Rosenthal: a North Country story

Chapter I

Rosedale. The village of Rosedale, which nestles among the heathery hills of Cumberland, is beautifully situated, surrounded as it is by river, lake, and woodland. It does not boast of architectural beauty, nor of buildings artistically arranged ; but its elm and lime trees, and its orchards and gardens, give it quite a picturesque and rustic appearance, so that people are in the habit of speaking of it as the pretty village of Rosedale. As may be expected, it offers great attractions to excursionists, and invalids in quest of health. It has been said that God made the country, and man made the town. We might almost fancy some genius had been abroad, copied the best in both, and presented us in this village with a living picture. At the time of which we write it was a thriving place. Being in an agricultural and mining district, and distant five or six miles from the market town of Hazleton, it com manded a fair return of business.

Strangers instinctively called it the town of Rosedale, and not without reason, for on certain days — especially Tuesdays and Saturdays — the coming and going of the country people doing their marketing, gave to the place quite a business-like appearance. Carriers, to and fiom Hazleton, had their hands full, for there were a few who believed in the "dear bought and far fetched;" and, as the locomotive did not favour them with its acquaintance, they had to be content with the "slow coach." It is true the railway was but three miles distant ; but the "Northern counties" was an orthodox company, and ran the straight line, which left Rosedale "out in the cold." ROSENTHAL. 2 Junctions, at the time of which we write, were advanced theories, and did not find favour with our masters. The inhabitants had caught the spirit of indifference, and enter prise was an unknown commodity.

The people believed in following closely the pattern of their fathers, and eyed with suspicion any one who suggested advance. They argued that a "dog trot" was preferable to a "neck-to-neck" gallop, because there was less risk of being thrown. But those were the old days. Now we boast of having a better inheritance. There are two sides to every question, and so to this. It is true we have advanced greatly in many respects AVe have greater facilities for procuring pleasure. There are more comforts. Social position is everything. The pomp and glitter of life is ouis. But as a set off, we have the wear and tear of trade : we undergo the labour of the mercantile tread-mill. Competition keeps our minds on the rack, and we lose the rest which our less-ambitious ancestors enjoyed. The good folks did not trouble themselves with books, the majority excusing themselves by saying they had had plenty of them at school.

Those who did indulge in reading, were contented with the weekly paper ; and their interest in that was centred in the column recording "births, marriages, and deaths ; " so there was not much danger of their becoming inoculated with city notions. Occasionally, however, a stranger settled amongst them, and thus the leaven of progress worked its way, despite the opposition of the " old stagers." Mudie was then in his cradle, and had not honoured the outside world with a visit. There was, however, a circulating library, kept by the stationer, which was well patronised by the young. Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver's Travels, Arabian Nights' Entertainment, and Wilson's Tales of the Borders, were well-thumbed books, and did something towards training the "young idea." It is winter, and an old-fashioned one too.

Jack Frost and Jennie Snow are playing their idle pranks to the annoy ance of some, no doubt, but to the delight of the majority ; for the better half of our race are on the sunny side of life, and know no grander fun than roughing it once in a while in the company of such hardy visitors. The village green ROSEDALE. 3 presents an interesting study. Here, a youth "stepping into his teens," is pleasantly taking to his "cold pie," while slipping miss is tightening her hold of mamma's gown, much to the latter's annoyance. Madam, proudly holding her course, treats with haughty indifference the traps of Jack or the wiles of Jennie, till down she comes, to the no small amusement of missy and her big brother; whilst father steady, out of all patience with the mishaps of his "better half" and company, firmly planting his foot, shows them what a man can do.

But a false step spoils his idle boast, and now he lies — preaching to laughing Hodge and his betters the uncertainty of human greatness. It is Christmas eve, and Rosedale is all astir. Everyone is busy; for, although "Santa Claus" is a stranger, "good fairies" play their part, and the children are not forgotten. Christmas ! happy, merry Christmas ! season of holy and pleasant memories. There are family gatherings and merry-makings enough to frighten Jack Frost, or, at least to make him lose his grip; and if these are not sufficient, there are comforters and gloves, knitted by loving hands ; and the knowledge that the world holds those who love us, gives an additional beat to the heart, and makes us feel we are more than a match for Jack Frost. "Christmas conies but once a year." This fact has demonstration in Rosedale ; maid and matron are going out of their usual beat — for "Isn't it Christmas?"

The boys in the village are more idle than their wont, and are having a "time of it" snow-balling ; and old folk are being convinced that, no work and all play makes many a noisy boy. Snow-balling, however, is soon given up for snow-man building ; and each boy is anxious to excel his fellow. One by one the competitors fall out, until only two remain ; one of these is Henry Fell, the schoolmaster's son, and the other is Henry Waylad, the son of the village laird. It is rumoured that the laird has little love for his humbler neighbour; and that his son inherits his father's disposition. Be this as it may, young Waylad is constantly seeking a quarrel with his humble schoolfellow. The lads are of the same age, but Waylad is stronger built, and in the play of ROSENTHAL. 4 snow-man building, he sees a chance of outshining his rival.

He determines that his snow-man shall top Fell's, so he works with a will; but, alas! his work proves faulty, and down it comes with a crash, his failure bringing upon him the laugh of onlookers. " Rome was not built in a day," cries the more cautious worker, who, building slowly, yet surely, has the satisfaction of seeing his work completed. Big with success, and happy in the congratulations of friends, he seeks his home, that his father's heart may share in the pleasure of his own. But his joy is brief — his laughter is changed into weeping on the threshold of his home, for he is met with the lifted finger and the intimation, "Father is ill." Missing the home welcome, he enters sorrow's school, and learns what it is to be alone. It is now eight o'clock, and the lights in the shop windows are less luminous.

Customers are "few and far between," and consequently the "dip" is denied of its "snuffing." Mr. Brette's shop, the establishment that boasts of sup plying everything from "muslin-de-lane" to "Scaleby peats," is an exception. This Jupiter shines brightly whilst its satellites grow dim. Opposite the shop, a slenderly-made, pale-faced lady, is walking up and down, often looking in the direction of the light. She is apparently unnoticed by the villagers ; may be they see nothing unusual in the circumstance, or, having their minds fixed upon the needs ofthe hour, do not care to pry into her business. Once or twice she has paid hurried visits to a cottage on the border of the green ; but she returns to her old position, and her eyes again seek the lighted window, whilst from her lips escapes the ejaculation, " Will he never come !"

An observer might ask, For whom does she wait? Is it for a niggardly husband who is laying in Christmas cheer with his own hands? Or is it for a lover who, having breathed words pleasant and loving, has grown less poetical? Her hurried step and anxious look indicate heart-trouble which the absent one alone can calm. The light is extinguished— happy moment — he comes ! "My darling!" and the fervent kiss rewards the patient ROSEDALE. 5 wife, for such is the relationship she bears to the noble looking man by her side. The husband is suddenly conscious that his wife is in tears, and, upon enquiring the cause, is answered, " My husband, it hurts me to see you. once your own master, now the servant of another !" But the husband cheers her up ; his arm encircles her as in the old days, and the warm embrace tells her that she is all the world to him.

This is peace to the troubled waters, and for a while the dear heart is at rest. Upon entering the home the husband cheerily says, "We have much for which to be thankful ! We have each other and our two little ones. I pictured something like this to you when first I told you of my love, and asked you to become my wife. Ours was to be 'love in a cottage,' and we were happy in the prospect. And shall we be less happy now it is a reality? It may be God has brought us here to work His will. Let us be His willing servants; let us throw away melancholy. This is Christmas eve. Laurel and ivy leaves await our handiwork. Once more we will make our motto, 'God is love.'" The speaker, James Arthur, is assistant to Mr. Brette, a gentleman with whom he had served his apprenticeship. After serving his apprenticeship, he left Mr. Brette, and settled in Manchester, where, passing from shopman to town traveller, he became "master on his own account," and for a time was successful.

But sickness came to the hopeful tradesman, and at the suggestion of the doctor, though much against his own inclination, he returned to his native village. After finishing decorating the home, Arthur tells his wife of the illness of his friend, Henry Fell, the schoolmaster, the news of which had reached him just before leaving the shop. His wife consenting, Arthur goes to visit his friend. Upon reaching the bed side, he finds Fell suffering from hemorrhage, and evidently dying. A few moments, and the weary spirit will wing its flight to the tearless land. Upon Arthur's entering, the dying man fixes his gaze upon him, and then on his son. His hands are lifted as if in prayer; a smile plays on the saintly face ; and now the hands fall, and lie, a marble cross, upon the snowy bosom of the sleeper.

He is dead. ROSENTHAL. The schoolmaster's death casts a gloom over the village. It is the talk of the hour ; and the forlorn condition of his son excites much sympathy. Everybody seems sorry, but upon none does the sorrow lie so heavily as upon James Arthur. . , It is Christmas day. The day has a trumpet-voice. 1 he "Mad tidings" are proclaimed the world over: "Unto you isAorn this day in the City of David, a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord." Little ones, failing to interpret the language of the day, enquire oftheir parents, "What mean ye by this day?" and Christ's birth is the theme of many a home. The church bell calls to worship, and James Arthur is among those who avail themselves of the sacred privilege. Holy memories are awakened. The old days pass rapidly before him. He sees the "scholars' pews," and he himself seated among the happy throng.

A change comes to his quiet life— he is in the c;ty — now again in his native village, and is by the death-bed of Henry Fell. He reproves himself for allowing his mind to wander, and reminds himself that he is in the house of God, so he rouses himself to join in the hymns and prayers ; but his is lip-service. He tries to check his thoughts, but in vain ; for the dying look of Fell follows him, and the tears of the orphan are seen afresh. He longs for the service to be over, that he may allow his thoughts to wander, without sinning. Poor man ! he is in a school of which Christ is master, and has yet to learn, "He that does it to the least of these, does it unto Me." He does not recognise the voice calling him to service, and does not know that the Eye of approval rests upon him for his kindly thought towards the orphan boy.

The service ended, Arthur takes the path through the churchyard, and turns aside for meditation. Years have passed since he last trod this sacred spot. To-day he is irresistibly drawn to it. It may be, the thought that on the morrow mourners would bear the remains of his friend to their last resting place ; or that he is prompted by curiosity to see how many of his early companions have been laid under the green sod. A few steps, and he comes to a granite monument bearing the inscription : — ROSEDALE. 7 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ELLA MAY, THE ONLY DAUGHTER OF JOHN AND JANET MAY, THE ELMS, WHO DIED l8 — . Arthur reads the inscription with sorrow and surprise. He thinks it strange that he had never heard of Miss May's death. A rumour had reached him of her marriage with Captain Waylad. That rumour must have been unfounded, or how, otherwise, can the wording on the stone be accounted for?

Why should the name "May" be written here, if she were, in real fact, the wife of Captain Waylad? Other stones bear the christian name only. There must be some mystery about it, thinks Arthur. When he left home, Henry Fell and Ella May were affianced lovers, and there was a fair prospect of their becoming man and wife. Fell was highly respectable, of good education, of pious turn of mind, and a graduate at one of the universities. These were his credentials ; and Squire May must have been difficult to please to disapprove of his suit. It is the day of Fell's funeral, and it is a public one. Following the custom of the village, the previous night, the parish clerk, bell in hand, had invited "all friends and neighbours to attend" it, and consequently there is a large attendance. The position of the deceased, the respect in which he was held, and his sudden death, bring together great numbers.

The cottage being small, a neighbour, Mrs. Gregg, kindly makes provision for the mourners. Upon leaving the "table," each one is "bidden to tea," and some half-dozen avail themselves of the invitation, James Arthur, as conductor of the funeral, being amongst the number. Meeting together, in the house of a neighbour, they feel themselves at liberty to converse on topics other than funereal. Widow Gregg, who has opened her house, and presides at the tea table, leads the way by remarking: "We've seen th' last o' Fell, peer man ! It grieves yen to think theer was nowther kith nor kin to follow him to th' greave, except his oan bairn. His father niver gat owre his son's fealin' at college." ROSENTHAL. "Fealin' at college?" snaps Ann Lister, "I say fealin' ! He wasn't a chap o' that mek. He niver sealed but yence, an' that was when he sought Ella May for a weife.

Captain Waylad was a match for him theer. It was loss of hur that brong Fell frae college. He was bad iver sae lang. I nursed him. His lang illness played on his oad father, an' he teak to bed, an' niver left it till he was carried to th' churchyard." "Ye're mebbes beath wrang," volunteers Nancy Joye; "an' it's me as sud ken ; for oor Ben's been aboot th' Squire's thur thurty year. Theer was nowt atween Henry Fell and Ella May. It was owre-study 'at browt him frae college." "Thoo kens better nar that !" battles Ann. "Thoo wants to screen the' maister's dowter, an' she was nae better nar th' rest on us. She was yen o' Eve's dowters. But I'll say nae mair. 'Least said is suinest mended.' 'A still tongue shows a wise heid.' " " I think nowt o' fowks givin' hints !" expostulates Nancy. "Guessin' at things is a' varra weel ; but when th' character o' th' deid is at steak, fowk sud be guarded i' th'ir talk.

Miss May was as gud a weife as iver went ta church." "Weife? I say weife!" cries her opponent; "talk nae mair. Thoo's yen o' Captain Waylad's gowks! I'se nowther blin' nar dees. Th' captain's trumpetin' may gan doon wi' some fowk, but nit wi' me. Hoo dista read th' greave stean? Ella May isn't Ella Waylad, is't? Th' Squire dud reight i' lettin' leight inta Captain Waylad's doom's." Ann's oration is cut short by the entrance of the vicar, who has called to thank Widow Gregg for her kindness in opening her house. He and Mr. Arthur leave the cottage together. Arthur hopes that, in conversation with the vicar, he shall get enlightened as to the relationship in which the captain had stood to the squire's daughter ; but in this he is dis appointed. All he knows is that the squire refused to accept the captain's claim as husband, and held all his talk about a private marriage as a fabrication. From the funeral day the squire's door was closed against his would-be son-m-law, Captain Waylad.

Chapter II

The Village Orphan. James Arthur becomes more and more impressed with his responsibility. As a friend of the late Henry Fell, and as a christian, he feels that he must do something for the orphan boy. That something cannot be much, because of the small resources at his command ; but he determines to try and get him into Mr. Brette's shop as an apprentice. It happens there is a vacancy at the present time, and if Mr. Brette takes him, he can board with them. His food will never be missed, and the interest of the money realized upon the household goods, after the payment of debts, will go towards the purchase of clothing during his apprenticeship. Mrs. Arthur is one with her husband ; and young Fell, taken into apprenticeship by Mr. Brette, becomes one of the family. The money realized upon the sale is passed into the hands of the vicar, who kindly acts as treasurer.

Old letters and knick-knacks saved from the sale, are given into Arthur's keeping. " I will take care of these for you," says Arthur to Fell; "in days to come they may be a link of memories in your life." Coming to the shop, Henry Fell gets his first lesson. Mr. Brette, placing a drawerful of loose string on the counter, and tying two bits together, says pleasantly, "This is the way, Henry, my boy, to make ends meet." The apprentice, in committing the " selling mark " to memory, takes in its moral teaching. It is formed out ofthe precept — Be honest, lads, push the remnants, and keep stock in good order. The first letter of each word being taken numerically. Apprentices in country towns and villages soon take to serving customers, and Henry Fell is called to the counter. " Will you show me some black and white prints, Henry, please ?

" asks a lady customer. " Yes, ma-am," says Henry, placing some half dozen pieces of print before her on the counter. ROSENTHAL. 10 "These are not what I want, they are much too light for me," says the lady, adding, as she rises from her seat, " I am not particular about buying to-day. You may have some thing nearer to what I want another time." Mr. Brette, taking in affairs, is to the fore, and says sharply, "These are not black and white prints, stupid, they are white and black;" and, clearing the counter with a sweep, he produces an armful of prints with black grounds. Making a choice, the lady turns to Fell, saying, "Will this wash 1" " It is a good print, ma-am, but black is not a good dye, especially in cotton." Mr. Brette is again equal to the occasion. " Wash ! madam," says he, " it will wash as well as any of the same kind ; eight yards to the dress, madam ;" and without waiting for the order, he measures it off, wraps it up, and presents the bill.

When the lady has departed, the master indulges in a little scolding. " The customer did not ask you if the print was fast. She asked you if it would wash. All prints wash. Why did you not tell her it would wash?" "The lady wished to know if the print was fast-dye, no matter what were her words to me. As an honest person, I could only answer her as I did ; and in doing so, I but acted out the business mark — ' Be honest,' " answers Fell. Mr. Brette cannot meet argument so logical, and so leaves the philosopher, muttering to himself: "You are a cure." Henry's life on the whole is a happy one. It is true he hns a sharp master ; but then he has wisdom to know that he is being trained for business, and, as he has to make his way in the world, he is willing to take the bitter with the sweet. A pleasant ingredient in his cup is the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur, who are indeed father and mother to him.

He spends his winter evenings at home ; the circulating library coming in good stead. Spelling bees and penny readings are unknown at Rosedale. With the lengthening days he finds recreation in cricket and wrestling, the latter being a favourite pastime with north country youths. Easter Monday is a "red letter " day with lovers of this sport. Village and town alike have their gatherings and competitions, but Newcastle is the centre of attraction, the big men competing there for the championship. The spirit of rivalry is caught by the rural youth ; and on many a village green, contests for the "belt" may be witnessed, and Rosedale is no exception. The two lads, Fell and Waylad, meet in the "final," and, to the chagrin of the latter, the former wins the belt. But some of the youths, having had their tastes sharpened by the play of the wrestling ring, crave something more exciting; and, aware of the difference existing been the two competitors, hope to satisfy their depraved appetites by causing a fight.

One cries, "Fell didn't deah fair. He threw Waylad afoore he gat a'o'd." Whilst another says, "It was a 'dog fa',' Waylad sud hev another chance." A third chimes in, "If I was Waylad, I'd give him an insight inta muscular Christi anity. He sud see I hedn't donned th' gloves for nowt." These remarks have their desired effect. Waylad accuses his opponent of foul play. In vain Fell denies the charge. The revengeful spirit sees an excuse for its play, and a well directed blow brings disfigurement to the face of the innocent youth. Fell takes to his "lickin"' without retaliation, and the inflictor has the satisfaction of seeing his man quietly leave the green. The hurrahs which follow the assault are gratifying to the ears of Henry Waylad, and he congratulates himself that for once he can "crow" over his fellow.

"There's aye something to keep ane frae fleein'," says the Scotch proverb ; and the conqueror has proof of this before he reaches his home. Old Ben Joye, Squire May's gardener, has been a quiet observer of the fray, and walking up to Waylad, says, "Thoo mebbe thinks thoo's gitten the better o' the' man, Master Waylad, but thoo hesn't. ' He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty ; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.'" Having fired this salute, the old man walks off, muttering to himself, "Th' chicken's gitten his wings dipt ! He'll mebbe think twice afoore he indulges in his temper agean." ROSENTHAL. The hurrahs on the green are loud and enthusiastic, yet it must not be assumed that all the lads look upon Fell as a coward, for they know better. They also know that he rs but carrying out the teaching of the late schoolmaster, who never lost sight ofthe higher training of the mind and heart.

Henry Waylad is a spoiled lad. His father and mother idolize their son. They wish him good, but err in their method of securing it. The village schoolmaster knows him more as an absentee than as an attendant. He is a good actor of the "old soldier," and on such occasions "fairin's" are given him instead of school tasks. He is mischievous, like other boys, but his pranks savour more of unkindness than fun. He lords it over his sisters, and in this he has the encouragement of his parents, who chide the tyrannized ones, telling them they are to please their brother. His mother, fond of her parentage, loses no opportunity of fostering pride in her son's heart. She teaches him to look disdainfully upon those beneath him in position and wealth. To her these are more than character. His father does not bother himself with the training of his children.

He provides them with a good home and money, and thinks nothing more is required of him. Bad news travels fast. Mrs. Arthur knows before Henry arrives home, that he has got his "lickin's." She is a bit of a doctor, and her ready application of "Solomon's seal" has the effect of staying the black march. Mr. Arthur is also ready with his comfort. He compliments Henry on his control of temper. "You have preached your companions a sermon that they will not readily forget, and have added lustre to your father's memory," adds Arthur. At the village ho^elry, known as the " Bird in-Hand," sportsmen congregate in large numbers, especrally when anything particular is taking place. The sports of the first day at Newcastle are over, and a large company are met together waiting the "results." There is no telegraph ; no evening newspaper.

They have to wait for the train ; and, as Rosedale is some distance from the railway station, they have leisure on their hands. "Mine host" has good demand for his "mulled ale," the season's beverage, a combination probably suggested by Easter eggs. The big bairns not caring to "scrow" their eggs, yet retaining their old taste, have them in their drink. The company consists of the "weel-to-do" and the "hang i'-th'-win'" class, and they are as "thick as thieves." From amongst them we single out one, named Joe Croaker. Not that he differs much from the rest of "the school," but because, in connection with his little boy, Fell is to win fame. His proper name is Joseph Crow ; but, from his habit of grumbling, he has got the nick-name of Croaker. Leaving the company to their indulgence, let us pay a visit to the home of Mr. Crow, designated by that individual his "crib."

Home is associated in his mind with fine surroundings ; and when these are wanting, all is wanting. If he had cultivated a contented spirit, and practised thrift instead of waste ; if he had set about picturing blank places and filling vacant ones, he might have been a rich man, for he is in possession of the ideal wife of the royal preacher, "a virtuous woman." Joe Croaker is, however, discontented and indolent, and therefore, as may be expected, he finds poverty in the hive. His wife is a woman about thirty years of age, and wears the marks of care ; for her's has been a troubled life. She is a mother, and is proud of her boy. Before his birth she felt lonely, and in her loneliness she wished that she were dead ; but with her child's coming came her prayer for life. Once faint in heart, now she is strong to endure.

She has hope, too, that the love which has drawn her from despondency, may in time win her husband. For cold indeed must be the heart that moves not to the prattler's wooing. April, with its bright sky, has failed to meet her work hours, and a "sixteen long" is brought to do duty. Her fame as a quilter is well established. Sitting down to her quilting frame, she plies her needle with skill and dexterity. To neatness of work she adds the poetry of design, and thus the monotony of labour is relieved by the play of imagination. The law of association plays good part — the clover leaf, just out of her fingers, recalls summer days, green fields, ROSENTHAL. and song-birds. She is walking with her lover, and the future is bright with promise. As thus, in imagination, she revels in the glorious past, she is suddenly brought to realize the miserable present; and, under its influence cries, in agony of soul, "The dreams of my early days have not come to pass !"

In listing her hand to wipe away her tears, she unfortu nately upsets the candle, and in a moment her work is ablaze. The fire soon gets hold of the coverlet. She thinks of her child, and attempts to save him: but, be wildered by the sudden catastrophe, she loses her presence of mind, and becomes useless in the way of rescue. A cry of "fire !" startles the sleeping air, and a youth, in answer to the call, battles with the flames, and bears the child in safety to the street. The mother also makes good her escape ; but overcome with excitement, falls insensible into the arms of a sympathetic neighbour. By this time a goodly number are upon the spot, who, by their united efforts, extinguish the flames. Now comes the enquiry : " Who is he who, at the risk of his life, has rescued the child from the flames?" and the answer by the admiring crowd is, " Henry Fell."