The Measure of a Man

LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM

Love is the only link that binds us to those gone; the only link that binds us to those who remain.  Surely it is the spiritual world—­the abiding kingdom of heaven, not far from any one of us.

On a day of grace, she came of God’s grace to me.

One night at the end of October Mrs. Hatton was sitting in the living-room of the Hall.  To say “sitting,” however, is barely true, for she was in that irritably anxious mood which both in men and women usually runs into motion, and Mrs. Hatton was more frequently off her chair than on it.  She lifted the brass tongs and put a few pieces of coal on the fire; she walked to the window and looked down the long vista of trees; she arranged chairs and cushions, that did not need arranging; she sent away the large tortoise-shell cat that was watching as eagerly as herself for John’s return; and finally her restlessness found a tongue.

“What for are you worrying about the lad, Martha Hatton?  He’s grown up, you know, and he isn’t worrying about you.  I’ll warrant that some way or other he’s with that Harlow girl, and where’s his poor mother then?  Clean forgotten, of course.  Sons and daughters, indeed!  They are a bitter pleasure, they are that.  Here’s John getting on to thirty years old, and I never knew it in his shoes to run after a girl before—­but there—­I’m down-daunted with the changes that will have to come—­yes, that will have to come—­well, well, life is just a hurry-push!  One trouble after another—­that’s John’s horse, I know its gallop, and it is high time he was here, it is that.  Besides, it’s dribbling rain, and I wouldn’t wonder if it was teeming down in half an hour—­and there’s Tom crying for all he’s worth—­I may as well let him in—­come in, Tom!”—­and Tom walked in with an independent air to the rug and lay down by John’s footstool.  Indeed, his attitude was impudent enough to warrant Mrs. Hatton’s threat to “turn him out-of-doors, if he did not carry himself more like a decent cat and less like a blackguard.”

The creature knew well enough what was said to him.  He lay prone on the rug, with his head on his forepaws, watching Mrs. Hatton; and she was a little uncomfortable and glad when John entered the room.  The cat ran to meet him, but John went straight to his mother’s side and said,

“Dear mother, I want your kiss and blessing tonight.  God has given me the desire of my heart, but I am not satisfied until you share my joy.”

“That means that God has given you the love and promise of Jane Harlow.”

“Yes, that is what I mean.  Sit down, mother; I must talk the matter over with you, or I shall miss some of the sweetest part of it.”

Then she lifted her face and looked at him, and it was easy to see that Love and the man had met.  Never before in all his life had she seen him so beautiful—­his broad, white forehead, his bright contemplative eyes, his sweet, loving, thoughtful face breaking into kind smiles, his gentle manner, and his scrupulously refined dress made a picture of manhood that appealed to her first, as a mother, and secondly, as a woman.  And in her heart an instantaneous change took place.  She put her hands on his shoulders and lifted her face for his kiss.

“My good son!” she said.  “Thy love is my love, and thy joy is my joy!  Sit thee down, John, and tell me all about it.”

So they sat down together on the bright hearth, sat down so close that John could feel the constant touch of his mother’s hand—­that white, firm hand which had guided and comforted him all his life long.

“Mother,” he said, “if anyone had told me this morning that I should be Jane’s betrothed husband before I slept this night, I would hardly have believed in the possibility.  But Love is like a flower; it lies quiet in its long still growth, and then in some happy hour it bursts into perfect bloom.  I had finished my business at Overton and stayed to eat the market dinner with the spinners.  Then in the quiet afternoon I took my way home, and about a mile above the village I met Jane.  I alighted and took the bridle off Bendigo’s neck over my arm, and asked permission to walk with her.  She said she was going to Harlow House, and would be glad of my company.  As we walked she told me they intended to return there; she said she felt its large rooms with their faded magnificence to be far more respectable than the little modern villa with its creaking floors and rattling windows in which they were living.”

“She is quite right,” said Mrs. Hatton.  “I wonder at them for leaving the old place.  Many a time and oft I have said that.”

“She told me they had been up there a good deal during the past summer and had enjoyed the peace and solitude of the situation; and the large silent rooms were full of stories, she said—­love stories of the old gay Regency days.  I said something about filling them with love stories of the present day, and she laughed and said her mother was going there to farm the land and make some money out of it; and she added with a smile like sunshine, ’And I am going to try and help her.  That accounts for our walk this afternoon, Mr. Hatton,’ and I told her I was that well pleased with the walk, I cared little for what had caused it.

“In a short time we came in sight of the big, lonely house and entered the long neglected park and garden.  I noticed at once a splendid belt of old ash-trees that shielded the house from the north and northeast winds.  I asked Jane if she knew who planted them, and she said she had heard that the builder of the house planted the trees.  Then I told her I suspected the builder had been a very wise man, and when she asked why I answered, Because he could hardly have chosen a better tree.  The ash represents some of the finest qualities in human nature.’”

“That wasn’t much like love talk, John.”

“It was the best kind of talk, mother.  There had to be some commonplace conversation to induce that familiarity which made love talk possible.  So I told her how the ash would grow anywhere—­even at the seaside, where all trees lean from the sea—­except the ash.  Sea or no sea, it stands straight up.  Even the oak will shave up on the side of the wind, but not the ash.  And best of all, the ash bears pruning better than any other tree.  Pruning!  That is the great trial both for men and trees, mother.  None of us like it, but the ash-tree makes the best of it.”

“What did she say to all this rigmarole about trees?”

“She said there was something very human about trees, that she had often watched them tewing with a great wind, tossing and fretting, but very seldom giving way to it.  And she added, ’They are a great deal more human than mountains.  I really think they talk about people among themselves.  I have heard those ash-trees laughing and whispering together.  Many say that they know when the people who own them are going to die.  Then, on every tree there are some leaves splashed with white.  It was so the year father died.  Do you believe in signs, Mr. Hatton?’ she asked.

“Then, mother, without my knowledge or intention I answered, ’Oh, my dear!  The world is full of signs and the man must be deaf and blind that does not believe in them.  I have seen just round Hatton that the whole bird world is ruled by the signs that the trees hang out.’  And she asked me what they were, and I told her to notice next spring that as soon as the birch-leaves opened, the pheasant began to crow and the thrush to sing and the blackbird to whistle; and when the oak-leaves looked their reddest, and not a day before, the whole tribe of finches broke into song.

“Thus talking, mother, and getting very close and friendly with each other, we passed through the park, and I could not help noticing the abundance of hares and pheasants.  Jane said they had not been molested since her father’s death, but now they were going to send some of them to market.  As we approached the house, an old man came to meet us and I gave my horse to his care.  He had the keys of the house and he opened the great door for us.  The Hall was very high and cold and lonely, but in a parlor on the right-hand side we found an old woman lighting a fire which was already blazing merrily.  Jane knew her well and she told her to make us a pot of tea and bring it there.  With her own hands she drew forward a handsome Pembroke table, and then we went together through the main rooms of the house.  They were furnished in the time of the Regency, Jane said, and it was easy to recognize the rich, ornate extravagance of that period.  In all this conversation, mother, we were drawing nearer and nearer to each other and I kept in mind that I had called her once ‘my dear’ and that she had shown no objection to the words.”

“I suppose the old man and woman were John Britton and his wife Dinah.  I believe they have charge of the place.”

“I think so.  I heard Jane give the man some orders about the glass in the windows and he spoke to her concerning the bee skeps and the dahlia bulbs being all right for winter.  In half an hour there was a nice little tea ready for us, and just imagine, mother, how it felt for me to be sitting there drinking tea with Jane!”

“Was it a nice tea, John?”

“Mother, what can I tell you?  I wasn’t myself at all.  I only know that Dinah came in and out with hot cakes and that Jane put honey on them and gave them to me with smiles and kind words.  It was all wonderful!  If I had been dreaming, I might have felt just as much out of the body.”

“Jane can be very charming, I know that, John.”

“She was something better than charming, mother; she was kind and just a little quiet.  If she had been laughing and noisy and in one of her merry moods, it would not have been half so enchanting.  It was her sweet sedateness that gave sureness and reality to the whole affair.

“We left Harlow House just as the hunting-moon was rising.  Its full yellow splendor was over everything, and Jane looked almost spiritual in its transfiguring light.  Mother, I do not remember what I said, as I walked with her hand-in-hand through the park.  Ask your own heart, mother.  I have no doubt father said the same words to you.  There can only be one language for an emotion so powerful.  Wise or foolish, Jane understood what I said, and in words equally sweet and foolish she gave me her promise.  Oh, mother, it was not altogether the words!  It was the little tremors and coy unfoldings and sweet agitations of love revealing itself—­it wakened in Jane’s heart like a wandering rose.  And I saw this awakening of the woman, mother, and it was a wonderful sight.”

“John, you have had an experience that most men miss; be thankful for it.”

“I am, mother.  As long as I live, I will remember it.”

“Did you see Mrs. Harlow?”

“For a short time only.  She was much pleased at her daughter’s choice.  She thought our marriage might disarrange some of her own plans, but she said Jane’s happiness came before all other considerations.”

“Well, John, it is more than a few hours since you had that wonderful tea with cakes and honey.  You must have your proper eating, no matter what comes or goes.  What do you say to a slice of cold roast beef and some apple pie?”

“Nay, mother, I’m not beef hungry.  I’ll have the apple pie, and a pitcher of new milk.”

“And then thou must go to bed and settle thyself with a good, deep sleep.”

“To be sure, mother.  Joy tires a man as trouble does, but a deep sleep will rest and steady me.”

So John went to the deep, steadying sleep he needed; it was Mrs. Hatton who watched the midnight hours away in anxious thought and careful forebodings.  She had not worried much about Harry’s passion for Lucy Lugur.  She was sure that his Mediterranean trip would introduce him to girls so much lovelier than Lucy that he would practically have forgotten her when he returned.  Harry had been in love with half a dozen girls before Lucy.  She let Harry slip out of her consideration.

John’s case was different.  It was vitally true and intense.  She understood that John must marry or be miserable, and she faced the situation with brimming eyes and a very heavy heart.  She had given John her loving sympathy, and she would not retract a word of it to him.  But to God she could open her heart and to Him she could tell even those little things she would not speak of to any human being.  She could ask God to remember that, boy and man, John had stood by her side for nearly thirty years, and that he was leaving her for a woman who had been unknown a year ago.

She could tell God that John’s enthusiastic praise of this strange woman had been hard to bear, and she divined that at least for a time she might have to share her home with her.  She anticipated all the little offenses she must overlook, all the small unconsidered slights she must pass by.  She knew there would be difficulties and differences in which youth and beauty would carry the day against truth and justice; and she sat hour after hour marshaling these trials of her love and temper and facing them all to their logical end.

Some women would have said, “Time enough to face a trial when it comes.”  No, it is too late then.  Trials apprehended are trials defended; and Martha Hatton knew that she could not trust herself with unexpected trials.  In that case she believed the natural woman would behave herself naturally, and say the words and do the deeds called forth by the situation.  So Martha in this solemn session was seeking strength to give up, strength to bear and to forbear, strength to see her household laws and customs violated, and not go on the aggressive for their sanctity.

She had a custom that devout women in all ages have naturally followed.  She sat quiet before God and spoke to Him in low, whispered words.  It was not prayer; it was rather the still confidence of one who asks help and counsel from a Friend, able and willing to give it.

“Dear God,” she said, in a voice that none but God could hear, “give me good, plain, household understanding—­let me keep in mind that there is no foolishness like falling out—­help me to hold my temper well in hand so that I may put things right as fast as they go wrong.  I am jealous about John—­it is hard to give him up.  Thou gavest him to me, Thou knowest.  Oh, let nothing that happens unmother me!”

In this way she sat in the dark and silence and asked and waited for the answer.  And no doubt it came, for about two o’clock she rose up like one that had been strengthened and went calmly to her rest.

In the morning the first shock of the coming change was over, the everyday use and wont of an orderly house restored the feeling of stability, and Martha told herself things might turn out better than looked likely.  John was just as loving and attentive as he had always been, and when he asked her to call on Jane Harlow as soon as she could and give her welcome into the Hatton family, she did not impute his attentions to any selfish motive.

Nevertheless, it was as the Lady of Hatton Manor, rather than as John’s mother, she went to make this necessary call.  She dressed with the greatest care, and though she was a good walker, chose to have her victoria with its pair of white ponies carry her to the village.  Jane met her at the gate of their villa and the few words of necessary welcome were spoken with a kindness which there was no reason to doubt.

With Mrs. Harlow Martha had a queer motherly kind of friendship, and it was really by her advice the ladies had been led to think of a return to Harlow House.  For she saw that the elder woman was unhappy for want of some interest in life, and she was sure that the domestic instinct, as well as the instinct for buying and selling, was well developed in her and only wanted exercise.  Indeed, an hour’s conversation on the possibilities of Harlow House, of the money to be made on game, poultry, eggs, milk, butter, honey, fruit, had roused such good hopes in Mrs. Harlow’s heart that she could hardly wait until the house was put in order and the necessary servants hired.

She relied on Martha like a child, and anyone who did that was sure of her motherly kindness.  On this day Martha was particularly glad to turn the conversation on the subject.  She spoke of Jane’s marriage and pointed out what a comfort it would be when she was alone to be making a bit of money at every turn.  “Why!” she cried enthusiastically.  “Instead of moping over the fire with some silly tale of impossible tragedy, you will have your dairy and poultry to look after.  Even in winter they bring in money, and there’s game to send to market every week.  Hares come as fast as they go, and partridge are hardy and plentiful.  Why, there’s a little fortune lying loose in Harlow!  If I were you, I would make haste to pick it up.”

This was a safe and encouraging subject, and Mrs. Hatton pressed it for all it was worth.  It was only Jane that saw any objections to their immediate removal to Harlow House.  She said Lord Harlow, as her nearest relative and the head of their house, had been written to that morning, being informed of her intended marriage, and she thought no fresh step ought to be taken until they heard from him.

But this or that, Martha Hatton spent more than two hours with the Harlow ladies, and she left them full of hope and enthusiasm.  And oh, how good, how charming, how strengthening is a new hope in life!  The two ladies were ten or twelve degrees higher in moral atmosphere when Mrs. Hatton left them than they had been before her call.  And she went away laughing and saying pleasant things and the last flirt of her white kerchief as her victoria turned up the hill was like the flutter of some glad bird’s wing.

In four days there was a letter of great interest and kindness from Lord Harlow.  He said that he was well acquainted with Mr. John Hatton from many favorable sources and that the marriage arranged between him and his niece Jane Harlow was satisfactory in all respects.  Further she was informed that Lady Harlow requested her company during the present season in London.  It would, she said, be her duty and her pleasure to assist in getting ready her niece’s wedding outfit, but she left her to fix the day on which she would come to London.

This letter was a little thunderbolt in the Harlow villa, and Jane said she could not go away until her mother was settled at Harlow House.  John was much troubled at this early break in his love dream, but Mrs. Harlow would not listen to any refusal of Lord and Lady Harlow’s invitation.  She said Jane had never seen anything of life, and it was only right she should do so before settling down at Hatton.  Besides, her uncle and aunt’s gifts would be very necessary for her wedding outfit.  In the privacy of her own thoughts—­yes, and several times to her daughter—­she sighed deeply over this late kindness of Lord and Lady Harlow.  She wished that Jane had been asked before she was engaged; nobody knew in that case what good fortune might have come.  It was such a pity!

Mrs. Harlow’s removal was not completed until Christmas was so close at hand that it was thought best to make it the time for their return home.  It was really John and Mrs. Hatton who managed the whole business of the removal, and to their efforts the complete comfort—­and even beauty—­of the old residence was due.  But the days spent in this work were days full of the sweet intimacies of love.  John could never forget one hour of them, and it added to their charm to see and hear Martha Hatton everywhere, her hands making beauty and comfort, her voice sounding like a cheerful song in all the odd corners and queer places of the house.

Upon the whole it was a wonderful Christmas, but when it was over the realities of life were to face.  Jane was going to London and John wondered how he was to bear the days without her.  In the spring he would begin to build the house for himself he had long contemplated building.  The plan of it had been fully explained to Jane, and had been approved by her, and John was resolved to break ground for the foundation as soon as it was possible to do so.  And he calculated somewhat on the diversion he would find in building a home for the woman he so dearly loved.

Then the parting came, and John with tears and misgivings sent his darling into the unknown world of London.  It was a great trial to him; fears and doubts and sad forebodings gave him tragic hours.  It was a new kind of loneliness that he felt; nothing like it had ever come to him before.

“My food has lost all flavor,” he said to his mother, “and I cannot get any good sleep.  I am very unhappy.”

“Well, my dear,” she answered, “if you don’t turn your suffering into some sort of gain, you’ll be a great loser.  But if you turn it into patience or good hope or good temper you will make gain out of it.  You will buy it with a price.  You will pay yourself down for it.  It will be yours forever.  To be plain with you, John, you have been peevish all day long.  I wouldn’t if I were you.  Nothing makes life taste so bitter in your mouth as a peevish temper.”

“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 unbeholden
      Hangs in a night, wherewith we dare not cope;
    What but look sunward, and with faces golden,
      Speak to each other softly of our Hope?”