The Measure of a Man

"Why, mother! What do you mean?"

"Just what I say, John, and it is not like you. You have no real trouble. Jane Harlow is having what any girl would call a happy time. There is nothing wrong in it. She does not forget you, and you must not make troubles out of nothing, or else real troubles are sure to come. Surely you know who to go to in your trouble?"

"Yes! Yes! In anxiety and fear we learn how necessary it was that God should come to us as man. 'It is our flesh that we seek and that we find in the Godhead. It is a face like my face that receives me, a Man like to me that I love and am loved by forever.' I have learned how necessary the revelation of Christ was in these lonely weeks. I did not know I was cross. I will mend that."

"Do, my dear. It isn't like John Hatton to be cross. No, it isn't!"

Slowly the winter passed. John went several times to London during it and was kindly and honorably entertained by Lord Harlow during his visits. Then he saw his Jane in environments that made him a little anxious about the future. Surrounded by luxury, a belle and favorite in society, a constant participator in all kinds of amusement and the recipient of much attention, how would she like to settle down to the exact monotony of life at Hatton?

It was well for John that he had none of the Hellenic spirit in him. He was not tempted to sit down and contemplate his worries. No, the Hebrew spirit was the nobler one, and he persistently chose it—"get thee forth into their midst, and whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." John instinctively followed this advice, so that even his employees noticed his diligence and watchfulness about everything going on.

In the earliest days of April when spring was making the world fresh and lovely and filling the balmy air with song, John thought of the home for himself that he would build and he determined to see the man who was to dig the foundation that night. He had just received a letter from Jane, and she said she was weary of London, and longing to be with her dear mother at Harlow House, or indeed anywhere that would allow her to see him every day. A very little kindness went a long way with John and such words lying near his heart made him wonderfully happy. And because he was happy he was exceedingly busy. Even Greenwood did not trouble him with observations; and official conversation was reduced to monosyllables. People came in and left papers and went out without a word; and there was a pressure on John to "do whatsoever his hand found to do with all his might."

Suddenly the door was flung open with unrestricted force and noise and John raised his head to reprove the offender. Instead of this, he rose from his chair and with open arms took his brother to his heart. "Why, Harry!" he cried. "Mother will be glad to see you. I was thinking of you while I dressed myself this morning. When did you reach England?"

"I got to London three days ago."

"Never! I wouldn't tell mother that! She will think you ought to have been at Hatton three days ago."

"I had to look after Lucy, first thing. I found her, John, in Bradford in a sad state."

"I don't understand you, Harry."

"Her father had left her with a very strict aunt, and she was made to do things she never had done—work about the house, you know—and she looked ill and sorrowful and my heart ached for her. Her father was away from her, and she thought I had forgotten her. The dear little woman! I married her the next day."

"Henry Hatton! What are you saying?"

"I married there and then, as it were. It was my duty to do so."

"It was your will. There was no duty in it."

"Call it what you like, John. She is now my wife and I expect you and mother will remember this."

"You are asking too much of mother."

"You said you would stand by me in this matter."

"I thought you would behave with some consideration for others. Is it right for you to expect mother to take an entire stranger into her home, a girl for whom she had no liking? Why should mother do this?"

"Because I love the girl."

"You are shamelessly selfish, and a girl who could make a mother's love for you a pretext for entering Hatton Hall as her right is not a nice girl."

"Lucy has done nothing of the kind. She is satisfied in the hotel. Do you want me to stay at the hotel?"

"I should feel very much hurt if you did."

"But I shall stay where my wife stays."

"You had better go and see mother. What she does I will second."

"John, can you settle the matter of the mill now? I want no more to do with it and you know you promised to buy my share in that case."

"I want to build my home. I cannot build and buy at the same time."

"Why need you build? There is Hatton Hall for you, and mother will not object to the nobly born Jane Harlow."

"We will not talk of Miss Harlow. Harry, my dear, dear brother, you have come home to turn everything upside down. Let me have a little time to think. Go and see mother. I will talk to you immediately afterwards. Where did you leave the yacht?"

"At London. I disliked Captain Cook. I felt as if I was with a tutor of some sort all the time. He said he would take the yacht to her wharf at Whitby and then write to you. You ought to have a letter today. I don't think you are very glad to see me, John."

"Oh, Harry, you have married that girl, quite regardless of how your marriage would affect your family! You ought to have given us some time to prepare ourselves for such a change."

"Lucy was in trouble, and I could not bear to see her in trouble."

"Well, go and see mother. Perhaps you can bear mother's trouble more easily."

"I hope mother will be kinder to me than you have been. John, I have no money. Let me have a thousand pounds till we settle about the mill."

"Do you know what you are asking, Harry? A thousand pounds would run Hatton Hall for a year."

"I have to live decently, I suppose."

With these words he left the mill and went at once to the Hall. Mrs. Hatton was in the garden, tying up some straying branches of honeysuckle. At her feet were great masses of snowdrops tall and white among moss and ivy, and the brown earthen beds around were cloth of gold with splendid crocus flowers; but beyond these things, she saw her son as soon as he reached the gate. And she called him by his name full and heartily and stood with open arms to receive him.

Harry plunged at once into his dilemma. "Mother! Mother!" he cried, taking both her hands in his. "Mother, John is angry with me, but you will stand by me, I know you will. It is about Lucy, mother. I found her in great trouble, and I took her out of it. Don't say I did wrong, mother. Stand by me—you always have done so."

"You took her out of it! Do you mean that you married her?"

"How else could I help her? She is my wife now, and I will take care that no one troubles her. May I bring her to see you, mother?"

Mrs. Hatton stood looking at Harry. It was difficult for her to take in and believe what she heard, but in a few moments she said,

"Where is she?"

"At the little hotel in the village."

"You must bring her here at once. She ought never to have gone to the hotel. Dear me! What will people say?"

"Thank you, mother."

"Take my victoria. James is in the stable and he will drive it. Go for your wife at once. She must come to your home."

"And you will try and love her for my sake, mother?"

"Nay, nay! If I can't love the lass for her own sake, I'll never love her for thy sake. But if she is thy wife, she will get all the respect due thy wife. If she can win more, she'll get more, and that is all there is to it."

With this concession Harry had to be satisfied. He brought his wife to the Hall and Mrs. Hatton met her with punctilious courtesy. She gave her the best guest room and sent her own maid to help her dress. The little woman was almost frightened by the ceremonious nature of her reception. But when John came home he called her "Lucy," and tempered by many little acts of brotherly kindness, that extreme politeness which is harder to bear than hard words.

And as John and his mother sat alone and unhappy after Harry and his wife had bid them good night, John attempted to comfort his mother. "You carried yourself bravely and kindly, mother," he said, "but I see that you suffer. What do you think of her?"

"She is pretty and docile, but she isn't like a mother of Hatton men. Look at the pictured women in the corridor upstairs. They were born to breed and to suckle men of brain and muscles like yourself, John. The children of little women are apt to be little in some way or other. Lucy does not look motherly, but Harry is taken up with her. We must make the best of the match, John, and don't let the trial of their stay here be too long. Get them away as soon as possible."

"Harry says that he has decided to make his home in or near London."

"Then he is going to leave the mill?"

"Yes."

"What is he thinking of?"

"Music or art. He has no settled plans. He says he must settle his home first."

"Well, when Harry can give up thee and me for that girl, we need not think much of ourselves. I feel a bit humiliated by being put below her."

"Don't look at it in that way, mother."

"Nay, but I can't help it. I wonder wherever Harry got his fool notions. He was brought up in the mill and for the mill, and I've always heard say that as the twig is bent the tree is inclined."

"That is only a half-truth, mother. You have the nature of the tree to reckon with. You may train a willow-tree all you like but you will never make it an oak or an ash. Here is Harry who has been trained for a cotton-spinner turns back on us and says he will be an artist or a singer, and what can we do about it? It is past curing or altering now."

But though the late owner of Hatton Mill had left the clearest instructions concerning its relation to his two sons, the matter was not easily settled. He had tied both of them so clearly down to his will in the matter that it was found impossible to alter a tittle of his directions. Practically it amounted to a just division of whatever the mill had made after the tithe for charities had been first deducted. It gave John a positive right to govern the mill, to decide all disputes, and to stand in his place as master. It gave to Henry the same financial standing as his brother, but strictly denied to either son who deserted the mill any sum of larger amount than five thousand pounds; "to be made in one payment, and not a shilling more." A codicil, however, three years later, permitted one brother to buy the other out at a price to be settled by three large cotton-spinners who had long been friends of the Hatton family. These directions appeared to be plain enough but there was delay after delay in bringing the matter to a finish. It was nearly a month before Harry had his five thousand pounds in his pocketbook, and during this time he made no progress with his mother. She thought him selfish and indifferent about the mill and his family. In fact, Harry was at that time a very much married man, and though John was capable of considering the value of this affection, John's mother was not. John looked on it as a safeguard for the future. John's mother saw it only as a marked and offensive detail of the present. Lucy did nothing to help the situation. In spite of the attention paid her, she knew that she was unwelcome. "Your people do not like me, Harry," she complained; and Harry said some unkind things concerning his people in reply.

So the parting was cool and constrained, and Harry went off with his bride and his five thousand pounds, caring little at that time for any other consideration.

"He will come to himself soon, mother," said John. "It isn't worth while to fret about him."

"I never waste anything, John, least of all love and tears. I can learn to do without, as well as other mothers."

But it was a hard trial, and her tired eyes and weary manner showed it. John was not able to make any excuse she would listen to about Harry's marriage. Its hurried and almost clandestine character deeply offended her; and the young wife during her visit had foolishly made a point of exhibiting her power over her husband, while both of them seemed possessed by that egotistical spirit which insists on their whole world seeing how vastly superior their love is to any other love that ever had been. Undoubtedly the young couple were offensive to everyone, and Mrs. Hatton said they had proved to her perfect satisfaction the propriety and even the necessity for the retirement of newly married people to some secluded spot for their honeymoon.

Soon after their departure Jane Harlow returned. She came home attended by the rumor of her triumphs and enriched by a splendid wardrobe and many fine pieces of jewelry. She told modestly enough the story of the life she had been leading, and Mrs. Hatton was intensely interested in it.

"Jane Harlow is a woman of a thousand parts, and you have chosen a wife to bring you friendship and honor," she said to John. "Dear knows one cannot weary in her company. She has an opinion on every subject."

"She has been in highly cultivated society and it has improved her a great deal, mother. Perhaps if Lucy had had the same opportunity she would have been equally benefited."

"I beg to remind you, John, of what you said about training trees—'the nature of the tree has to be taken into account'; no amount of training could make an oak out of a willow."

"True, mother. Yet there are people who would prefer the willow to the oak."

"And you couldn't help such people, now could you? You might be sorry for them. But there—what could you do?"

And John said softly,

"What can we do o'er whom the unbeholdenHangs in a night, wherewith we dare not cope;What but look sunward, and with faces golden,Speak to each other softly of our Hope?"

CHAPTER VII

SHOCK AND SORROW

There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green,There's not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me of my Jean.Only a child of Nature's rarest making,Wistful and sweet—and with a heart for breaking.

Life is a great school and its lessons go on continually. Now and then perhaps we have a vacation—a period in which all appears to be at rest—but in this very placidity there are often bred the storms that are to trouble and perhaps renew us. For some time after the departure of Harry and his bride, John's life appeared to flow in a smooth but busy routine. Between the mill and Harlow House, he found the days all too short for the love and business with which they were filled. And Mrs. Hatton missed greatly the happy and confidential conversations that had hitherto made her life with her son so intimate and so affectionate.

Early in the spring John began the building of his own home, and this necessarily required some daily attention, especially as he had designs in his mind which were unusual to the local builders, and which seemed to them well worthy of being quietly passed over. For the house was characteristic of the man and the man was not of a common type.

There was nothing small or mean about John's house. The hill on which it stood was the highest ground on the Hatton Manor. It commanded a wide vista of meadows, interspersed with peacefully flowing waters, until the horizon on every hand was closed by ranges of lofty mountains. On this hill the house stood broadly facing the east. It was a large, square Georgian mansion, built of some white stone found in Yorkshire. Its rooms were of extraordinary size and very lofty, their windows being wide and high and numerous. Its corridors were like streets, its stairways broad enough for four people to ascend them abreast. Light, air, space were throughout its distinguishing qualities, and its furnishings were not only very handsome, they had in a special manner that honest size, solidity, and breadth which make English household belongings so comfortable and satisfactory. The grounds were full of handsome forest trees and wonderful grassy glades and just around the house the soil had been enriched and planted with shrubbery and flowers.

Its great proportions in every respect suited both John Hatton and the woman for whom it was built. Both of them appeared to gain a positive majesty of appearance in the splendid reaches of its immense rooms. Certainly they would have dwarfed small people, but John and Jane Hatton were large enough to appropriate and become a part of their surroundings. John felt that he had realized his long, long dream of a modern home, and Jane knew that its spacious, handsome rooms would give to her queenly figure and walk the space and background that was most charming and effective.

In about a year after Harry's marriage it was completely finished and furnished; then John Hatton and Jane Harlow were married in London at Lord Harlow's residence. Harry's invitation did not include his wife, and John explained that it was impossible for him to interfere about the people Lord and Lady Harlow invited to their house or did not invite. "I wish the affair was over," he exclaimed, "for no matter who is there I shall miss you, Harry."

"And Lucy?"

"Yes; but I will tell you what will be far better. Suppose you and Lucy run over to Paris and see the new paintings in the Salon—and all the other sights?"

"I cannot afford it, John."

"The affording is my business. I will find the guineas, Harry. You know that. And Lucy will not have to spend them in useless extravagant dress."

"All right, John! You are a good brother, and you know how to heal a slight."

So John's marriage took place without his brother's presence, and John missed him and had a heartache about it. Subsequently he told his mother so, upon which the Lady of Hatton Manor answered,

"Harry managed very well to do without either mother or brother at his own wedding. You know that, John; and I was none sorry to miss him at yours. When you have to take a person you love with a person you don't love, it is like taking a spoonful of bitterness with a spoonful of jelly after it. I never could tell which spoonful I hated the worst."

After the marriage John and his wife came directly to their own home. John could not leave his mill and his business, and Lord and Lady Harlow considered his resolution a wise proceeding. Jane was also praised for her ready agreement to her husband's business exigencies. But really the omission of the customary wedding-journey gave Jane no disappointment. To take possession of her splendid home, to assume the social distinction it gave her, and to be near to the mother she idolized were three great compensations, superseding abundantly the doubtful pleasures of railway travel and sightseeing.

Jane's mother had caused a pleasant surprise at her daughter's wedding, for the past year's efforts at Harlow House had amply proved Mrs. Harlow's executive abilities in its profitable management; and she was so sure of this future result that she did not hesitate to buy a rich and fashionable wedding-garment or to bring to the light once more the beautiful pearls she had worn at her own bridal. There were indeed few ladies at John's wedding more effectively gowned than his mother-in-law—except his mother.

Mrs. Hatton's splendid health set off her splendid beauty, fine carriage, and sumptuous gown of silver-gray brocaded satin, emphasized by sapphires of great luster and value.

"I hevn't worn them since father died, thou knowest," she had said to John the day before the wedding, as she stood before him with the gems in her hands, "but tomorrow he will expect me to wear them both for his sake and thine, thou dear, dear lad!" And she looked up at her son and down at the jewels and her eyes were dim with tears. Presently she continued, "Jane was here this afternoon. I dare say thou art going to the train with her tonight, and may be she will tell thee what she is going to wear. She didn't offer to tell me, and I wouldn't ask her—not I!"

"What for?"

"I thought she happen might be a bit superstitious about talking of her wedding fineries. You can talk the luck out of anything, you know, John."

"Nay, nay, mother!"

"To be sure, you can. Why-a! Your father never spoke of any business he wanted to come to a surety, and if I asked him about an offer or a contract he would answer, 'Be quiet, Martha, dost ta want to talk it to death?'"

"I will keep mind of that, mother."

"Happen it will be worth thy while to do so."

"Father was a shrewd man."

"Well, then, he left one son able to best him if so inclined."

"You will look most handsome, mother. I shall be proud of you. There will be none like you at the London house."

"I think that is likely, John. Jane's mother will look middling well, but I shall be a bit beyond her. She showed me her gown, and her pearls. They were not bad, but they might hev been better—so they might!"

It was thus John Hatton's marriage came off. There was a dull, chill service in St. Margaret's, every word of which was sacred to John, a gay wedding-breakfast, and a laughing crowd from whom the bride and bridegroom stole away, reaching their own home late in the afternoon. They were as quiet there as if they had gone into a wilderness. Mrs. Hatton remained in London for two weeks, with an old school companion, and Mrs. Harlow was hospitably entertained by Lord and Lady Harlow, who thoroughly respected her successful efforts to turn Harlow House into more than a respectable living.

Perhaps she was a little proud of her work, and a little tiresome in explaining her methods, but that was a transient trial to be easily looked over, seeing that its infliction was limited to a short period. On the whole she was praised and pleased, and she told Mrs. Hatton when they met again, that it was the first time her noble brother-in-law had ever treated her with kindness and respect.

So the days grew to months, and the months to more than four years, and the world believed that all was prosperous with the Hattons. Perhaps in Harry Hatton's case expectations had been a little bettered by realities. At least in a great measure he had realized the things he had so passionately desired when he resigned his share in the mill and gave life up to love, music, and painting. He certainly possessed one of those wonderful West Riding voices, whose power and sweetness leaves an abiding echo in memory. And in London he had found such good teachers and good opportunities that John was now constantly receiving programs of musical entertainments in which Harry Hatton had a prominent part. Indeed, John had gone specially to the last Leeds musical event, and had been greatly delighted with the part assigned Harry and the way in which he rendered it.

Afterwards he described to Harry's mother the popularity of her son. "Why, mother," he said, "the big audience were most enthusiastic when Harry stepped forward. He looked so handsome and his smile and bearing were so charming, that you could not wonder the people broke into cheers and bravos. I was as enthusiastic as anyone present. And he sang, yes, he sang like an angel. Upon my word, mother, one could not expect a soul who had such music in it to be silent."

"I'm sure I don't know where he got the music. His father never sang a note that I know of, and though I could sing a cradle song when a crying child needed it, nobody ever offered me money to do it; and your father has said more than often when so singing, 'Be quiet, Martha!' So his father and mother did not give Harry Hatton any such foolish notions and ways."

"Every good gift is from God, mother, and we ought not to belittle them, ought we, now?"

"I'm sure I don't know, John. I've been brought up with cotton-spinners, and it is little they praise, if it be not good yarns and warps and wefts and big factories with high, high chimneys."

"Well, then, cotton-spinners are mostly very fine singers. You know that, mother."

"To be sure, but they don't make a business of singing, not they, indeed! They work while they sing. But to see a strapping young man in evening dress or in some other queer make of clothes, step forward before a crowd and throw about his arms and throw up his eyes and sing like nothing that was ever heard in church or chapel is a stunningly silly sight, John. I saw and heard a lot of such rubbishy singing and dressing when I was in London."