Working in the Shade

Working in the Shade
or, Lowly Sowing Brings Glorious Reaping
by the Reverend Theodore P Wilson
CHAPTER ONE.
THE NEW-COMER.
Curiosity was on tiptoe in the small country-town of Franchope and the
neighbourhood when it was settled without a doubt that Riverton Park
was to be occupied once more.
Park House, which was the name of the mansion belonging to the
Riverton estate, was a fine, old, substantial structure, which stood upon
a rising ground, and looked out upon a richly undulating country, a
considerable portion of which belonged to the property.
The house was situated in the centre of an extensive park, whose
groups and avenues of venerable trees made it plain that persons of
consideration had long been holders of the estate. But for the last
twenty years Riverton Park had been a mystery and a desolation. No
one had occupied the house during that time, except an old man and his
wife, who pottered about the place, and just contrived to keep the
buildings from tumbling into ruin. The shutters were always closed, as
though the mansion were in a state of chronic mourning for a race of
proprietors now become extinct, except that now and then, in
summer-time, a niggardly amount of fresh air and sunshine was
allowed to find its way into the interior of the dwelling.
As for the grounds and the park, they were overlooked in more senses
than one by a labourer and his sons, who lived in a hamlet called
Bridgepath, which was situated on the estate, about a mile from the
house, in the rear, and contained some five hundred people. John Willis

and his sons were paid by somebody to look after the gardens and
drives; and as they got their money regularly, and no one ever came to
inspect their work, they just gave a turn at the old place now and then at
odd times, and neither asked questions nor answered any, and allowed
the grass and weeds to have their own way, till the whole domain
became little better than an unsightly wilderness. Everybody said it was
a shame, but as no one had a right to interfere, the broad, white front of
Park House continued to look across the public road to Franchope
through its surroundings of noble trees, with a sort of pensive dignity,
its walls being more or less discoloured and scarred, while creepers
straggled across the windows, looking like so many wrinkles indicative
of decrepitude and decay.
But why did no one purchase it? Simply because its present owner,
who was abroad somewhere, had no intention of selling it. At last,
however, a change had come. Riverton Park was to be tenanted again.
But by whom? Not by its former occupier; that was ascertained beyond
doubt by those who had sufficient leisure and benevolence to find out
other people's business for the gratification of the general public. It was
not so clear who was to be the new-comer. Some said a retired
tradesman; others, a foreign princess; others, the proprietor of a private
lunatic asylum. These and other rumours were afloat, but none of them
came to an anchor.
It was on a quiet summer's evening in July that Mary Stansfield was
walking leisurely homeward along the highroad which passed through
the Riverton estate and skirted the park. Miss Stansfield was the orphan
child of an officer who had perished, with his wife and other children,
in the Indian Mutiny. She had been left behind in England, in the
family of a maiden aunt, her father's sister, who lived on her own
property, which was situated between the Riverton estate and the town
of Franchope. She had inherited from her father a small independence,
and from both parents the priceless legacy of a truly Christian example,
and the grace that rests on the child in answer to the prayers of faith and
love.
The world considered her position a highly-favoured one, for her aunt

would no doubt leave her her fortune and estate when she died; for she
had already as good as adopted her niece, from whom she received all
the attention and watchful tenderness which she needed continually, by
reason of age and manifold infirmities. But while our life has its outer
convex side, which magnifies its advantages before the world, it has its
inner concave side also, which reduces the outer circumstances of
prosperity into littleness, when "the heart knoweth its own bitterness,
and a stranger doth not intermeddle with its joy." So it was with Mary
Stansfield. She had a refined and luxurious home, and all her wants
supplied. She was practically mistress of the household, and had many
friends and acquaintances in the families of the neighbouring gentry,
several of whom had country seats within easy walk or drive