The Measure of a Man

THE HEARTH FIRE

    He who has drunk of Love’s sharp strong wine,
    Will drink thereof till death. 
    Love comes in silence and alone
    To meet the elected One.

* * * * *

It was a chill, misty evening in the last days of September, and John Hatton was sitting by the fire in the great central hall.  He was thinking of many things, but through all of them the idea of his brother Harry swept like an obliterating cloud.  He was amazed at the hot impetuous love which had taken possession of the boy—­for he still thought of him as a boy—­and wondering how best to direct and control a passion that had grown like a force of Nature, which it really was.  Now great and fervid emotions are supposed to be the true realization of life, but they do not, as a rule, soften the nature they invade; very frequently they render it cruel and indifferent to whomever or whatever appears to stand in the way of its desires.  John realized this fact in Harry’s case.  He was going from home for a year, and yet he had never before been so careless and unconcerned about his home.

It was not a pleasant train of thought, and he was pleased when it was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Hatton.  “Why, John, my dear,” she said, “I was wondering if you had come home yet.  Have you seen Harry?”

“Not since breakfast.”

“He is with that girl, I suppose; or, if Lugur is at home, he is watching the house she lives in.”

“He is very much in love.  We must make the best of it.  I thought he was in love with Polly Crowther—­but it seems not.  There is a little difference between the two girls.”

“There is a big difference between them, and it is all in favor of Polly Crowther.”

“As far as we can judge at present it is, but—­whatever have you in your basket, mother?  It smells like Paradise.”

“I have herbs, John.  I have been crushing down my heartache with work—­there’s nothing beats work if you’re in trouble.  I cleaned out my still room today, and I was carrying there the last pickings of lavender and rosemary, sage and marjoram, basil and mint.  I can tell you, John, there’s a deal of help in some way or other through sweet, pungent smells.  They brightened me up a bit today, they did that!”

“To be sure they did, mother.  They rise naturally to Heaven, and if we are willing, they carry our thoughts with them.”

“I don’t know about that, John.  My thoughts were not heavenly at all today, and I hope they stayed where they belonged.  Take the tongs, John, and lift a lump of coal to the fire.  I joy to see the blaze.  I wouldn’t like Hatton hearthstone to have the ill luck that has just come to Yates Manor House.  You know, John, the fire in their hall has been burning for nearly two hundred years, never, never allowed to go out.  The young squire always fed it as soon as the old squire went away.  It was dead and cold this morning.  Yates is past comforting.  He says it bodes all kinds of misfortunes to them.”

“How long ago is it since Hatton Hall fire was lit?”

“Well, John, our fire isn’t out of counting, like some of the old hearth fires in Yorkshire.  But Hatton fire will never go out, John.  It was lit by a man that will not die, nor his name perish forever. Why-a! John Wesley kindled the fire on Hatton hearthstone.”

“Say what you can about it, mother.  My father has told me the story many a time, but I can never hear it too often.”

“My dear lad, it was in the days of thy great-grandfather.  One afternoon John Wesley came to Hatton and was met with honor and welcome.  And word was sent far and near, to squire and farmer, hedger and ditcher.  And at eight o’clock the good, great man stood up in Hatton’s big barn in their midst.  And he talked heavenly to them of Christ and of the love of God that was not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.  Eh, my dear, he talked till men and women were weeping for joy and hope, and the big barn felt as if it was on fire.  And that night John Wesley sat a long while with the Master of Hatton, and it was past midnight when they went to bed.  But very early in the morning—­before cocklight it was—­your great-grandfather came downstairs to see that Wesley had a cup of tea before his early start onward.  And he found the good man had already lit a fire and infused the tea, and then and there it was made the law of Hatton household that the fire John Wesley kindled there must never go out, but be a sign and covenant of good to the House of Hatton as long as there was a man in Hatton to carry it on.”  As she was talking Mrs. Hatton had put her basket of herbs on a little table, and with glowing cheeks she now bent her head and inhaled their refreshing odors.  John was silent for a few moments, and profoundly touched by the old homely story; then he said,

“My dear mother, it may be a son of Harry’s that will be so favored.  Had we not better accept his marriage as pleasantly as we can?  Lucy Lugur is a beautiful girl, and that big fervent Welshman who is her father has doubtless made her the image of all that God and man love in a woman.”

“Maybe Lugur has done his best with her, but women see a long sight further into women than men do.  I’ll hev to seek and to find good reasons for Harry marrying so far below himself before I’ll hev this or that to say or do with such an ill-sorted marriage.  Now, John, get ready for thy dinner; none of us are going to do any waiting for a lad that thinks he can live on love.”

John rose, smiling, and as he did so said, “Was that the way Methodism began, mother?”

“To be sure, it was.  It began in the lanes and streets and in the barns and kitchens of old manor houses like Hatton Hall.  Your great-grandfather used to say it was like a loud cry at midnight startling the sleepy world.”

“It was the most picturesque domestic event of last century, as well as a religious——­”

“Picturesque!  I never thought of Methodism in that way, John; but I’ll tell thee, it took the very heart of Yorkshire and set it to song and prayer—­and cotton-spinning.  It stopped a deal of gambling and racing and dog-and cock-fighting, and chapels and mills grew together all over the length and breadth of Yorkshire.  They did that, and all that!  I’ve heard my father say so many a time.  Make haste now, my lad, dinner will spoil if tha keeps it waiting.  Methodism is like enough to stand forever.”

In this conversation Mrs. Hatton had dropped easily and naturally into the Yorkshire speech, as all Yorkshire people do when heart-touched.  For Yorkshire is neither a dialect nor a patois; it is the pure English of a thousand years ago, the English Chaucer spoke, and which Yorkshire has preserved in all its purity—­especially about the Craven district.  Mrs. Hatton had gone through finishing schools of the latest fashion and she made no trips in her usual social conversation, unless deeply moved, but if a little Yorkshire was a fault, it was a very general one, and there was no interesting conversation without such lapses into English pure and undefiled and often startlingly picturesque and to the point.

When John had left her she took her herbs to the still room, laid them in their places, and removed the large white linen apron which covered her from head to feet.  Then she stood beautifully gowned in black satin with fine thread-lace cuffs turned back nearly to the elbows and a large collar of the same lace fastened at the throat with a brooch of gold and diamonds.  Her black hair was fashionably dressed and finished with a small cap of lace and pink ribbon, and her feet shod in black satin sandals—­a splendid woman of fifty-three years old, showing every grace at its finest with as yet no sign of decay in any of them.

John gave her his arm proudly, but he noticed that her face clouded before she was seated.  She would not ask as to Harry’s whereabouts, but she missed his presence, and anger grew in her heart.  “He is with that girl,” she thought, and she was sick with anxiety and inquietude.  The roast sirloin was done to the last perfect minute, and the Yorkshire pudding deliciously brown and light; the table was set without a flaw or a “forget,” and the fire and light just as they should be.  There was no obvious outlet for her annoyance, and it took away her appetite and made her silent.

John tried various interesting public topics—­topics she had been eager about; but every allusion to them at this hour was scornfully received.  Then he made a social effort.  “I met Miss Phyllis Broadbent today, mother,” he said.

“Where did you meet her?”

“She was walking past the mill.”

“Waiting for you—­and I’ll warrant it.”

“I would not say that much, mother.  She was out collecting for the new cooking-school.  She said she wanted to see you very much.”

“And pray what for is she wanting to see me?  I am not related to her.  I owe her nothing.  I’m not going to give her anything and I don’t want to see her.”

“I suppose she wants your help in this new charity she has on hand.  She was very polite, and sent you all kinds of good wishes.  There is no harm in good wishes, is there?”

“I’m not so sure of that.  If Miss Phyllis gives her good wishes, there’s no harm in them, but—­but I don’t want to buy them at any price.  I’ll tell you what it is, John—­”

But she never told him at that hour, for as she spoke Harry Hatton opened the door and looked in.  “I am wet—­dripping wet, mother,” he said.  “The mizzling rain turned to a downpour when I was halfway up the hill, but I will be ready for dinner in twenty minutes.”

“And I am not going to keep beef and pudding on the table twenty minutes for you, Harry.”

“That’s right, mother.  I don’t deserve it.  Send it to the kitchen.  I’ll have some partridge and pastry when I come down.”

He was gone before his mother’s answer could leave her lips; but there was a light in her eyes and a tone in her voice that made her a different woman as she said, “We will not talk of Miss Lugur tonight, John.  There is plenty else to talk about.  She is non-essential, and I believe in the man who said, ‘Skip the non-essentials.’”

This proposal was carried out with all John’s wisdom and kindness.  He kept the conversation on the mill or on subjects relating to Harry’s proposed journey until there was a sudden silence which for a moment or two no one appeared able to break.  It was Mrs. Hatton who did so, and with a woman’s instinct she plunged at once into a subject too sacred to dispute.

“My dear Harry,” she said, in her clear vibrant voice, “my dear lad, John and I have just been talking of Wesley and how he came to light our hearthstone.  You see, poor Squire Yates’ fire went out last night.”

“Never!  Surely never, mother!”

“It did, my dear.  Yates has no son, he is old and forgetful, and his nephew, who is only a Ramsby, was at Thornton market race, and nobody thought of the fire, and so out it went.  They do say the squire is dying today.  Well, then, Hatton Hall has two sons to guard her hearth, and I want to tell you, Harry, how our fire was saved not thirty years ago.  Your grandfather was then growing poor and poorer every year, and with a heavy heart he was think, think, thinking of some plan to save the dear old home.

“One morning your father was walking round the Woodleigh meadows, for he thought if we sold them, and the Woodleigh house, we might put off further trouble for a while and give Good Fortune time to turn round and find a way to help us.  And as he was walking and thinking Ezra Topham met him.  Now, then, Ezra and your father were chief friends, even from their boyhood, and their fathers before them good friends, and indeed, as you know the Yorkshire way in friendship, it might go back of that and that again.  And Ezra said these very words,

“’Stephen, I’m going to America.  My heart and hands were never made for trading and cotton-spinning.  I hev been raised on the land.  I hev lived on the land and eaten and drunk what the land gave me.  All my forefathers did the same, and the noise and smell of these new-fangled factories takes the heart out of me.  I hev a bit of brass left, and while I hev it I am going to buy me a farm where good land is sold by the acre and not by feet and inches.  Now, then, I’ll sell thee my mill, and its fifty looms, and heppen it may do cheerfully for thee what it will not do anyway for me.  Will tha buy it?’”

“Poor chap!” interrupted Harry.  “I know just how he felt.  I am sorry for him.”

“You needn’t be anything of that sort, Harry.  He is a big landowner now and a senator and a millionaire.  So save thy pity for someone that needs it.  As I was saying, he offered to sell his mill to thy father and thy father snapped at the offer, and it was settled there and then as they stood in Woodleigh meadows.”

“What did father pay for it?” asked Harry.

“Nay, my dear, I cannot tell thee.  Thy father never told his women folk what he made or what he spent.  It wasn’t likely.  But it was a fair bargain, no doubt, for when they had settled it, Ezra said, ’Good-bye, Stephen!  I shall not see thee again in this world!’ and he pulled out his watch and father took out his and they changed watches for the memory of each other.  Then they clasped hands and said farewell.  But they wrote to each other at every New Year, and when thy father died Ezra’s watch was sent back to him.  Then Ezra knew his friend had no longer any need to count time.  He had gone into Eternity.”

“It was a good custom, mother,” said John.  “It is a pity such customs are dying out.”

“They have to die, John,” answered Mrs. Hatton, “for there’s no friendships like that now.  People have newspapers and books dirt cheap and clubs just as cheap, and all kinds of balls to amuse them—­they never feel the need of a friend.  Just look at our John.  He has lots of acquaintances, but he does not want to change watches with any man—­does he, now?”

The young men laughed, and Harry said if they had let friends go they had not given up sweethearts.  Then Mrs. Hatton felt they were on dangerous ground, and she continued her story at once.

“Thy father and I had been nearly three years married then, and John was a baby ten months old.  I had not troubled myself much about debt or poverty or danger for the old Hall.  I was happy enough with my little son, and somehow I felt sure that Stephen Hatton would overget all his worries and anxieties.

“Now listen to me!  I woke up that night and I judged by the high moon that it was about midnight.  Then I nursed my baby and tucked him snugly in his cradle.  Thy father had not come to his bed but that was no care to me; he often sat reading or figuring half the night through.  It was Stephen Hatton’s way—­but suddenly I heard a voice—­the voice of a man praying.  That is a sound, my dears, you can never mistake.  When the soul speaks to its God and its Father, it has a different voice to the one a man uses with his fellowmen, when he talks to them about warps and yarns and shillings.

“There was a soft, restful murmur of running water from the little beck by the rose garden, but far above it rose the voice of a man in strong urgent prayer.  It came from the summer-house among the rose-trees, and as I listened, I knew it was your father’s voice.  Then I was frightened.  Perhaps God would not like me to listen to what was only meant for His ear.  I came away from the open window and sat down and waited.

“In a short time your father came to me.  I could see that he had been praying.  I could feel the spirit above the flesh.  A great awe was over him and he was strangely loving and gentle.  ‘Martha,’ he said, ’I am glad you are awake.  I want to tell you something—­something wonderful!’ And I sat down by him, and he clasped my hand and said,

“’I was tired out with figuring and counting, and near midnight I went out to cool and soothe my brain with the night air.  And I suddenly thought of Jacob on his mysterious journey, meeting the angels of God as he slept in the wilderness, and wrestling with one for a blessing.  And with the thought the spirit of prayer came to me, and I knelt down in the summer-house and prayed as I never prayed before in my life.

“’I told God all my perplexities and anxieties.  I asked Him to straighten them out.  I told God that I had bought Ezra’s mill, and I asked Him to be my counselor and helper.  I told Him I knew nothing about buying cotton or spinning cotton.  I told Him it was the loss of everything if I failed.  I promised Him to do my best, and I asked Him to help me to succeed; and, Martha, I solemnly vowed, if He would be with me and do for me, that His poor and His sick and His little children should have their share in every pound I made.  And I swear to you, Martha, that I will keep my word, and if I may speak for my sons and my sons’ sons, they also shall never fail in rendering unto God the thing I have promised.  Remind me of it.  Say to me, “Stephen, the Lord God is thy partner.  Don’t thee defraud Him of one farthing.”’ And, my dears, when I promised he kissed me, and my cheeks were wet, and his cheeks were wet, but we were both of us very sure and happy.

“Well, my dear lads, after that your father walked straight forward to his place among the biggest cotton-spinners in England.  People all said, Stephen Hatton was a very philanthropic man.  He was something better.  He was a just and honest man who never lied, who never defrauded the poor because they were poor, and who kept his contract with the Lord his God to the last farthing.  I hope to see his sons and his sons’ sons keep the covenant their father made for them.  I do that.  It would break my heart if they did not!”

Then John rose to his feet, precisely as he would have done if his father had entered the room, and he answered, “Mother, I joined hands with father six years ago on this subject.  I will carry out all he promised if it takes my last penny.  We thought then that Harry was too young to assume such—­”

“I am not too young now, mother, and I wish to join John in every obligation my father made for himself and us.  After this John must tithe my share just as he tithes his own.”

Then while her heart was overflowing with a religious love and joy in her sons, Mrs. Hatton rose and bid them good night.  “I will go to my room,” she said.  “I’ll warrant I shall find the very company I want there.”

“Stay with us, mother,” said Harry.  “I want to talk to you,” and he was so persistent that it fretted her, and she asked with a touch of impatience,

“Harry Hatton, have you yet to learn that when a woman wants to be by herself she is expecting better company than you can give her?”

For a few moments the young men were silent.  Mrs. Hatton took so much vitality out of the room with her that the level of the atmosphere was sensibly disturbed, and had to be readjusted before it was comfortably useful.  John sat still during this period.  His sight was inward and consequently his eyes were dropped.  Harry was restless, his sight was outward and his eyes far-seeking.  He was the first to speak.

“John,” he said, in a tone holding both anger and grief, “John, you behaved unkindly to me this evening.  You either persuaded mother to talk as she did, or you fell in with her intention and helped her.”

“You might speak plainer, Harry.”

“I will.  Both mother and you, either by accident or agreement, prevented me naming Lucy.  Lucy was the only subject I wanted to talk about, and you prevented me.”

“If I did, it was the wisest and kindest thing I could do.”

“For yourselves—­but how about me?”

“I was thinking of you only.”

“Then you must think of Lucy with me.”

“It is not yet a question of must.  If it comes to that, both mother and I will do all the situation calls for.  In the interval, we do not wish to discuss circumstances we may never be compelled to face.”

“Then you are counting on my being drowned at sea, or on Lucy dying or else marrying someone while I am away.”

John was silent so long that Harry began to enlarge on his last proposition.  “Of course,” he continued, “I may be drowned, and if Lucy was false to me a watery grave of any kind would be welcome; but——­”

“Harry,” said John, and he leaned forward and put his hand on his brother’s knee, “Harry, my dear lad, listen to me.  I am going to tell you something I have never told even mother.  You have met Lady Penryn, I suppose?”

“I have seen her three or four times in the hunting field.  She rides horses no one else would mount.  She does everything at the danger point.  Lord Thirsk said she had been disappointed in love and wanted to kill herself.”

“Did you think her handsome?”

“Oh, dear, no!  Far from it!  She is blowsy and fat, has far too much color, and carries too much flesh in spite of the rough way she uses herself.”

“Harry, eight years ago I was as madly in love with Lady Penryn as you are now with Lucy Lugur.  All that you are suffering I have suffered.  Eight years ago we parted with tears and embraces and the most solemn promises of faithful love.  In four months she was married to Lord Penryn.”

“Oh, John, what did you do?”

“I forgot her.”

“How could you?”

“As soon as I knew she was another man’s wife, I did not dare to think of her, and finding how much thought had to do with this sin, I filled my thoughts with complex and fatiguing business; in a word, I refused to think of her in any way.

“Six years afterwards I met her at a garden party; she was with a crowd of men and women.  She had lost all her power over me.  My pulses beat at their ordinary calm pace and my heart was unmoved.”

“And how did she bear the ordeal?”

“She said, ’Good afternoon, Mr. Hatton.  I think we may have met before.’  A few days ago, we passed each other on the highway between Hatton and Overton.  I lifted my hat, and she pretended not to see me.”

“Oh, John, how could the woman treat you so!”

“She acted wisely.  I thank her for her discretion.  Now, Harry, give yourself and Lucy time to draw back, if either of you find out you have been mistaken.  There are many engagements in life that can be broken and no great harm done; but a marriage engagement, if once fulfilled, opens to you the gates of all Futurity, and if there are children it is irrevocable by any law.  No divorce undoes it.  You may likely unroll a long line of posterity who will live when you are forgotten, but whose actions, for good or evil, will be traced back to you.”

“Well, then, John, if I am to go away and give myself an opportunity to draw back, I want to go immediately.  Lucy’s father takes her to an aunt in Bradford tomorrow.  I think when people grow old, they find a perfect joy in separating lovers.”

“It is not only your love affairs that want pause and consideration, Harry.  You appear to hate your business as much as you ought to love and honor it, and I am in hopes that a few weeks or months of nothing to do will make you glad to come back to the mill.  If not—­”

“What then will you do for me, John?”

“I will buy your share of the mill.”

“Thank you, John.  I know you are good to me, but you cannot tell how certain I am about Lucy; yes, and the mill, too.”

“Well, my dear lad, I believe you tonight; but what I want you to believe is that tomorrow some new light may shine and you may see your thoughts on these two subjects in a different way.  Just keep your mind open to whatever you may see or hear that can instruct your intentions.  That is all I ask.  If you are willing to be instructed, the Instructor will come, not perhaps, but certainly.”

Four days after this conversation life in Hatton had broken apart, and Harry was speeding down the Bay of Biscay and singing the fine old sea song called after it, to the rhythm and music of its billowy surge.  The motion of the boat, the wind in the sails, the “chanties” of the sailors as they went about their work, and the evident content and happiness around him made Harry laugh and sing and toss away his cap and let the fresh salt wind blow on his hot brain in which he fancied the clack and clamor of the looms still lingered.  He thought that a life at sea, resting or sailing as the mood took him, would be a perfect life if only Lucy were with him.

Sitting at dinner he very pointedly made the absence of women the great want in this otherwise perfect existence.  The captain earnestly and strongly denied it.  “There is nowhere in the world,” he said, “where a woman is less wanted than on a ship.  They interfere with happiness and comfort in every way.  If we had a woman on board tonight, she would be deathly seasick or insanely frightened.  A ship with a woman’s name is just as much as any captain can manage.  You would be astonished at the difference a name can make in a ship.  When this yacht belonged to Colonel Brotherton, she was called the Dolphin, and God and angels know she tried to behave like one, diving and plunging and careering as if she had fins instead of sails.  I was captain of her then and I know it.  Well, your father bought her, and your mother threw a bottle of fine old port over her bow, and called her the Martha Hatton, and she has been a different ship ever since—­ladylike and respectable, no more butting of the waves, as if she was a ram; she lifts herself on and over them and goes curtseying into harbor like a duchess.”

As they talked the wind rose, and the play of its solemn music in the rigging of the yacht and in the deep bass of the billows was, as Harry said, “like a chant of High Mass.  I heard one for the sailors leaving Hull last Christmas night,” he said, “and I shall never forget it.”

“But you are a Methodist, sir?”

“Oh, that does not hinder!  A good Methodist can pray wherever there is honest prayer going on.  John was with me, and I knew by John’s face he was praying.  I was but a lad, but I said ‘Our Father,’ for I knew that Christ’s words could not be wrong wherever they were said.”

“Well, sir, I hope you will recover your health soon and be able to return to your business.”

“My health, Captain, is firstrate!  I have not come to sea for my health.  Surely to goodness, John did not tell you that story?”

“No, he did not, and I saw that you were well enough as soon as you came on board.”

“Well, Captain, I am here to try how a life of pleasure and idleness will suit me.  I hate the mill, I hate its labor and all about it, and John thought a few months of nothing to do would make me go cheerfully back to work.”

“Do you think it will?”

“I say no—­downright.”

“And what then, sir?”

“I really cannot say what I may do.  I have a bit of money from my father, and I know lots of good fellows who seem happy enough without business or work of any kind.  They just amuse themselves or have some fad of pleasure-making like fast horses.”

“Such men ought never to have been born, sir.  They only cumber the mills and the market-places, the courts of law and the courts of the church—­yes, even the wide spaces of the ocean.”

“Are you not a bit hard, Captain?”

“No; I am not hard enough.  Do you think God sent any man that had his five senses into this busy world to amuse himself?”

“Are you preaching me a sermon, Captain?”

“Nay, not I!  Preaching is nothing in my line.  But you are on a new road, sir, and no one can tell where it may lead to, so I’ll just remind you to watch your beginnings; the results will manage themselves.”