The Measure of a Man

JOHN INTERFERES IN HARRY’S AFFAIRS

     Gamblers are reckless men, always living between ebb and flow.

     The germ of every sin, is the reflection, whether it be possible.

After John had recovered from the shock which the knowledge of Lugur’s interference in the financial affairs of his brother had given him, he drew closer to his sister and took her hand and she said anxiously, “John, what can I do to help you in getting Harry into the right way?  I know and feel that all is at present just as it should not be.  I will do whatever you advise.”  She was not weeping, but her face was white and resolute and her eyes shone with the hope that had entered her heart.

“As I traveled to London, Lucy, I thought of many ways and means, but none of them stood the test of their probable ultimate results; and as I entered my hotel I let them slip from me as useless.  Then I saw a gentleman writing his name in the registry book, and I knew it was Matthew Ramsby.  As soon as I saw him the plan for Harry’s safety came to me in a flash of light and conviction.  So I went and spoke to him and we had dinner together.  And I asked him if he was ever coming to Yoden to live, and he said, ’No, it is too far from my hunt and from the races I like best.’  Then I offered to rent the place, and he was delighted.  I made very favorable terms, and Harry must go there with you and your dear children.  Are you willing?”

“O John!  It would be like a home in Paradise.  And Harry would be safe if he was under your influence.”

“You know, Lucy, what Jane’s mother has done with Harlow House.  Yoden can be made far prettier and far more profitable.  You may raise any amount of poultry and on the wold there is a fine run for ducks and geese.  I will see that you have cows and a good riding-horse for Harry and a little carriage of some kind for yourself and the children.”

“I shall soon have all these pleasant things at my finger ends.  O John!”

“But you must have a good farmer to look after the cattle and horses, the meadowland and the grain-land and also the garden and orchard must be attended to.  Oh, I can see how busy and happy you will all be!  And, Lucy, you must use all your influence to get Harry out of London.”

“Harry will go gladly, but how can he be employed?  He will soon be weary of doing nothing.”

“I have thought of that.  What is your advice on this subject, Lucy?”

“He is tired of painting, and he has let his musical business fall away a great deal lately.  He does not keep in practice and in touch with the men of his profession.  He has been talking to me about writing a novel.  I am sure he has all the material he wants.  Do not smile, John.  It might be a good thing even if it was a failure.  It would keep him at home.”

“So it would, Lucy.  And Harry always liked a farm.  He loves the land.  He used to trouble mother meddling in the management of Hatton until he got plainly told to mind his own business.”

“Well, then, John, we will let him manage Yoden land, and encourage him to write a book, and he need not give up his music.  He has always been prominent in the Leeds musical festivals and Mr. Sullivan insists on Harry’s solo wherever he leads.”

“You are right, Lucy.  In Hatton Harry used to direct all our musical entertainments and he liked to do so.  Men and women will be delighted to have him back.”

“And he was the idol of the athletic club.  I have heard him talk about that very often.  O John, I can see Harry’s salvation.  I have been very anxious, but I knew it would come.  I will work joyfully with you in every way to help it forward.”

“You have been having a hard time I fear, Lucy.”

“Outwardly it was sometimes hard, but there was always that wonderful inner path to happiness—­you know it, John.”

“And you never lost your confidence in God?”

“If I had, I should have come to you.  Did I ever do so?  No, I waited until God sent you to me.  When I first went to Him about this anxiety, He made me a promise.  God keeps his promises.”

“Now I am going to look for Harry.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I know where the house he frequents is.”

“Suppose they will not let you see him?”

“I am going to Scotland Yard first.”

“Why?”

“For a constable to go with me.”

“You will be kind to Harry?”

“As you are kind to little Agnes.  I may have to strip my words for him and make them very plain, but when that is done I will comfort and help him.  Will you sleep and rest and be sure all is well with Harry?”

“As soon as my girl returns, I will do as you tell me.  Tomorrow I—­”

“Let us leave tomorrow.  It will have its own help and blessing, but neither is due until tomorrow.  We have not used up all today’s blessing yet.  Good-bye, little sister!  Sleeping or waking, dream of the happiness coming to you and your children.”

It was only after two hours of delays and denials that John was able to locate his brother.  Lugur had given him the exact location of the house, but the man at the door constantly denied Harry’s presence.  It was a small, dull, inconspicuous residence, but John felt acutely its sinister character, many houses having this strange power of revealing the inner life that permeates them.  The man obtained at Scotland Yard was well acquainted with the premises, but at first appeared to be either ignorant or indifferent and only answered John’s questions in monosyllables until John said,

“If you can take me to my brother, I will give you a pound.”

Then there was a change.  The word “pound” went straight to his nervous center, and he became intelligent and helpful.

“When the door is opened again,” he said, “walk inside.  There is a long passage going backward, and a room at the end of that passage.  The kid you want will be in that room.”

“You will go with me?”

“Why not?  They all know me.”

“Tell them my name is John Hatton.”

“I don’t need to say a word.  I have ways of putting up my hand which they know, and obey.  Ring the bell.  I’ll give the doorman the word to pass you in.  Walk forward then and you’ll find your young man, as I told you, in the room at the end of the passage.  I’ll bet on it.  I shall be close behind you, but do your own talking.”

John followed the directions given and soon found himself in a room handsomely but scantily furnished.  There were some large easy chairs, a wide comfortable sofa, and tables covered with green baize.  A fire blazed fitfully in a bright steel grate, but there were no pictures, no ornaments of any kind, no books or musical instruments.  The gas burned dimly and the fire was dull and smoky, for there was a heavy fog outside which no light could fully penetrate.  The company were nearly all middle-aged and respectable-looking.  Their hands were full of cards, and they were playing with them like men in a ghostly dream.  They never lifted their eyes.  They threw down cards on the table in silence, they gathered them up with a muttered word and went on again.  They seemed to John like the wild phantasmagoria of some visionary hell.  Their silent, mechanical movements, their red eyelids, their broad white faces, utterly devoid of intellect or expression, terrified him.  He could not avoid the tense, shocked accent with which he called his brother’s name.

Harry looked up as if he had heard a voice in his sleep.  A strained unlovely light was on his face.  His luck had turned.  He was going to win.  He could not speak.  His whole soul was bent upon the next throw and with a cry of satisfaction he lifted the little roll of bills the croupier pushed towards him.

Then John laid his hand firmly on Harry’s shoulder. “Give that money to me,” he said and in a bewildered manner Harry mechanically obeyed the command.  Then John, holding it between his finger and thumb, walked straight to the hearth and threw the whole roll into the fire.  For a moment there was a dead silence; then two of the youngest men rose to their feet.  John went back to the table.  Cards from every hand were scattered there, and looking steadily at the men round it, John asked with intense feeling,

“GENTLEMEN, what will it profit you, if you gain the whole world and lose your own souls; for what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”

A dead silence followed these questions, but as John left the room with his brother, he heard an angry querulous voice exclaim,

“Most outrageous!  Most unusual!  O croupier! croupier!”

Then he was at the door.  He paid the promised pound, and as his cab was waiting, he motioned to Harry to enter it.  All the way to Charing Cross, John preserved an indignant silence and Harry copied his attitude, though the almost incessant beating of his doubled hands together showed the intense passion which agitated him.

Half an hour’s drive brought them to the privacy of their hotel rooms and as quickly as they entered them, John turned on his brother like a lion brought to bay.

“How dared you,” he said in a low, hard voice, “how dared you let me find you in such a place?”

“I was with gentlemen playing a quiet game.  You had no right to disturb me.”

“You were playing with thieves and blackguards.  There was not a gentleman in the room—­no, not one.”

“John, take care what you say.”

“A man is no better than the company he keeps.  Go with rascals and you will be counted one of them.  Yes, and so you ought to be.  I am ashamed of you!”

“I did not ask you to come into my company.  I did not want you.  It was most interfering of you.  Yes, John, I call it impudently interfering.  I gave way to you this time to prevent a police scene, but I will never do it again!  Never!”

“You will never go into such a den of iniquity again.  Never!  Mind that!  The dead and the living both will block your way.  We Hattons have been honest men in all our generations.  Sons of the soil, taking our living from the land on which we lived in some way or other—­never before from dirty cards in dirty hands and shuffled about in roguery, treachery, and robbery.  I feel defiled by breathing the same air with such a crowd of card-sharpers and scoundrels.”

“I say they were good honest gentlemen.  Sir Thomas Leland was there, and——­”

“I don’t care if they were all princes.  They were a bad lot, and theft and cards and brandy were written large on every sickly, wicked, white face of them.  O Harry, how dared you disgrace your family by keeping such company?”

“No one but a Methodist preacher is respectable in your eyes, John.  Everyone in Hatton knew the Naylors, yet you gave them the same bad names.”

“And they deserved all and more than they got.  They gambled with horses instead of cards.  They ran nobler animals than themselves to death for money—­and money for which neither labor nor its equivalent is given is dishonest money and the man who puts it in his pocket is a thief and puts hell in his pocket with it.”

“John, if I were you I would use more gentlemanly language.”

“O Harry!  Harry!  My dear, dear brother!  I am speaking now not only for myself but for mother and Lucy and your lovely children.  Who or what is driving you down this road of destruction?  I have left home at a hard time to help you.  Come to me, Harry!  Come and sit down beside me as you always have done.  Tell me what is wrong, my brother!”

Harry was walking angrily about the room, but at these words his eyes filled with tears.  He stood still and looked at John and when John stretched out his arms, he could not resist the invitation.  The next moment his head was on John’s breast and John’s arm was across Harry’s shoulders and John was saying such words as the wounded heart loves to hear.  Then Harry told all his trouble and all his temptation and John freely forgave him.  With little persuasion, indeed almost voluntarily, he gave John a sacred promise never to touch a card again.  And then there were some moments of that satisfying silence which occurs when a great danger has been averted or a great wrong been put right.

But Harry looked white and wretched.  He had been driven, as it were, out of the road of destruction, but he felt like a man in a pathless desert who saw no road of any kind.  The fear of a lost child was in his heart.

“What is it, Harry?” asked John, for he saw that his brother was faint and exhausted.

“Well, John, I have eaten nothing since morning—­and my heart sinks.  I have been doing wrong.  I am sorry.  I ought to have come to you.”

“To be sure.  Now you shall have food, and then I have something to tell you that will make you happy.”  So while Harry ate, John told him of the renting of Yoden and laid before him all that it promised.  And as John talked the young man’s countenance grew radiant and he clasped his brother’s hand and entered with almost boyish enthusiasm into every detail of the Yoden plan.  He was particularly delighted at the prospect of turning the fine old house into an unique and beautiful modern home.  He laughed joyously as he saw in imagination the blending of the old carved oak furniture with his own pretty maple and rosewood.  His artistic sense saw at once how the high dark chimney-pieces would glow and color with his bric-a-brac, and how his historical paintings would make the halls and stairways alive with old romance; and his copies of Turner and other landscapes would adorn the sitting-and sleeping-rooms.

John entered fully into his delight and added, “Why, Ramsby told me that there were some fine old carpets yet on the floors and Genoese velvet window-curtains lined with rose-colored satin which were not yet past use.”

“Oh, delightful!” cried Harry.  “We will blend Lucy’s white lace ones with them.  John, I am coming into the dream of my life.”

“I know it, Harry.  The farm is small but it will be enough.  You will soon have it like a garden.  Harry, you were born to live on the land and by the land, and when you get to Yoden your feverish dream of cities and their fame and fortune will pass, even from your memory.  Lucy and you are going to be so busy and happy, happier than you ever were before!”

It was however several days before the change could be properly entered upon.  There were points of law to settle and the packing and removal to arrange for, and though John was anxious and unhappy he could not leave Harry and Lucy until they thoroughly understood what was to be done.  But how they enjoyed the old place in anticipation!  John smiled to see Harry from morning to night in deshabille as workmanlike as possible, with a foot rule or hammer constantly in his hand.

Yes, the London house was all in confusion, but Oh, what a happy confusion!  Lucy was so busy, she hardly knew what to do first, but her comfortable good-temper suffused the homeliest duties of life with the sacred glow of unselfish love, and John, watching her sunny cheerfulness, said to himself,

“Surely God smiled upon her soul before it came to this earth.”

In a short time Lucy had got right under the situation.  She knew exactly what ought to be done and did it, being quite satisfied that Harry should spend his time in measuring accurately and packing with extremest care his pictures and curios and all the small things so large and important to himself.  And it was not to Harry but to Lucy that John gave all important instructions, for he soon perceived that it was Harry’s way to rush into the middle of things but never to overtake himself.

At length after ten days of unwearying superintendence, John felt that Lucy and Harry could be left to manage their own affairs.  Now, we like the people we help and bless, and John during his care for his brother’s family had become much attached to every member of it, for even little Agnes could now hold out her arms to him and lisp his name.  So his last duty in London was to visit Harry’s house and bid them all a short farewell.  He found Harry measuring with his foot rule a box for one of his finest paintings.  It had to be precisely of the size Harry had decided on and he was as bent on this result as if it was a matter of great importance.

“You see, John,” he said, “it is a very hard thing to make the box fit the picture.  It is really a difficult thing to do.”

John smiled and then asked, “Why should you do it, Harry?  It would be so easy not to do it, or to have a man who makes a business of the work do it for you.”  And Harry shook his head and began the measurement of box and picture over again.

“The little chappies are asleep, John, I wouldn’t disturb them.  Lucy is in the nursery.  You had better tell her anything that ought to be done.  I shall be sure to forget with these measurements to carry in my head.”

“Put them on paper, Harry.”

“The paper might get lost.”

And John smiled and answered, “So it might.”

So John went to the nursery and first of all to the boys’ bed.  Very quietly they slipped their little hands into his and told him in whispers, “Mamma is singing Agnes to sleep, and we must not make any noise.”  So very quiet good-bye kisses full of sweet promises were given and John turned towards Lucy.  She sat in her low nursing-chair slowly rocking to-and-fro the baby in her arms.  Her face was bent and smiling above it and she was singing sweet and singing low a strain from a pretty lullaby,

    “O rock the sweet carnation red,
    And rock the silver lining,
    And rock my baby softly, too,
    With skein of silk entwining. 
    Come, O Sleep, from Chio’s Isle! 
    And take my little one awhile!”

She had lost all her anxious expression.  She was rosy and smiling, and looked as if she liked the nursery rhyme as well as Agnes did and that Agnes liked it was shown by the little starts with which she roused herself if she felt the song slipping away from her.

“Let me kiss the little one,” said John, “and then I must bid you good-bye.  We shall soon meet again, Lucy, and I am glad to leave you looking so much better.”

Lucy not only looked much better, she was exceedingly beautiful.  For her nature reached down to the perennial, and she had kept a child’s capacity to be happy in small, everyday pleasures.  It was always such an easy thing to please her and so difficult for little frets to annoy her.  Harry’s inconsequent, thoughtless ways would have worried and tried some women to the uttermost, for he was frequently less thoughtful and less helpful than he should have been.  But Lucy was slow to notice or to believe any wrong of her husband and even if it was made evident to her she was ready to forgive it, ready to throw over his little tempers, his hasty rudenesses, and his never-absent selfishness, the cloak of her merciful manifest love.

“What a loving little woman she is!” thought John, but really what affected him most was her constant cheerfulness.  No fear could make her doubt and she welcomed the first gleam of hope with smiles that filled the house with the sunshine of her sure and fortunate expectations.  How did she do it?  Then there flashed across John’s mind the words of the prophet Isaiah, “Thou meetest him that rejoiceth, and worketh righteousness.”  God does not go to meet the complaining and the doubting and the inefficient.  He goes to meet the cheerful, the courageous and the good worker; that is, God helps those who help themselves.  And God’s help is not a peradventure; it is potential and mighty to save; “for our Redeemer is strong.  He shall thoroughly plead our cause,” in every emergency of Life.

Very early next morning John turned a happy face homeward.  The hero of today has generally the ball of skepticism attached to his foot, but between John Hatton and the God he loved there was not one shadow of doubt.  John knew and was sure that everything, no matter how evil it looked, would work together for good.

It was a day of misty radiance until the sun rose high and paved the clouds with fire.  Then the earth was glad.  The birds were singing as if they never would grow old, and, Oh, the miles and miles of green, green meadows, far, far greener than the youngest leaves on the trees!  There were no secrets and no nests in the trees yet, but John knew they were coming.  He could have told what kind of trees his favorite birds would choose and how they would build their nests among the branches.

Towards noon he caught the electric atmosphere pouring down the northern mountains.  He saw the old pines clambering up their bulwarks, and the streams glancing and dancing down their rocky sides and over the brown plowed fields below great flocks of crows flying heavily.  Then he knew that he was coming nigh to Hatton-in-Elmete and at last he saw the great elm-trees that still distinguished his native locality.  Then his heart beat with a warmer, quicker tide.  They blended inextricably with his thoughts of mother and wife, child and home, and he felt strongly that mystical communion between Man and Nature given to those

    Whose ears have heard
    The Ancient Word,
    Who walked among the silent trees.

Not that Nature in any form or any measure had supplanted his thoughts of Jane.  She had been the dominant note in every reflection during all the journey.  Mountain and stream, birds and trees and shifting clouds had only served as the beautiful background against which he set her in unfading beauty and tenderness.  For he was sure that she loved him and he believed that Love would yet redeem the past.

During his absence she had written him the most affectionate and charming letters and when the train reached Hatton-in-Elmete, she was waiting to receive him.  He had a very pardonable pride in her appearance and the attention she attracted pleased him.  In his heart he was far prouder of being Jane’s husband than of being master of Hatton.  She had driven down to the train in her victoria, and he took his seat proudly at her side and let his heart fully enjoy the happy ride home in the sunshine of her love.

A delightful lunch followed and John was glad that the presence of servants prevented the discussion of any subject having power to disturb this heavenly interlude.  He talked of the approaching war, but as yet there was no tone of fear in his speculations about its effects.  He told her of his visits to her uncle, and of the evenings they had spent together at Lord Harlow’s club; or he spoke in a casual way of Harry’s coming to Yoden and of little external matters connected with the change.

But as soon as they were alone Jane showed her disapproval of this movement.  “Whatever is bringing your brother back to the North?” she asked.  “I thought he objected both to the people and the climate.”

“I advised him to take Ramsby’s offer for Yoden.  The children needed the country and Harry was not as I like to see him.  I think they will be very happy at Yoden.  Harry always liked living on the land.  He was made to live on it.”

“I thought he was made to fiddle and sing,” said Jane with a little scornful laugh.

“He does both to perfection, but a man’s likes and dislikes change, as the years go by.”

“Yes, plenty of women find that out.”

Her tone and manner was doubtful and unpleasant, the atmosphere of the room was chilled, and John said in a tentative manner, “I will now ride to Hatton Hall.  Mother is expecting me, I know.  Come with me, Jane, and I will order the victoria.  It is a lovely afternoon for a drive.”

“I would rather you went alone, John.”

“Why, my dear?”

“It will spare me telling you some things I do not care to speak about.”

“What is wrong at Hatton Hall?”

“Only Mrs. John Hatton.”

Then John was much troubled.  The light went out of his eyes and the smile faded from his face and he stood up as he answered,

“You have misunderstood something that mother has said.”

“Why do you talk of things impossible, John?” Jane asked.  “Mrs. Stephen Hatton speaks too plainly to be misunderstood.  Indeed her words enter the ears like darts.”

“Yes, she strips them to the naked truth.  If it be a fault, it is one easy to excuse.”

“I do not find it so.”

“I am sorry you will not go with me, for I shall have to give a good deal of this evening to Greenwood.”

“I expected that.”

“Go with me this afternoon, do, my dear!  We can ride on to Harlow also.”

“I spent all yesterday with my mother.”

“Then, good-bye!  I will be home in an hour.”

John found it very pleasant to ride through the village and up Hatton Hill again.  He thought the very trees bent their branches to greet him and that the linnets and thrushes sang together about his return.  Then he smiled at his foolish thought, yet instantly wondered if it might not be true, and thus fantastically reasoning, he came to the big gates of the Hall, and saw his mother watching for his arrival.

He took her hands and kissed her tenderly.  “O mother!  Mother!” he cried.  “How glad I am to see you!”

“To be sure, my dear lad.  But if I had not got your note this morning, I would have known by the sound of your horse’s feet he was bringing John home, for your riding was like that of Jehu, the son of Nimshi.  But there!  Come thy ways in, and tell me what has happened thee, here and there.”

They talked first of the coming war, and John advised his mother to prepare for it.  “It will be a war between two rich and stubborn factions,” he said.  “It is likely enough to last for years.  I may have to shut Hatton mill.”

“Shut it while you have a bit of money behind it, John.  I heard Arkroyd had told his hands he would lock his gates at the end of the month.”

“I shall keep Hatton mill going, mother, as long as I have money enough to buy a bale of cotton at any price.”

“I know you will.  But there!  What is the good of talking about maybe’s?  At every turn and corner of life, there is sure to stand a maybe.  I wait until we meet and I generally find them more friendly than otherwise.”

“I wanted Jane to come with me this afternoon, and she would not do so.”

“She is right.  I don’t think I expect her to come.  She didn’t like what I said to her the last time she favored me with a visit.”

“What did you say to her, mother?”

“I will not tell thee.  I hev told her to her face and I will not be a backbiter.  Not I!  Ask thy wife what I said to her and why I said it and the example I set before her.  She can tell thee.”

“Whatever is the matter with the women of these days, mother?”

“I’m sure I cannot tell.  If they had a thimbleful of sense, they would know that the denial of the family tie is sure to weaken the marriage tie.  One thing I know is that society has put motherhood out of fashion.  It considers the nursery a place of punishment instead of a place of pleasure.  Young Mrs. Wrathall was here yesterday all in a twitter of pleasure, because her husband is letting her take lessons in music and drawing.”

“Why, mother, she must be thirty years old.  What did you say to her?”

“I reminded her that she had four little children and the world could get along without water-color sketches and amateur music, but that it could not possibly get along without wives and mothers.”

“You might have also told her, mother, that if the Progressive Club would read history, they might find out that those times in any nation when wives were ornaments and not mothers were always periods of national decadence and moral failures.”

“Well, John, you won’t get women to search history for results that wouldn’t please them; and to expect a certain kind of frivolous, selfish woman to look beyond her own pleasure is to expect the great miracle that will never come.  You can’t expect it.”

“But Jane is neither frivolous nor selfish.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Is that all you can say, mother?”

“All.  Every word.  Between you and her I will not stand.  I have given her my mind.  It is all I have to give her at present.  I want to hear something about Harry.  Whatever is he coming to Yoden for?  Yoden will take a goodish bit of money to run it and if he hasn’t a capable wife, he had better move out as soon as he moves in.”

Then John told her the whole truth about Harry’s position—­his weariness of his profession, his indifference to business, and his temptation to gamble.

“The poor lad!  The poor lad!” she cried.  “He began all wrong.  He has just been seeking his right place all these years.”

“Well, mother, we cannot get over the stile until we come to it.  I think Harry has crossed it now.  And there could not be a better wife and mother than Lucy Hatton.  You will help and advise her, mother?  I am sure you will.”

“I will do what I can, John.  She ought to have called the little girl after me.  I can scarce frame myself to love her under Agnes.  However, it is English enough to stick in my memory and maybe it may find the way to my heart.  As to Harry, he is my boy, and I will stand by him everywhere and in every way I can.  He is sweet and true-hearted, and clever on all sides—­the dangerous ten talents, John!  We ought to pity and help him, for their general heritage is

    “The ears to hear,
    The eyes to see,
    And the hands
      That let all go.”