And what delights they were, when once he found time to taste of them! He was kept busy at his studies until school closed, as it did one Friday in early June, and that afternoon he said good-by to his teacher and saw her whisked away eastward2 to the home she loved. He went from the station to the mine with heavy heart, and labored3 there with his father until evening came. He did not open his books that night, for he was just beginning to realize all that his teacher had been to him and how he had come to rely upon her for encouragement and help. All day Saturday he worked in the mine with his father. But Sunday dawned clear and bright, and as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, he climbed high up on the hillside to his favorite nook, with only “Lorna Doone” for company. There, in a grassy5 spot, he lay down and opened the book before him.
He read it stumblingly and haltingly; as his teacher had foreseen, many of the words were quite beyond him; but it was written in English so pure, so clear, so simple, that little of importance escaped him. And what a world of enchantment6 it opened to him!—the wide moorlands of Exmoor, the narrow Doone valley, the water-slide, the great London road. And what people, too!—the lawless Doones, Captain, Counselor7, Carver, who, for all their villainy, had something attractive about them, Lorna, and great John Ridd. Of course he did not see the full beauty of the book, but its magic he caught some glimpses of, and it bore him quite away from the eventless valley of New River to that other valley where the Doones reigned8 in all their insolence9 and pride, and kept Lorna prisoner to be a bride to Carver.
Hunger warned him of the dinner-hour, but he begrudged10 the time it took to go down to the house, swallow his food, and get back again to his place on the hillside. The afternoon passed almost before he knew it, and the lengthening11 shadows warned him that evening was at hand. Still he read on, glancing up only now and then to mark how the light was fading, and when it failed altogether it left John just in the midst of his adventures in London. Tommy lay for a long time looking down the valley and thinking over what he had read, and at last, with a sigh, picked up the book and started homeward.
What need to detail further? All summer long he walked in a land of enchantment, whether with John Ridd on Exmoor, with David Copperfield in London, with Richard Lion-heart in Sherwood Forest, or with Henry Esmond at Castlewood. As he went onward13 he grew stronger in his reading, and so found the way less difficult, and at last acquired such proficiency14 that he would read portions of his books aloud to his wondering parents and to Johnny.
Mr. Bayliss found them sitting so one Sunday afternoon, and paused at the porch to listen. Tommy was reading of that last desperate struggle between John Ridd and Carver Doone:
“The black bog15 had him by the feet; the sucking of the ground drew on him like the thirsty lips of death. In our fury, we had heeded16 neither wet nor dry, nor thought of earth beneath us. I myself might scarcely leap, with the last spring of o’erlabored legs, from the engulfing17 grave of slime. He fell back with his swarthy breast (from which my gripe had rent all clothing) like a hummock18 of bog-oak standing19 out the quagmire20; and then he tossed his arms to heaven, and they were black to the elbow, and the glare of his eyes was ghastly. I could only gaze and pant, for my strength was no more than an infant’s, from the fury and the horror. Scarcely could I turn away, while, joint21 by joint, he sank from sight.”
For an instant there was silence. Then, with a sigh, Tommy’s father relaxed his attitude of strained attention and dropped back in his chair.
“Jee-rusalem!” he said at last. “Ter think of it! Th’ bog swallered him up. Good fer him! He ort t’ got worse ’n thet fer killin’ Lorna.”
Tommy smiled to himself, in his superior knowledge.
“That ain’t all,” he said. “There’s another chapter.”
“Another chapter!” cried his father. “Maybe Lorna ain’t dead, then. It’ll tell about her funeral, anyway. Go on, Tommy.”
And as Tommy turned to the book again, Mr. Bayliss stole away down the path, convinced that this was not the time to make his presence known. On his homeward way he pondered deeply the scene he had just witnessed. Its significance moved him strongly, for he saw a ray of hope ahead for the success of his ministry22 among this people. Five years before, when he was a senior at the Princeton Theological Seminary, he had chanced upon an open letter in a mission magazine which stated that for miles and miles along this valley there was not a single minister nor church, and that hundreds of people, from year-end to year-end, never heard the Word of God. He had decided23 that this should be his field of labor4, and so soon as he had been ordained24 he had journeyed to Wentworth. At first he had held services in an old cabin; gradually he succeeded in interesting charitable people in his work, and finally secured enough money to build a small church, and to purchase and consecrate25 a piece of ground behind it for a burying-place.
But in matters of religion, as in matters of education, he had found the people strangely apathetic26. They came to him to be married, and sent for him sometimes in sickness; it was he who committed their bodies to the grave: but marriages and deaths aside, he had small part in their lives. He had thought sometimes that the reason of failure must be some fault in himself, and had his moments of discouragement, as all men have; but the scene he had just witnessed gave him a clue to one cause of failure. He saw that some degree of education must come before there could be deep and genuine spiritual awakening27. He had realized the truth of this more than once in his ministry, but most deeply shortly after his arrival, when he had undertaken to distribute some Bibles among the squalid cabins on the hillside.
“We-uns don’t need no Bible,” said the woman in the first house he entered.
“Do not need one?” he echoed. “Why? Have you one in the house already?”
“No, we ain’t got none. What could we-uns do with one?”
“Do with it? Read it, of course.”
“But we can’t read,” said the woman, sullenly28. “They ain’t no chance t’ learn. It’s work, work, from sun-up t’ dark.”
Mr. Bayliss stood for a moment nonplussed29.
“Not read!” he repeated at last. “But, surely, some of the miners or their families can read.”
The woman shook her head.
“Not many,” she said. “How kin12 we?” she continued, more fiercely. “What chance d’ we hev? We ain’t knowed nothin’ but work all our lives. A man don’t stop t’ learn t’ read when he needs bread t’ eat.”
She paused to look darkly at her visitor. He was so moved with pity and distress30 that he could find no answer. Perhaps she read his thought in his eyes, for she grew more gentle.
“Thet’s one reason we-uns don’t come down t’ them meetin’s o’ yourn,” she went on. “By th’ time Sunday comes, we’re too tired t’ care fer anything but rest. And then,” she added defiantly31, “most of us has got so we don’t care, noway.”
Mr. Bayliss went back to his study with his Bibles still under his arm. He felt that he was just beginning to understand the problem which confronted him, and he had sought vainly for a solution to it. Since the miners could not read, he had visited such of them as would permit him and had read to them, but they had received him for the most part with indifference32. He had labored patiently, though sometimes despairingly. And now, of a sudden, after these years, he saw a glimmering33 of light. It was only a miner’s boy reading to his parents—a little thing, perhaps, yet even little things sometimes lead to great ones. And the minister determined34 to do all he could for that boy, that he might serve as a guide to others.
He found he could do much. He helped the boy over difficult places in his books, gave him a dictionary that he might find out for himself the meaning of the words, and taught him how to use it. Gradually, as he came to know him better, the project, which at first had been very vague, began to take shape in his mind. Why should not this boy become a helper to his own people? Who could understand them and minister to them as one who had sprung from among them? But of this he said nothing to any one, only pondered it more and more.
It was quite a different Tommy from the one she had known that Miss Andrews found awaiting her when she returned in September to open her school again. His eyes had a new light in them. It was as if a wide, dreary35 landscape had been suddenly touched and glorified36 by the sun. On his face, now, glowed the sunlight of intelligence and understanding—a light which deep acquaintance with the books Tommy had been reading will bring to any face. She had a talk with him the very first day.
“And you liked the books?” she asked.
His sparkling eyes gave answer.
“Which hero did you like the best?”
“Oh, John Ridd,” he cried. “John Ridd best of all. He was so big, so strong, so brave, so—”
He paused, at loss for a word.
“So steadfast,” she said, helping37 him, “so honest, so good, so true. Yes, I think I like him best, too—better than David or Ivanhoe or Henry Esmond. And now, Tommy,” she continued, more seriously, “I want you to do something for me—something I am sure you can do, and which will help me very much.”
“Oh, if I could!” he cried, with bright face.
“I am sure you can. How many children do you suppose there are in that row of houses where you live?”
“About twenty-five,” he said at last.
“And how many of them come to school?”
“None of them but me.”
“Don’t you think they ought to come? Aren’t you glad that you came?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Tommy.
“Well, I have tried to get them to come, and failed,” she said. “Perhaps I didn’t know the right way to approach them. Now I want you to try. I believe you will know better how to reach them than I did. You may fail, too, but at least you can try.”
“I will try,” he said, and that evening he visited all the cabins in the row, one after another. What arts he used was never known—what subtleties39 of flattery and promise. He met with much discouragement; for instance, he could get none of the men to consent to send to school any of the boys who were old enough to help them in the mines. But when he started to school next morning, six small children accompanied him, among them his brother Johnny. And what a welcome the teacher gave him! She seemed unable to speak for a moment, and her eyes gleamed queerly, but when she did speak, it was with words that sent a curious warmth to his heart.
That half-dozen children was only the first instalment to come from the cabins. Tommy, prizing above everything his teacher’s gratitude40, kept resolutely41 at work, and soon the benches at the schoolroom began to assume quite a different appearance from that they had had at the opening of school; and one day when Jabez Smith came down to look the school over, he declared that it would soon be necessary to put in some new forms.
“And you were gittin’ discouraged,” he said, half jestingly, to Miss Andrews. “Didn’t I tell you t’ stick to it an’ you’d win?”
“Oh, but it wasn’t I who won!” she cried. And in a few words she told him the story of Tommy’s missionary42 work, and of his connection with the school.
“Which is th’ boy?” he asked quickly, when the story was finished, and she pointed43 out Tommy where he sat bending over his book.
Mr. Smith looked at him for some moments without speaking.
“There must be somethin’ in th’ boy, Miss Bessie,” he said at last. “We must do somethin’ fer him. When you’re ready, let me know. Mebbe I kin help.” And he went out hastily, before she could answer him.
But the words sang through her brain. “Do something for him”—of course they must do something for him; but what? The question did not long remain unanswered.
It was when she met Mr. Bayliss one Sunday in a walk along the river, and related to him the success of Tommy’s efforts, that he broached44 the project he had been developing.
“The boy must be given a chance,” he said. “I believe he could do a great work among these people—greater, surely, than I have been able to do.” And he sighed as he thought of his years of effort and of the empty seats which confronted him at every service. “See how he has helped you. Now he must help me.”
“I haven’t thought it out fully46, but in outline it is something like this. We will teach him here all that we can teach. Then we’ll send him to the preparatory school at Lawrenceville for the final touches. Then he will enter Princeton, and—if his bent47 lies as I believe it does—the seminary. Think what he could do, coming back here equipped as such a course would equip him, and having, too, a perfect understanding of the peculiar48 people he is to work among! Why, I tell you, it would almost work a miracle from one end of this valley to the other.” And he paused to contemplate49 for a moment this golden-hued picture which his words had conjured50 up.
His companion caught the glow of his enthusiasm.
“It would,” she cried; “it would! But can he take such a polish? Is he strong enough? Is it not too late?”
“I believe he is strong enough. I believe it is not too late. The only trouble,” he added reflectively, “will be about the cost.”
“The cost?”
“Yes. There will be no question of that after he gets to Princeton, for I can easily get him a scholarship, and there are many ways in which a student can earn money enough to pay his other expenses. But at Lawrenceville it is different.”
Miss Andrews looked up at him with dancing eyes.
“About what will the expense at Lawrenceville be?” she asked.
He paused a moment to consider.
“Say three hundred dollars a year. I think I can arrange for it not to cost more than that, if I can get him one of the Foundation Scholarships, as I am certain I can.”
“And the course?”
“Is four years—but we may be able to cut it down to three. Let us count on three.”
“Nine hundred dollars,” she said, half to herself. Then of a sudden, “Mr. Bayliss, I believe I can provide the money.”
“You!” he cried in astonishment51.
“Oh, not I myself,” she laughed. “One of my friends. I will talk it over with him.”
He looked at her, still more astonished.
“Talk it over?” he repeated. “Do you mean to say that we have a philanthropist in our midst?”
She nodded.
“But I shall not tell you his name,” she said, her eyes alight. “Not just yet, at any rate. Let us get on to other particulars. I see another rock ahead in the person of his father. Do you think he will consent?”
“I had thought of that,” answered the minister, slowly. “That will be another great difficulty. But I believe he will consent if we go about it carefully. He is beginning to take a certain pride in the boy,—so is the mother,—and I shall appeal to that. It is worth trying.”
“Yes, it is worth trying,” she repeated, “and we will try.”
Tommy, who lay in his favorite spot high up on the mountain, reading for the tenth time of John Ridd’s fight for Lorna, saw them walking together along the river path. He watched them pacing slowly back and forth52, deep in converse53, but he had no thought that they were planning his life for him.
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1
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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6
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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counselor
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| n.顾问，法律顾问 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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9
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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10
begrudged
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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11
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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12
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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13
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
engulfing
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| adj.吞噬的v.吞没，包住( engulf的现在分词 ) | |
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hummock
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| n.小丘 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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25
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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28
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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31
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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32
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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33
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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34
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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compute
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| v./n.计算，估计 | |
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39
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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40
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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42
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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43
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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44
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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45
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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48
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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49
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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50
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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51
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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52
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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53
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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