some definite shape, but was now rimless, distorted, and of the same faded hue as the coat, being stuck on one side, only partially covered a tangled ma.s.s of greyish hair, which radiated wildly in every direction. Beneath the foremost locks were two eyeb.a.l.l.s, the one sightless, the other black and piercing, and ever on the move, having to do double duty. A rough, stubbly, and anything but cleanly beard, which was submitted to the razor only on festal occasions, gave an additional wildness to a countenance which was furrowed across the forehead and down either cheek with deep lines blotched and freckled. As for the mouth, it was a perfect study in itself. Usually pretty tightly closed, it displayed when open a small remnant of teeth at irregular intervals, and now grown old and decayed by long service. But, whether open or shut, there was an expression of amused consciousness and cunning about that mouth, as though the owner were living in a chronic state of self-satisfaction at having fairly outwitted somebody. Such was Ruby Grigg in his personal appearance.

His caravan, also, was a very original and peculiar structure, manifestly built more for use than ornament, and combining both shop and dwelling. It was formed of boards of various lengths and widths, some painted and others bare, the business part being in front, and arched over with a stout framework which was covered with a tight-fitting tarpaulin; while at the back a square little house, painted uniformly a sober green, and protected by a sloping roof of brown-coloured wood- work, and lighted by two little windows, served as parlour, bedroom, and kitchen to Ruby and his wife.

Mrs Gregson, or Sally Grigg as she was usually styled, was not a noticeable person, keeping out of the way as much as possible; and devoting her time and energies to seeing to the due feeding of her husband, his horse and dog, and herself--these forming the entire family, for they had no children--and also to taking care of, and tidying up from time to time, the very miscellaneous wares which were offered for sale in the caravan.

Ruby's affections seemed pretty equally divided between his horse, his dog, and his wife--the two first having probably the best place in his heart. The horse, like its owner, had no external beauty to boast of, and must have numbered many years since the days of its foalhood. There was something rather knowing about its appearance, as though it had contracted a measure of cunning from constant companions.h.i.+p with its master. The dog, whose name was Grip, was one of those nondescript animals which seem to have inherited a mixture of half-a-dozen different breeds, and had a temper as uncertain as its pedigree. While journeying, his place was beneath the caravan, to which he was attached by a light chain, in which position he was a terror to all who might venture near the caravan without his master's company or permission.

When the little party rested for a day or so, Grip had his liberty; which he occasionally abused by appropriating to himself the meals intended for his fellow-dogs, none of whom, however superior to him in size or strength, durst for a moment resist him.