The Measure of a Man

BROTHERS

The pleasant habit of existence, the sweet fable of Life and Love.

       * * * *
They sin who tell us Love can die,
With Life all other passions fly,
    Love is indestructible.

* * * *

    A mother is a mother still, the holiest thing alive.

This afternoon the brothers looked at each other with great love, but there was in it a sense of wariness; and Harry was inclined to bluff what he knew his brother would regard with inconvenient seriousness.

“Will you sit, Harry?  Or are you going at once to mother?  She is a bit anxious about you.”

“I will sit with you half an hour, John.  I want to talk with you.  I am very unhappy.”

“Nay, nay!  You don’t look unhappy, I’m sure; and you have no need to feel so.”

“Indeed, I have.  If a man hates his lifework, he is very likely to hate his life.  You know, John, that I have always hated mills.  The sight of their long chimneys and of the human beings groveling at the bottom of them for their daily bread gives me a heartache.  And the smell of them!  O John, the smell of a mill sickens me!”

“What do you mean, Harry Hatton?”

“I mean the smell of the vaporous rooms, and the boiling soapsuds, and the oil and cotton and the moisture from the hot flesh of a thousand men and women makes the best mill in England a sweating-house of this age of corruption.”

“Harry, who did you hear speak of cotton mills in that foolish way?  Some ranter at a street corner, I suppose.  Hatton mill brings you in good, honest money.  I think little of feelings that slander honest work and honest earnings.”

“John, my dear brother, you must listen to me.  I want to get out of this business, and Eli Naylor and Thomas Henry Naylor will rent my share of the mill.”

“Will they?  No!  Not for all the gold in England!  What are you asking me, Harry Hatton?  Do you think I will shame the good name of Hatton by associating it with scoundrels and blacklegs?  Your father kicked Hezekiah Naylor out of this mill twenty years ago.  Do you think I will take in his sons, and let them share our father’s good name, and the profits of the wonderful business he built up?  I say no!  A downright, upright no!  Why, Harry, you must be off your head to think of such a thing as possible.  It is enough to make father come back from the grave.”

“You are talking nonsense, John.  If father is in heaven, he wouldn’t come back here about an old mill full of weariness and hatred and wretched lives; and if he isn’t in heaven, he wouldn’t be let come back.  I am not afraid of father now.”

“If you must sell or rent your share, I will make shift to buy or lease it.  Then what do you mean to do?”

“Mr. Fred Naylor is going to coach me for horse-racing.  You know I love horses, and Naylor says they will make me more money than I can count.”

“Don’t you tell me anything the Naylors say.  I won’t listen to it.  Horse-racing is gambling.  You don’t come from gamblers.  You will be a fool among them and every kind of odds will be against you.”

“And I shall make money fast and pleasantly.”

“Supposing you do make money fast, you will spend it still faster.  That is the truth.”

“Horse-racing is a manly amusement.  No one can deny that, John.”

“But, Harry, you did not come into this world to amuse yourself.  You came to do the work God Almighty laid out for you to do.  It wasn’t horse-racing.”

“I know what I am talking about, John.”

“Not you.  You are cheating and deceiving yourself, and any sin is easy, after that sin.”

“I have told you already what I thought of mill work.”

“You have not thought right of it.  We have nearly eight hundred workers; half of them are yours.  It is your duty to see that these men and women have work and wage in Hatton mill.”

“I will not do it, John.”

“You are not going to horse-racing.  I want you to understand that, once and for all.  Have no more to do with any of the Naylors.  Drop them forever.”

“I can not, John.  I will not.”

“Rule your speech, Henry Hatton.  John Hatton is not saying today what he will unsay tomorrow.  You are not going to horse-racing and horse-trading.  Most men who do so go to the dogs next.  People would wonder far and wide.  You must choose a respectable life.  I know that the love of horses runs through every Yorkshireman’s heart.  I love them myself.  I love them too well to bet on them.  My horse is my fellow-creature, and my friend.  Would you bet on your friend, and run him blind for a hundred or two?”

“Naylor has made thousands of pounds.”

“I don’t care if he has made millions.  All money made without labor or without equivalent is got over the devil’s back to be squandered in some devil’s pastime.  Harry, bettors infer dupes.  When you have to pay a jockey a small fortune to do his duty, he may be an honest man—­but there are inferences.  Can’t you think of something better to do?”

“I wanted to be an artist and father would not let me.  I wanted to have my voice trained and father laughed at me.  I wanted to join the army and father was angry and asked me if I did not want to be a pugilist.  He would not hear of anything but the mill.  John, I won’t go to the mill again.  I won’t be a cotton-spinner, and I’ll be glad if you will buy me out at any price.”

“I won’t do that—­not yet.  I’ll tell you what I will do.  I will rent your share of the mill for a year if you will take Captain Cook and the yacht and go to the Mediterranean, and from the yacht visit the old cities and see all the fine picture galleries, and listen to the music of Paris and Milan or even Vienna.  You must stay away a year.  I want you to realize above all things that to live to amuse yourself is the hardest work the devil can set you to do.”

“I promised Fred Naylor I would rent him my share.”

“How dared you make such a promise?  Did you think that I, standing as I do, for my father, Stephen Hatton, would ever lower the Hatton name to Hatton and Naylor?  I am ashamed of you, Harry!  I am that!”

“John, I am so unhappy in the mill.  You don’t understand—­”

“Your duty is in the mill.  If a man does his duty, he cannot be unhappy.  No, he can not.”

“I have been doing my duty five years, and hating every hour of it.  And I promised the Naylor boys—­”

“What?”

“That I would sell or rent my share in this mill to them.”

“It is impossible for you to keep that promise.  You cannot sell a shilling’s worth belonging to the mill property without mine and mother’s permission.  Neither of us will give it.  Your plan won’t work, Harry.  Mother and I will stand by Hatton mill as firm as an anvil beaten upon.  Both of us will do anything we can to make you reasonably happy, but you must never dare to name selling or renting your right to anyone but your brother.  The mill is ours!  No stranger shall own a bobbin in it!  One or both of us will run it until we follow our father, and then—­”

“Then what?”

“Our sons will take our place if so it pleases God.  Harry, dear, dear lad, go and take a long holiday among the things you love, and after it we will come to a kind and sensible conclusion about your future.  While you are away, I will do your work for you and you shall have your full share of whatever money is made.  Stay a year if you wish, but try and find yourself before you come home.”

“I would like to do as you say, John, but a year is a long time to be away from the girl you love.  I should want her every hour and should be utterly miserable without her.”

John was silent and troubled.  Harry looked entreatingly at him, and it was hard to resist the pleading in the young man’s eyes.  Finally John asked a little coldly,

“Do you want to get married?”

“Not just yet—­if I can get mother to go with me.”

“To the Mediterranean?”

“Certainly.”

“Who is the girl?”

“Miss Lugur, the schoolmaster’s daughter.”

“Mother would not go.  You could not expect it.  I also should be much against her spending a year away from home.  Oh, you know it is out of the question!”

“I think mother will go.  I shall ask her.”

“I wonder how you can find it in your heart to ask such a thing of her!”

“Lucy Lugur, poor little girl, has no mother.”

“You cannot expect Mrs. Stephen Hatton to mother her.”

“Yes, I do.  Mother has often told me she would do anything in the world for me.  I am going to ask her to go with me, then I can take Lucy.”

“Harry, you must not put her love in such a hard strait.  Do be reasonable.”

“I cannot be reasonable about Lucy Lugur.  I love her, John; she is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“All right, I do not contradict you; but is that any reason for sacrificing mother’s comfort to her beauty?”

“Mother likes to give up to me.  If I ask her to go, she will go.  I do not forget, John, what you have promised; no indeed, and I am sure mother will be quite as kind.  I will now go and ask her.”

When he arrived at the Hall gate, he had a sudden sense of the injustice of his intention, but the thought of Lucy Lugur put it down; and he heralded his arrival by a long, sweet whistle, whose music penetrated the distance and informed Mrs. Hatton of her son’s approach.  She was drinking her afternoon cup of tea to angry thoughts of him, telling herself that he ought to have been home on the previous day, that at least he ought to have sent her a few lines when delayed.  So troubled was she by these reflections and others rising from them that she had forgotten to put sugar in her tea, and was eating wheat bread when her favorite thin slices of rye loaf were at her hand.  The prodigious inquietude of motherhood had her in its grip, and she had just begun to tell herself that poor Harry might be sick in an hotel with no one to look after him when her reverie of love and fear was dispelled in a moment by the cheerful sound of Harry’s whistle.

The next moment she was on the porch to welcome him.  If his delay was wrong, she had quite forgotten the wrong; there was nothing in her heart but mother love, running over and expressing itself in her beaming eyes, her smiling face, her outstretched hands, and her joyful words.  She kissed him fondly and between laughing and crying led him into the house and straight to her little tea-table.

“There is room enough for you, my dear, dear lad!  Where have you been this ever so long?” she asked.  “I was looking for you last Saturday night—­and John is home again, thank God, and——­”

“I know John is home, mother.  I was at the mill.  My horse met me at Oxbar Station, and as I was riding, I called at the mill to look at my mail, and so finding John there, I stopped and had a chat with him.”

“I am glad of that.  What did he say to thee?  He was feeling very bad, I know, about the Naylor boys.  I wonder what makes thee even thyself with that low set.  Thy father will be angry, if he knows, and Greenwood thinks he is sure to know if Naylors are meddling in his family or his affairs.  Greenwood speaks very badly of the whole crowd—­living and dead.”

“Well, mother, you know none of the Naylors are Methodists; that sets them down with Greenwood.  The Naylors are all right.  Fred Naylor has been very kind to me.”

“Did you speak to John about them?”

“Greenwood had already spoken and John was angry and got into a passion at a simple business proposal they made.”

“John was right, he was that.  I was in a passion myself, when I heard of their proposal—­downright impudence, I call it.”

“Nay, mother.  They offered good money for what they asked.  There was no impudence in that.  It was just business.”

“Naylors have no good money, not they.  The kind they do have would blacken and burn Hatton’s hands to touch.  Thy father ran the whole kith and kit of the Naylors out of Hatton village the very year of thy birth.  He wouldn’t have them in his village if he was alive and while I am lady of Hatton Manor they are not coming back here.  I will see to that.”

“There is a new generation of Naylors now, and——­”

“They are as bad and very likely worse than all before them.  Families that don’t grow better grow worse.  Greenwood says they are worse; but I’m not standing on what he says.  Thy father despised them, that is a fact I can rely on and work from.”

“Father is dead, and he——­”

“Not he!  He is living, and more alive than he ever was.  He comes to me often.”

“When you are asleep, I suppose.”

“You suppose right.  But, Harry, can you tell me what passes in that state of sleep when I or you or any other sleeper is shut up from every human eye; when all the doors of the body are closed, and all the windows darkened?  Speak, my lad, of what you know something about, but dreaming is a mystery to far wiser men than you are, or are likely to be—­unless Wisdom should visit you while you are dreaming.”

“Well, mother, I am going away for a year, and during that time I shall forget the Naylors and they will forget me.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Harry Hatton?  I will not hear of you going on such a journey—­no matter where to, so now you know.”

“It is John’s advice.”

“It is very poor advice.  For steady living in, there is no place like Yorkshire.”

“I was telling John today what I have often told you, how I hated the mill, how sick it made me, and that I must sell my interest in it in order to do something else.  Then John made me a proposal, and if you think well of it I will do as John advises.  But let us go to the porch, it is so hot here.  It feels like the dog days.”

“No wonder, with the toggery you have on your back.  Whatever in the world led you to make such a guy of yourself?  I hope you didn’t come through the village.”

“I did.  I had my horse brought to Oxbar Station, for that very purpose.”

“Well, I never!  Do you think you look handsome in those things?”

“I do.”

“You never made a bigger mistake.  I can tell you that.  But I want to know what John is up to—­sending you away for a whole year—­such nonsense!”

Then Harry made John’s proposal as attractive as he could, and Mrs. Hatton listened with a face devoid of all expression, until he said:  “I want you with me, mother.  I shall have no pleasure without you.”

“There is something else you want, Harry.  What is it?”

“Well, mother, there is a beautiful girl whom I love with all my heart and soul.  I want to take her with me, but I can not—­unless you also go.”

Mrs. Hatton’s face flushed, and she dropped her eyes, knowing that they were full of anger.  “Who is this girl?” she asked coldly.

“Lucy Lugur, the schoolmaster’s daughter.”

“Could you not take her own mother?”

“Lucy has no mother.  Her father has been father and mother both to her since she was two years old.  He loves her beyond everything.”

“I can believe that.  I know a little of Ralph Lugur.  He has been to see me twice about the children of the village.”

“He has them all at his beck and call.  And Lucy, mother, she is so fair and sweet!  If you could only see her!”

“I have seen her.”

“Oh, mother dear, don’t speak unkindly of her!”

“Nay; why should I?  She is, as you say, very pretty; and I’ll warrant she is as good as she is pretty.  I could trust Lugur to bring her up properly—­but she is not a mate for you.”

“I will have no other mate.”

“Miss Lugur may be all your fancy paints her, but why should your mother be asked to leave her home, her duties, and pleasures for a year?  To subject herself to bad weather and sickness and loneliness and fatigue of all kinds in order that she may throw the mantle of her social respectability over an equivocal situation.  I do not blame the girl, but I feel more keenly and bitterly than I can tell you the humiliation and discomfort you would gladly put upon me in order to give yourself the satisfaction of Miss Lugur’s company.  Harry, you are the most selfish creature I ever met.  John has promised to give up your rightful assistance in the mill, to really do your work for a year, your income is to be paid in full, though you won’t earn a farthing of it; you expect the use of the yacht for yourself and a girl out of my knowledge and beneath my social status.  Oh, Harry!  Harry!  It is too much to ask of any mother.”

“I never thought of it in this way.  Forgive me, mother.”

“And who is to take care of John if I go with you?  Who is to care for the old home and all the treasures gathered in it?  Who will look after the farm and the horses and cattle and poultry, the fruit-trees and lawns and flowers as I do?  Do you think that all these cares are pleasures to me?  No, my dear lad, but they are my duty.  I wouldn’t have thy father find out that I neglected even a brooding hen.  No, I wouldn’t.  And the yacht was thy father’s great pleasuring.  I only went with him to double that pleasure.  I don’t like the sea, though I never let him know it.  Oh, my dear!  But there!  You haven’t learned yet that self-sacrifice is love, and no love without it.”

“Mother, I am ashamed of my selfishness.  I never realized before how many things you have to care for.”

“From cocklight to the dim, Harry, there is always something needing my care.  Must house and farm and John and all our dumb fellow creatures go to the mischief for pretty Lucy Lugur?  My dear, I’m saying these things to you, because nobody else has a right to say them; but oh, Harry, it breaks my heart to say them!”

“Mother, forgive me.  I did not think of anything but the fact that you have always stood by me through thick and thin.”

“In all things right, I will stand by you.  In whatever is wrong I will be against you.  You have fallen into the net of bad company, and you can’t mend that trouble—­you can only run away from it.  Take John’s advice, and get out of the reach of that Naylor influence.”

“I never saw anything wrong with Frank Naylor.  He did not drink, he never touched a card, and he was always respectful to the women we met.”

“Harry, you would not dare to repeat to me all that Frank Naylor said to you.  Oh, my dear, there it is!  When you can shut your ears, as easily as your eyes, you can afford to be less particular about the company you keep—­not until.”

At this moment John entered, and the conversation became general and impersonal.  But the influence of uncertain and unlooked-for anxiety was over all, and Harry was eager to escape it.  He said the young men would be expecting him at their association hall, as he had promised to explain to them the mysteries of golf, which he wished them to favor above cricket.

He had, indeed, a promised obligation on this subject, but the exact time was as yet within his own decision.  Yet he was ready to fulfill it that evening, rather than listen to the conversation about himself and his future, which he knew would ensue whether he was present or not.  And the promise John had given him of a year’s holiday was so satisfactory that he longed to be alone and at liberty to follow it out and fit it into his life.

He felt that John had been generous to him, but he also felt that the proposed manner of rest and recreation was in one respect altogether unsatisfactory—­he was to be sent away from Lucy Lugur.  He was sure that was John’s real and ultimate motive, whatever other motive was virtually put in its place.  Mother and brother would agree on that point and he thought of this agreement with a discontent that rapidly became anger.  Then he determined to marry Lucy, and so have a right to her company on land or sea, at home or abroad.

For he argued only from his own passionate desire.  Lucy had never said she loved him, yet he felt sure she did so.  He loved her the moment they met, and he had no doubt Lucy had been affected in the same manner as himself.  He knew her for his own, lost out of his soul-life long ago and suddenly found one afternoon as she stood with her father at the gate of their little garden.  She had roses in her hands, or rather they were lying across her white arms, and her exquisite face rose above them, thrilling his heart with a strange but powerful sense of a right in her that was wholly satisfying and indisputable.

“I will suffer no one to part me from Lucy,” he mused.  “She is mine.  She belongs to me, and to no other man in this world.  I will not leave her.  I might lose her; if I go away, she must go with me.  She loves me!  I know it!  I feel it!  When she sat at my side as we were driving together she was me.  Her personality melted into mine, and Lucy Lugur and Harry Hatton were one.  If I felt this, Lucy felt it.  I will tell her, and she will believe me, for I am sure she shared that wonderful transfusion of the ‘thee into me’ which is beyond all explanation, and never felt but with the one soul that is our soul.”

Thus as he walked down to the village he thrilled himself with the pictures of his own imaginings; for a passionate bewildering love, that had all the unbearable realism of a dream, held him in its unconquerable grip.  There may be men who can force themselves to be reasonable in such a condition, but Henry Hatton was not among them; and when he unexpectedly met Lucy’s father in the village, he quite forgot that the man knew nothing at all of his affection for his daughter and his intention to marry her.

“Mr. Lugur,” he cried almost joyfully, “I was looking for you, hoping to meet you, and here you are!  I am so glad!”

Lugur looked up curiously.  People did not usually address him with such pronounced pleasure, and with Henry Hatton he had not been familiar, or even friendly.  “Good evening, Mr. Hatton,” he answered, and he touched the cap set so straight and positive on his big, dark head with slight courtesy.  “Have you any affair with me, sir?” he asked.

“I have.”

“It is my busy night.  I was going home, but——­”

“Allow me to walk with you, Mr. Lugur.”

“Very well.  Talking will not hinder.  I am at your service, sir.”

[Illustration:  “He knew her for his own … as she stood with her father at the gate of their little garden.”]

Then Henry Hatton made his heart speak words which no one could have doubted.  He was a natural orator, and he was moved by an impetuous longing, that feared nothing but its own defeat.  He told Lugur all that he had told himself, and the warmth and eagerness of his pleading touched the man deeply, though he did not interrupt him until he said, “I am going for a year’s travel, and I want to marry Lucy, and take her with me.”

Then he asked, “Have you spoken to my daughter on the subject of marriage?”

“I want your permission in order to gain hers.”

“Does she know that you love her?”

“I have not told her so.  I ask that you take me now to your home that I may speak to her this hour.”

Lugur made no further remark, until they reached the schoolmaster’s house.  Then he said, “There is a light, as you may see, in the right-hand room; Lucy is there.  Tell her I gave you permission to call on her.  Leave the door of the room open; I shall be in the room opposite to it.  You may remain an hour if you wish to do so.  Leave at once if your visit troubles Lucy.”  Then with a cold smile he added, “I am her only cicerone, you see.  She has no mother.  You will remember that, Mr. Hatton.”  As he spoke, he was looking for his latch-key and using it.  There was a lamp in the hall, and he silently indicated the door of the room in which Lucy was sitting.  At the same moment he opened a door opposite and struck a light.  Seeing Hatton waiting, he continued, “You have already introduced yourself—­go in—­the door is open.”

He stood still a moment and listened to the faint flutter of Lucy’s movement, and the joyous note in her voice as she welcomed her lover.  With a sigh, he then turned to a table piled with papers and slates and apparently gave himself up to the duty they entailed.

In the meantime Harry had seated himself by the side of Lucy, and was telling her in the delicious, stumbling patois of love all that was in his heart.  She was bewilderingly beautiful; all his thoughts of her had been far below this intimate observation.  Not that he analyzed or tabulated her charms—­that would have been like pulling a rose to pieces.  He only knew that her every glance and word and movement revealed a new personal grace.  He only felt that her dress so daintily plain and neat and her simplicity and natural candor were the visible signs of a clear and limpid nature such as gods and men must love.

It was easy for Harry to tell her his love and his wishes.  She understood him at once, and with sweet shy glances answered those two or three questions which are so generally whispered to a woman’s heart and which hold the secret of her life and happiness.  In this wonderful explanation the hour given was all too short, and Harry was just beginning to plead for an immediate marriage so that they might see the world together when Lugur entered the room and said it was the hour at which they usually closed the—­

Harry did not let him finish his request.  “Sir,” he cried enthusiastically, “Lucy loves me.  She loves me as I love her.  I was just asking her to marry me at once.”

“That is an impossible request, Mr. Hatton.  Under no circumstances, none whatever, would I permit Lucy to marry for at the least a year.  Many things must be determined first.  For instance, I must have a conversation with your mother and with Mr. John Hatton, your elder brother.”

“You can see them tomorrow, sir—­early in the morning—­if you would be so kind to Lucy and myself, we should be very grateful—­what time can you see them tomorrow?”

“You go too fast, sir.  I cannot see either of them tomorrow, nor yet for many tomorrows.”

“Oh, sir, Lucy loves me and I love her, and——­”

“Love must learn to wait—­to be patient and to be satisfied with hopes.  I am weary, and we will bid you good night.”

There was something so definite and positive in this good night that Harry felt it to be irresistible, and with an air of disappointment made his departure.  At the outer door Lugur said, “I do not lack sympathy with you, Mr. Hatton, in your desire to hurry your marriage forward, but you must understand that there will be necessary delays.  If you cannot bear the strain of waiting and of patiently looking forward, you are mistaken in the quality of your love and you had better give it up at once.”

“No, sir.  Right or wrong, it is my love, and Lucy is the only woman who will ever bring joy or sorrow to me.”

Lugur did not answer, but his tall, dark figure standing with his hand on the half-shut door impressed Harry painfully with the hopelessness of further argument.  He bowed silently, but as he passed through the little gate the sound of the hastily closed door followed him up the hill to Hatton Hall.  Lugur went into the parlor to look for his daughter; she had gone to her room.  Some feeling of maidenly reserve had led her to take this step.  She never asked herself why or wherefore; she only felt that it would be good for her to be alone, and the need had been so urgent that she forgot her father’s usual good-night kiss and blessing.  Lugur did not call her, but he felt the omission keenly.  It was the first change; he knew that it prefigured many greater ones, and he was for the hour stunned by the suddenness of the sorrow he had to face.  But Lugur had a stout heart, a heart made strong and sure by many sufferings and by one love.

He sat motionless for an hour or more; his life was concentered in thought, and thought does not always require physical movement.  Indeed, intense thought on any question is, as a rule, still and steady as a rock.  And Lugur was thinking of the one subject which was the prime mover of his earthly life—­thinking of his daughter and trying to foresee the fate he had practically chosen for her, wondering if in this matter he had been right or wrong.  He had told himself that Lucy must marry someone, and that Henry Hatton was the best of all her suitors.  Thirsk he hardly took into consideration; but there was young Bradley and Squire Ashby and the Wesleyan minister, and his own assistant in the school.  He had seen that these men loved her, each in his own way, but he liked none of them.  Weighed in his balance, they were all wanting.

Neither was Henry Hatton without fault; but the Hatton family was good to its root, as far as he knew or could hear tell, and at least he had been frankly honest both with his daughter and himself.  He found strength and comfort in this reflection, and finally through it reached the higher attitude, which made him rise to his feet, clasp his hands, and lift his face with whispered prayer to the Father and Lover of souls.  Leaving Lucy in His care, his heart was at rest, and he lay down in peace and slept.