Old Crusty's Niece

Chapter I

Abram Hardale was about as queer a mortal as ever bore a name. He had two names, for not only was he Hardale by genealogy and Abram by baptism, but he was Old Crusty by popular vote and consent. A tall, square, gaunt form had Abram Hardale, so tall that even the somewhat considerable stoop of his shoulders did not bring him down to the stature of ordinary mortals. He was clean shaven, and be it said to his credit, kept himself exceedingly well shaven. Of all the facial abominations to be avoided, a stubbly beard stands among the first. If men feel that they ought to shave, and must shave, then let them shave with as much regularity as they take their meals, and almost as often. On Abram Hardale's cheek the razor left a short incipient whisker, about an inch and a half long by half an inch or from that to three-quarters of an inch wide.

It was in shape much like a capital I, and A from that point of view was serviceable as a sign of its owner's character, for if ever mortal man had faith in his own matchless ego, that man was Abram Hardale. His eyes were grey, and were overhung by bushy eyebrows, whose jet black had not as yet given way one jot to the frosting influence of time. Curious eyes they were — what the Settleworth folk called gimlet eyes — clear, keen, and cynical. He had a habit of thinking and speaking hardly and injuriously of such men and matters as came into his own immediate way. Probably this arose from the egoism of which his whiskers were the symbol and the type. At times, however, and as if involuntarily, Abram's grey eyes were lighted up with a gleam of humour — quite a merry twinkle — and at times, too, with a softened, gentle light all too brief in its dura tion, but so long as it lasted, working almost a trans formation in the man.

His nose, which suggested by its shape that it might have something to do with his name, had quite a Hebrew curve. Judging by it alone one would have given him credit for good temper, but the two perpendicular lines just above it, on his broad intelli gent brow, belied first impressions, and invested him with a waspish look suggestive of a sting. This un happily did not belie either the first or the last impressions of those who had much to do with him in the ordinary walks of daily life. His hair, growing thin now, was cropped short ; it had lost the jetty hue of his eyebrows and whiskers, and was beginning to shade into grey. One glance at the square chin would put you on your guard. It suggested the necessity of acting warily if his consent were something strongly to be desired. When he said " No," crowbars and pickaxes could not wrench a movement of that chin towards recantation or con cession.

Yet as soon as the eye rested on the old man's mouth things did not seem to agree. Surely those mobile and shapely lips were not the lips of a hard or ill-tempered man. Were they not ? You should have heard what his neighbours had to say : or better still, you should have heard what he had to say, and you would soon come to the conclusion that though Old Crusty's lips were not lying lips in the ordinary sense of the word, they certainly did not tell the whole truth about him. If there was one thing that equalled Abram Hardale's egoism it was his ill-temper, which was none the better but all the worse to bear for expending itself in slow, measured, biting sarcasms, which scarified the victim, and not seldom cut much deeper still. Lest the reader should begin by taking a vigorous dislike to the old man, let those redeeming lips and eyes of his be remembered ; let it be remembered also that, on the whole, folks have more good points about them than we are aware of; that we usually have a keener vision for points of another sort, and that of these latter we have unfortunately quite as many as our neighbours.

Old Crusty, as might be predicted, was sadly in the habit of treading on the toes of his men and lads, succeeding generally in disgusting them with his employ, and sending them in search of work else where. The way in which he discharged his work men — gave them the sack, as he put it — and parted with his apprentices under the influence of sudden fits of temper, made a long term of service with him a matter of surprise. There was one exception to the rule. George Appleton had not only safely passed through the whole term of his apprenticeship, but had been a trusty and trusted journeyman for a full half-dozen years. The fact was that George had become an altogether too clever and useful hand to be lightly lost. He was, moreover, a universal favourite among the farmers and other customers of his master, not only because of his practical knowledge of all the departments of an inclusive country trade, but because of his civil and obliging manners, and his conscien tious way of getting through his work.

For his mother's sake the young fellow desired to stay in Settleworth, and so he bore with Old Crusty's crustiness with quite exemplary patience, and made himself more than ever necessary to the old man as the years went by. Abram Hardale was celebrated all the country round for his skill as a wheelwright — in the provinces carpenter is a term of extensive and inclusive scope — and the owners of all sorts of vehicles, within a cir cumference of many a mile, kept him well in with this class of work. George had got to be quite as clever in this line as his master, though Abram would not exactly admit it. From a man with such egoistic whiskers, that could hardly be expected. Indeed, he denied the fact. " Everybody knows," he used to say, " that at a wheel there isn't my marrow in all the Riding, an' won't be, I reckon, till Good Friday falls on Collop Monday.

But I will say this, that our George comes second. Me an' him together, him at one wheel an' me at t'other, can make a pair that can very nearly run of themselves." In these days, however, Abram's years were beginning to tell upon him. Stooping for any length of time together became fatiguing to him, so he rested on his laurels a good deal in all such arduous matters as wheelmaking, and found a new source of pride in boasting that George Appleton was a lucky young fellow to have had the untold advantage of such a master and guide. " Not much of a lad, George wasn't," he said ; " I thought I should have had to send him adrift the first year or so of his 'prenticeship ; but I took special pains with him for his mother's sake, poor woman ! By degrees I put some gumption into him, an' got him on, an' made a man of him, an' there he is, second at his trade in all the Riding !

" There he was, doubtless, smiling at the old man's vanity, and conscious all the time that the gumption had been in him born and bred, though he was quite ready to acknowledge that Abram had taught him, and taught him well. So the two managed to get on with each other very well, and, on the whole, Old Crusty kept the crust for other people, and favoured George with an unusual share of crumb. " I say, George," said Abram suddenly, one day, as they were working in the shop together, " don't you ever think of gettin' married ? " " No," said George, looking up from his work with a smile on his lip and a look of wonder in his eye, for his master had never before mentioned such a subject through all the years. " No, indeed. I'm much too well off as I am to care to change." " Yes, it's a grand thing, lad, to have a mother like yours.

She's worth a bushel o' the flimsy stuff that men have to make wives of nowadays. Milliner's dummies I calls 'em, only they aren't dumb, more's the pity, or there would be some compensation. Still, I reckon you'll ha' to come to it some day." " Some day's some way off," said George, laughing. " It's no use meetin' trouble half-way, is it ? they say ' wedlock's a padlock,' an' I shouldn't like to be locked up for life just yet." " Ha, ha ! That sounds wise enough to listen to, but I suppose Miss Dearlove hasn't come along just yet. When she does, ' Wedlock's a padlock ' will become ' Wedlock's a paradise ! ' Then you'll find that wedlock's a purgatory, or something worse — but no, George," he continued, dropping the sarcastic vein, and turning the kindlier gleam of his grey eyes on him, " I hope something better than that for you."

George could not make it out. What had come over the old man ? Curiosity and surprise prompted further question. "What made you drop on to that subject?" he asked. " I didn't think you minded much for matri mony yourself." " Nay, lad, it's the subject that's dropped on to me. You see I'm gettin' old, an' some o' these days I shall be goin' off. I shan't care much for that, for life's only a poor brew accordin' to my notions ; but I should like this business to be kept goin', an' you are the man that ought to have it. After I've made it and had it and kept it up Al, I should not like it to fall into the hands of a numskull. When I'm gone of course it can never be what it is while I'm here, but you'll keep it better up to the mark than anybody I know. I should like it to be said that Abram Hardale's old shop keeps its character, at any rate, as much as can be expected.

An' besides, you've done well by me, George, and I should like to do well by you." This was a most unusual speech for Abram Har dale to make in the matter of length ; and it was still more unusual for Old Crusty to wear his heart upon his sleeve in that fashion. George was a good deal touched. " Well," he replied frankly and warmly, " that is very kind of you. But I don't see why I should get married. Do you ? My mother would manage here, as indeed she would manage anywhere," continued George with filial pride. " But there, where's the good of talking? You're good for a score of years yet; and young folks, even when they are as strong as I am, don't always make old bones." Here the conversation was abruptly cut off. The stage waggon which plied between Settleworth and York was driven up to the carpenter's door.

Abram looked at George with a meaning in his eye, and hastened forth to see what the stage had brought. George was a little curious, too, and stood outside the shop-door to watch events. A trunk had to be lifted down. He hastened to give the driver a helping hand, and saw a black-eyed gipsy looking up into the sombre face of Abram Hardale, and saying with a merry twinkle, not of the eyes only, but the whole laughing face — " Now, Uncle Abram, I wonder what you are going to do with me ? " Said Abram Hardale, with a shrug of his shoulders and a comical look upon his face, " So do I." Quoth George Appleton under his breath, for a light was beginning to shine, " So do I."

Chapter II

The fair young girl, who had so suddenly risen on the Settleworth horizon, was none other than Nora Mansford, the only daughter of Abram Hardale's dead wife's sister, an only sister, who had now also passed away. Perhaps she was not any the more really welcome there for that. People did say that the old man's relations with his wife, who had now lain under the sacred shadows of Settleworth's Abbey Church for some ten years past, were not of the most affectionate or over comfortable kind. Possibly there was some truth in that, though it will not do to put too much confidence in such an indefinite authority as " people say." " They say " is a most unmitigated liar ; and as " people say " is a member of the same family, what is said must be taken with a good many grains of salt. Still it can scarcely be imagined that the old carpenter was much more gracious to his wife than he was to other people.

Men of his character are generally consistent in their behaviour all round. It may well be doubted, however, whether consistency is in any sense a jewel in such a case, or rather it may be posi tively denied. Nora had come to find a home with her uncle; and although under the circumstances that looked rather a serious undertaking, she soon settled down, appar ently not at all disconcerted with her new surround ings, uninviting though they were. She was a piquant little damsel, whose undoubted attractions of form and feature were heightened and increased by a peculiar winsomeness of manner. Her tact and good temper enabled her to win as far as might be her surly uncle's liking, and to dispose to a considerable extent of his prejudice against petticoats, an inclusive term of his denoting womanhood in general.

Indeed, from the first she exercised a certain influence over him, much to other people's surprise — -and his own. Nora's mother, according to Abram Hardale's testimony, exceeded even her daughter in those subtle attributes which enable some women to exert such a powerful influence on the other sex both for good and ill. Anice Houghton was the younger daughter of a farm bailiff in the employ of a certain nobleman whose estates were in North Yorkshire. Her father was held in high esteem by his aristocratic employer. Having a great taste for what is called high farm ing, Lord Dilworth found in the clever and experi enced Houghton a thoroughly capable manager, and a thoroughly trustworthy steward besides. Mr. Hough ton's position was not won in the days when Abram Hardale went courting his eldest daughter Jane ; and the thrifty wheelwright, with a good trade in his fingers, a little cash to back it, and a fair measure of grit, had succeeded in carrying Jane off to preside over the home he had established at Settleworth.

Anice Houghton was much younger than her sister, far more attractive in form and feature, and far more self-assertive, too. Her father's position had become more lucrative and important, so she was able to look somewhat higher for a husband, as the cant phrase goes, than her sister Jane had done. Among many eager suitors for the hand of " the lady Anice," as she had come to be called by reason of her queenly mien and regal air, were two brothers, the sons of a gentleman farmer in the neighbourhood named Mansford. He cultivated his own extensive acres, and had considerable means beside. The eldest of the sons was first in the field, and rapidly dis tanced all competitors. For him Anice showed a marked preference, and as he was thoroughly worthy to whom she did this, her friends and relatives quite approved her choice.

Richard Mansford was a capital specimen of the yeomen of the North country, stalwart in physique, manly in morals, and noble in mind. However it might be with Anice, it was a very serious business with him ; he loved her dearly, with a love that was true as steel, a love which grew and strengthened as the days went by. Had she held loyally to him, she might have secured a worthy and faithful husband, an honourable position, and a happy home. In that case these chronicles would never have been written. Rupert, Richard's younger brother, was five years his junior. He was a handsome and fascinating young fellow, who, unfortunately for himself and others, was aware of his possession of those dangerous gifts, and not averse to using them at his will. He was base enough, smitten with the surpassing graces of his brother's chosen one, to pay secret attention to the not very strong-minded Anice.

By dint of his peculiar talent in the arts of blandishment, and by his much fair speech, which such men have at their disposal, he succeeded in stealing her affections and fixing them on his ignoble self. Richard, as may well be imagined, was exceeding wroth. From that day he held no intercourse with his heartless brother. The loss of the girl whom he loved as his own soul inflicted on him a grievous wound. The strong man was bowed down to the ground, and for a time the blow quite unmanned him. After a short time of weary, futile longing for the unattainable, he resolved to go away, and seek in other lands the mental and physical restoration which he felt could not come to him at home. Richard Mansford, partly ashamed of avowing his reasons, and partly to avoid the obstacles that he well knew would be placed in the way of his design, suddenly disappeared.

He left behind him a short note to his father — his mother had been dead for some years — to the effect that he cared little for life, less for him who had done him such cruel and irreparable wrong, and that in order that he might be kept from doing some dark deed of vengeance, he had gone to a far country and should not return. His father was naturally both grieved and disap pointed ; but he refused to believe that the separation was final, trusting that, after time and change had done their alleviating work, Richard would again return to the land and home of his fathers. Rupert was left for the time being in undivided possession of the farm, and, as no news of Richard was heard, continued to hold it up to and after his father's death, although the property and a fair share of the per sonalty was duly left to the elder son.

This latter the old man left in the safe keeping of a financial house in York, firmly believing that his self-exiled boy would one day claim it, though he himself would never again see him in the flesh.

Chapter III

Rupert was altogether too selfish and too intoxicated with success to understand or mourn over his unbrotherly deed. Anice did feel compunction, and lived long enough, poor soul, to prove how thorny is the path of wrong-doing, however attractive its portals and however its borders may be decked with flowers. It was not very long after her ill-starred marriage before she repented her conduct with strong crying and tears. Her husband's fancy for his beautiful wife was very short-lived, and he had not the manliness even to hide his sense of weariness, or to treat her with the consideration that might in some sense at least have compensated for the harm he had wrought her. Then followed bickerings, reproaches, recrimina tions. These ripened into quarrels of a fiercer kind ; and all the while Rupert Mansford descended lower down the evil slope, which he had trodden long and far, though all unknown to Anice, before he had sworn at the altar to love and cherish her for life.

When old Mr. Mansford died, it seemed as if the last frail tie that bound his son to decency of conduct was snapped asunder. The evil passions of his nature, held a while in check by circumstances, were again let loose to work their destructive will. The race-course and the gambling den and the resorts of fast life saw more of him — the farm saw less and less. His wife was all but utterly deserted, and he gave himself over to the service of sin and the devil without restraint. Debts accumulated and resources diminished. His circumstances became fear fully embarrassed, and it was patent to all observers that ruin, utter ruin, was coming upon him as an armed man. In vain his hapless wife made effort to stem the destructive tide. Lower and lower he sank, dragging Anice along with him, down into the abyss of want and misery.

At last he forsook her and went, nobody knew where, and certainly nobody cared, leaving the worn and weary Anice and her hapless little darling, Nora, to face the world alone. This last heartless deed, however, was the best thing he could have done for the well-being of those whom he ought to have loved and cherished. Being free from the dead weight, and what was worse, the pain and worry of his unmanly presence, Anice bravely set to work to obtain a livelihood for herself and her sprightly and beautiful child. There is good reason to believe that Abram Har dale and his wife rendered her substantial help, and after Mrs. Hardale's death Anice hoped that she might be asked to reside with her brother-in-law. For some reason or other — probably his strong objec tion to petticoats — Abram was silent on the subject, and made no sign.

Anice Mansford had hard work to keep her head above water, and but for her winsome little Nora would have speedily given up the struggle and sunk beneath the waves. She was very clever at working in lace — it was her chief amusement in her happier days — and this sort of labour, better paid for then, before the advent of machinery, than now, enabled her to keep the wolf from the door, though its growl was sometimes in her ears and its near presence often robbed her of her sleep. She did not now receive any aid from Abram Har dale. The cynical carpenter had probably written something sharp and painful, possibly more painful than he knew ; and so for the future she bore her own burden — a burden lightened only by the sweet prattle and growing lovesomeness of her child. No, not lightened only by this, for adversity had done for her what it often does for others, and what but for its sweet uses might never have been done at all.

It had driven her to seek help and comfort, strength and refuge, in her God. Anice Mansford's trials, so heavy and so long continued, had led her to pray with the simple trust and fervour which marked her devotions when she uttered her petitions by her mother's side. Prayer brought God near her as a Saviour, for she felt her sin, and sorrowed for it ; as a Father, for she felt her orphanhood, and longed to be His child ; a Comforter, for her sore, sad heart needed balm ; and in answer to her prayer, she fully realised that He was pledged to supply all her need. It was a life-long blessing to the little dark-eyed damsel that her mother had undergone this change. Henceforward to the day she died, it was her chief anxiety, her almost single care, to instil true religious principles into her daughter's mind. Her lessons were made patent by example, and powerful by her prayers.

Chapter IV

After long years, Anice heard once again of her worthless husband. In a weekly newspaper which happened to fall in her way she read of the wreck of a convict ship and her husband's name as amongst those who were drowned. It was a sufficiently uncommon name to leave little room for the thought that possibly another Rupert Mansford was there referred to. Further inquiry on her part made it clear that he had been convicted of some serious crime, and had been sen tenced to a long term of transportation beyond the sea. She felt deeply the bitterness of sorrow and of shame at the thought of his sad end. Turning again with renewed resolve to the training of her darling, she breathed many a prayer to Heaven that the sins of the parents might not be visited on the innocent child. At length Anice Mansford was overtaken by seri ous illness.

Worn and weak, she could not rally from the strong attack. Nora, who for the last few years had been able to help her mother in the struggle for bread, was a devoted and tender nurse. To her, her mother, whatever may have been her early faults, had been a mother indeed ; and as she saw the light dying out from her dear eyes, heard her voice gradu- B ally dying into the final whisper, which was to be hushed by death, her young heart surged with grief, and she longed that she might be laid with her mother in the restful grave. Then at last the weary wheels of life stood still. The orphaned Nora was left alone ; alone, except that her mother's prayers and faith, and her own trust in the Fatherhood of God, had made her specially the ward of Heaven. For some time she remained in the place where she was.

Her skilful fingers were deft as her mother's among the lace, and her hand clever with the pencil. She earned enough to supply her table with frugal fare, and to clothe her dainty form in the mourning which she wore for her dead mother — dead, but living, not in Heaven only, but in her orphan daughter's heart. But she was alone ! Oh awful, desolate word, whose mournful meaning cannot be realised by any who are within whisper-reach or love-glance of one human being ! She was alone, and her heart yearned for sympathy, for the voice of friendship ; — to be linked in some way with somebody in this cold and heartless world. With this feeling she wrote, putting her heart into her pleadings, to her uncle Abram Hardale. Strange to say, there came back a letter, kind, and having indeed quite a tender strain.

It contained a re quest, nay rather a command to Nora to make her way to Settleworth and her uncle's home without delay. Thus it was that the stage-waggon brought her to her uncle's door.

Chapter V

Settleworth is not only the name of the town itself, but also of the fertile valley in which it lies. Through it a broad and rapid stream makes pleasant music, as it ripples and eddies, bickers and chafes on its on ward course to the sluggish river and the German Ocean. The hills on either side are high, but their long and fertile slopes are cultivated without diffi culty, and for trim farmsteads, productive farms, and luxurious crops, Settleworth more than holds its own with all the shire. In a small and comfortable cottage on the outskirts of the town, and having a pleasant view of the valley and the stream, lived Mrs. Appleton, the mother of Abram Hardale's foreman, George. Although she was getting on in years, she was hale and hearty, comely withal, and thoroughly well able to occupy the post of housekeeper to her son, whom she regarded, proud woman, as a man almost if not altogether without a peer.

She was a tall and rather stately-looking woman, and both as to manners and appearance would have been quite equal to a much higher position in society than the one in which it was her lot to move. She was the daughter of an extensive farmer in those days when farming meant profits, and big ones too. She would marry for love, despite the wishes of her people, and so married beneath her. That is the usual way of putting it when plenty marries poverty, even though poverty is rich in something of vastly greater worth than money. When will this silly standard of height be kicked down by the sturdy foot of common sense ? Her education and training had left enduring marks. As she busied herself with household duties, or took her place in the abbey church, where she was a reverent and constant worshipper ; or chatted in the firelight with her son after his daily toil, it was easy enough to see that the verdict of her neighbours was quite true, and that Mrs. Appleton was " something better than common."

As for the cottage in which they dwelt, after what has been said the reader will be able to sketch it for himself. Suffice it to say, that besides being always clean and neat, always showing unmistakable signs of thrift and pains, there were present everywhere, in the pictures on the walls, in the few well-selected books upon the shelves, in the little ornaments and finishes which everywhere met the eye, evidences which amounted to proof positive that the cottage home was something out of the common too. The advent of the dark-eyed daughter of Anice Mansford seemed fated to exercise a disturbing in fluence on several of the residents in Settleworth, amongst the rest, on Mrs. Appleton. She seemed to find something ominous in the appearance above her horizon, and her son's, of this bright peculiar star.

On the evening of that day when the fair and winsome orphan took up her abode in the house of Abram Hardale, George Appleton entered the bright and cheery cottage, in which he and his mother had lived together in unbroken peace and comfort for many years, somewhat later than his custom was. George's quick ear caught, as he thought, a some thing just a little unusual in his mother's words of welcome ; but, whether it was himself who was in an unfamiliar mood, or whether she had heard of the new-comer, he could not tell. News flies fast in rural regions, and no doubt all Settleworth was aware by that time that Old Crusty, for a wonder, had a guest, a guest in petticoats, and greatest wonder perhaps of all, a relation of his own. " Now then, mother," said George, in oddly merry mood, " now then, for a wash, and then a good cup of tea."