Chapter 10

AT HER GATES

    We shape ourselves the joy or tear,
      Of which the coming life is made;
    And fill our future atmosphere
      With sunshine or with shade.
It was just at the edge of the dark when John left his mother. He had
perhaps been strengthened by her counsel, but he had not been comforted.
In Hatton market-place he saw a large gathering of men and women and
heard Greenwood in a passionate tone talking to them. Very soon a voice,
almost equally powerful, started what appeared to be a hymn, and John
rode closer to the crowd and listened.
    "The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand,
      His storms roll up the sky;
    The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold,
      The dreamers toss and sigh.
    The night is darkest before the morn,
    When the pain is sorest the child is born,
      And the Day of the Lord is at hand.
    "Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell,
      Famine, and Plague, and War,
    Idleness, Bigotry, Cant and Misrule,
      Gather, and fall in the snare.
    Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave,
    Crawl to the battlefield, sneak to your grave,
      In the Day of the Lord at hand."
John did not hear Greenwood's voice among the singers, but at the close
of the second verse it rose above all others. "Lads and lasses of the
chapel singing-pew," he cried, "we will better that kind of stuff. Sing
up to the tune of Olivet," and to this majestic melody he started in a
clarion-like voice Toplady's splendid hymn,
    "Lo! He comes with clouds descending,
      Once for favored sinners slain,
    Thousand, thousand saints attending,
      Swell the triumph of his train.
        Hallelujah!
      God appears on earth to reign."
The words were as familiar as their mother tongue, and Greenwood's
authoritative voice in chapel, mill, and trade meetings, was quite as
intimate and potential. They answered his request almost as
automatically as the looms answered the signal for their movement or
stoppage; for music quickly fires a Yorkshire heart and a hymn led by
Jonathan Greenwood was a temptation no man or woman present could
resist. Very soon he gave them the word "_Home_," and they scattered in
every direction, singing the last verse. Then Greenwood's voice rose
higher and higher, jubilant, triumphant in its closing lines,
    "Yea, amen! Let all adore Thee,
      High on thy eternal throne;
    Saviour, take the power and glory,
      Claim the kingdom for thine own.
        Jah Jehovah!
      Everlasting God come down."
Greenwood's joyful enthusiasm was more than John could encounter at that
hour. He did not stop to speak with him, but rode swiftly home. He saw
and felt the brooding trouble and knew the question of more wage and
shorter hours, though now a smoldering one, might at any hour become a
burning one, only there was the coming war. If the men went on strike,
he could then reasonably lock his factory gates. No, he could not. The
inner John Hatton would not permit the outer man to do such a thing. His
looms must work while he had a pound of cotton to feed them.
This resolution, warm and strong in his heart, cheered him, and he
hastened home. Then he wondered how it would be with him there, and a
feeling of unhappiness conquered for a moment. But John's mental bravery
was the salt to all his other virtues, and mental bravery does not quail
before an uncertainty.
He hoped that Jane would, as was her usual custom, meet him at the
door, that she would hear his step and answer the call of it. But she
did not. Then he remembered that the night had turned chilly and that it
was near to dinner-time. She was probably in her dressing-room, but this
uncertainty was not cheerful. Yet he sang as he prepared himself for
dinner. He did not know why he sang for the song was not in his
heart--he only felt it to be an act of relief and encouragement.
When he went to the dining-room Jane was there. She roused herself with
a sleepy languor and stretched out her arms to him with welcoming
smiles. For a moment he stood motionless and silent. She had dressed
herself wonderfully in a long, graceful robe of white broadcloth, rich
and soft and shining as the white satin which lay in folds about the
bosom and sleeves and encircled her waist in a broad belt. Her hair,
freed of puffs and braids, showed all its beauty in glossy smoothness
and light coils, and in its meshes was one large red rose, the fellow of
which was partly hidden among the laces at her bosom. Half-asleep she
went to meet him, and his first feeling was a kind of awe at the sight
of her. He had not dreamed she was so beautiful. Without a word he took
her hands and hiding his emotion in some commonplace remark, drew her to
his side.
"You are lovelier than on your bridal morning, most sweet Jane," he
whispered. "What have you been doing to yourself?"
"Well, John," she laughed, "Mrs. Tracy sent me word she was going to
call between four and five to give me a few points about the girls'
sewing-class, and I thought I would at the same time give her a few
points about dressing herself. You know she is usually a fright."
"I thought--perhaps--you had dressed yourself to please me."
"You are quite right, John. Your pleasure is always the first motive for
anything I do or wear."
The dinner hour passed to such pleasant platitudes as John's description
of the manner in which Greenwood broke up the radical meeting in the
market-place; but in both hearts and below all the sweet intercourse
there lay a sense of tragedy that nothing could propitiate or avert.
The subject, however, was not named till they were quite alone and the
very house in its intense stillness appeared to be waiting and listening
for the words to be spoken. John was about to speak them, but Jane rose
suddenly to her feet and looking steadily at him said,
"John, what did your mother say about me this afternoon? I expect you to
tell me every word."
"She would not talk about you in any way. She said she had given you her
whole mind straight to your face and would do no backbiting. That is, as
you know, mother's way."
"Well, John, I would rather have the backbiting. I like to be treated
decently to my face. People are welcome to say whatever they like when
I am not present to be annoyed by their evil suspicions."
"She told me to ask you what was said and I trust you will tell me."
"I will. You remember that I had a whole society of women in the parlors
and I could only give you a short farewell; but I was much grieved to
send you away with such a brooding sorrow in your heart. The next day I
was putting the house in order and writing to you and I did not go out.
But on the morning of the third day I determined to visit my mother and
to call at Hatton Hall as I returned home.
"I did not have a pleasant visit at Harlow. Since mother has begun to
save money, she has lost all interest in any other subject. I told her
how affairs were between us, and though she had hitherto been rabidly in
favor of no children she appeared that morning indifferent to everything
but the loss of a brood of young chickens which some animal had eaten or
carried off. On this subject she was passionately in earnest; she knew
to a farthing the amount of her loss, and when I persisted in telling
her how you and I had parted, she only reiterated in a more angry manner
her former directions and assurances on this subject.
"After a very spare dinner she was more attentive to my trouble. She
said it had become a serious question in nearly all married lives--"
"I deny that, Jane. The large majority of women, I am sure, when they
marry do not hold themselves outraged and degraded by the consequences,
nor do they consider natural functions less honorable than social ones.
Money can release a woman from work, but it cannot release her from any
service of love."
"Men forget very easily the physical sufferings of wives. I love our
little Martha as well as, perhaps better than, you do, but I remember
clearly that for nearly a whole year I endured the solitude, sickness,
and acute suffering of maternity. And whatever else you do, you will
_never_ persuade me to like having children. And pray what kind of
children will women bear when they don't want them?"
"Well, Jane, your question would stagger me, if I did not know that
Nature often skips a generation, and produces some older and finer
type."
"Highly civilized men don't want children. Lady Harlow told me so,
John."
"Well then, Jane, highly civilized men are in no danger. They need not
fear what women can do to them. They will only find women pleasant to
meet and easy to leave. I saw many, many women in the London parks and
shopping district so perverted as to be on friendly terms with dogs, and
in their homes, with cats and cockatoos, and who had no affection for
children--women who could try to understand the screams of a parrot, the
barking of a dog, but who would not tolerate the lovely patois of the
nursery. Jane, the salvation of society depends on good mothers, and if
women decline to be mothers at all, it is a shameful and dangerous
situation."
"Oh, no! Why should I, for instance, undertake the reformation of
society? I wish rather to educate and reform myself."
"All right! No education is too wide or too high for a mother. She has
to educate heroes, saints, and good workers. There would have been no
Gracchi, if there had been no Cornelia; no Samuel, if Hannah had not
trained him. The profession of motherhood is woman's great natural
office; no others can be named with it. The family must be put before
everything else as a principle."
"John," she said coaxingly, "you are so far behind the times. The idea
of 'home' is growing antiquated, and the institution of the family is
passing out of date, my dear."
"You are mistaken, Jane. Mother and home are the soul of the world; they
will never pass. I read the other day that Horace Walpole thanked God
that he came into the world when there were still such terms as
'afternoon' and 'evening.' I hope I may say I came when the ideas of
'home' and children' were still the moving principles of human society;
and I swear that I will do nothing to sink them below the verge. God
forbid!"
"John, I am not concerned about principles. My care is not for anything
but what concerns ourselves and our home. I tell you plainly I do not
desire children. I will not have any more. I will do all I can to make
you honorable and happy. I will order and see to your house, servants,
and expenditures. I will love and cherish and bring up properly our dear
child. I will make you socially respected. I will read or write, or play
or sing to your desire. I will above all other things love and obey you.
Is not this sufficient, John?"
"No, I want children. They were an understood consequence of our
marriage. I feel ashamed among my fellows----"
"Yes, I suppose you would like to imitate Squire Atherton and take two
pews in church for your sons and daughters and walk up the aisle every
Sunday before them. It is comical to watch them. And poor Mrs. Atherton!
Once she was the beauty of the West Riding! Now she is a faded, draggled
skeleton, carelessly and unfashionably dressed, following meekly the
long procession of her giggling girls and sulky boys. Upon my word,
John, it is enough to cure any girl of the marriage fever to see Squire
Atherton and his friend Ashby and Roper of Roper's Mills and Coates of
Coates Mills and the like. And if it was an understood thing in our
marriage that I should suffer and perhaps die in order that a new lot of
cotton-spinners be born, why was it not so stated in the bond?"
"My dear Jane, the trial to which you propose to subject me, I cannot
discuss tonight. You have said all I can bear at present. It has been a
long, long, hard day. God help me! Good night!" Then he bowed his head
and slowly left the room.
Jane was astonished, but his white face, the sad, yonderly look in his
eyes, and the way in which he bit his lower lip went like a knife to her
heart.
She sat still, speechless, motionless. She had not expected either his
prompt denial of her position or its powerful effect on him physically.
Never before had she seen John show any symptoms of illness, and his
sudden collapse of bodily endurance, his evident suffering and
deliberate walk frightened her. She feared he might have a fit and fall
downstairs. Colonel Booth had found his death in that way when he heard
of his son's accident on the railway. "All Yorkshiremen," she mused,
"are so full-blooded and hot-blooded, everything that does not please
them goes either to their brains or their hearts--and John _has_ a
heart." Yes, she acknowledged John had a heart, and then wondered again
what made him so anxious to have children.
But with all her efforts to make a commonplace event of her husband's
great sorrow, she did not succeed in stifling the outcry in her own
heart. She whispered to it to "Be still!" She promised to make up for
it, even to undo it, sometime; but the Accuser would not let her rest,
and when exhaustion ended in sleep, chastised her with distracting,
miserable dreams.
John walked slowly upstairs, but he had no thought of falling. He knew
that something had happened to the Inner Man, and he wanted to steady
and control him. It was not Jane's opinions; it was not public opinion,
however widespread it might be. It was the blood of generations of good
men and good women that roused in him a passionate protest against the
destruction of their race. His private sense of injustice and disloyalty
came later. Then the iron entered his soul and it was on this very bread
of bitterness he had now to feed it; for on this bread only could he
grow to the full stature of a man of God. His heart was bruised and
torn, but his soul was unshaken, and the hidden power and strength of
life revealed themselves.
First he threw all anger behind him. He thought of his wife with
tenderness and pity only. He made himself recall her charm and her love.
He decided that it would be better not to argue the fatal subject with
her again. "No man can convince a woman," he thought. "She must be led
to convince herself. I will trust her to God. He will send some teacher
who cannot fail." Then he thought of the days of pleasantness they had
passed together, and his heart felt as if it must break, while from
behind his closed eyelids great tears rolled down his face.
This incident, though so natural, shocked him. He arrested such evident
grief at once and very soon he stood up to pray. So prayed the gray
fathers of the world, Terah and Abram, Lot and Jacob; and John stood at
the open window with his troubled face lifted to the starlit sky. His
soul was seeking earnestly that depth in our nature where the divine and
human are one, for when the brain is stupefied by the inevitable and we
know not what to abandon and what to defend, that is the sanctuary where
we shall find help for every hour of need.
What words, wonderful and secret, were there spoken it is not well to
inquire. They were for John's wounded heart alone, and though he came
from that communion weeping, it was
              --as a child that cries,
    But crying, knows his Father near.
Nothing was different but he sat down hushed and strengthened, and in
his heart and on his lips the most triumphant words a man or woman can
utter, _"Thy Will be done!"_ Then there was a great peace. He had cast
all his sorrow upon God and _left it with God_. He did not bring it back
with him as we are so ready to do. It was not that he comprehended any
more clearly why this sorrow and trial had come to darken his happy
home, but Oh, _what matters comprehension when there is faith!_ John did
not make inquiries; he knew by experience that there are spiritual
conditions as real as physical facts. The shadows were all gone. Nothing
was different,
                   --yet this much he knew,
    His soul stirred in its chrysalis of clay,
    A strange peace filled him like a cup; he grew
      Better, wiser and gladder, on that day:
    This dusty, worn-out world seemed made anew,
        Because God's Way, had now become his way.
Then he fell into that sleep which God gives to his beloved, and when he
awoke it was the dayshine. The light streamed in through the eastern
windows, there was a robin singing on his window sill, and there was no
trouble in his heart but what he could face.
His business was now urging him to be diligent, and his business--being
that of so many others, he durst not neglect it. Jane he did not see.
Her maid said she had been ill all night and had fallen asleep at the
dawning, and John left her a written message and went earlier to the
mill than usual. But Greenwood was there, busily examining bales of
cotton and singing and scolding alternately as he worked. John joined
him and they had a hard morning's work together, throughout which only
one subject occupied both minds--the mill and cotton to feed its looms.
In the afternoon Greenwood took up the more human phase of the question.
He told John that six of their unmarried men had gone to America. "They
think mebbe they'll be a bit better off there, sir. I don't think they
will."
"Not a bit."
"And while you were away Jeremiah Stokes left his loom forever. It
didn't put him out any. It was a stormy night for the flitting--thunder
and lightning and wind and rain--but he went smiling and whispering,
    "There is a land of pure delight!"
"The woman, poor soul, had a harder journey."
"Who was she?"
"Susanna Dobson. You remember the little woman that came from Leeds?"
"Yes. Loom forty. I hope she has not left a large family."
"Nay, if there had been a big family, she would varry likely hev been at
her loom today"--then there were a few softly spoken words, and John
walked forward, but he could not forget how singularly the empty loom
had appealed to him on that last morning he had walked through the mill
with Greenwood. There are strange coincidences and links in events of
which we know nothing at all--occult, untraceable altogether, material,
yet having distinct influences not over matter but over some one mind or
heart.
A little before closing time Greenwood said, "Julius Yorke will be
spreading himself all over Hatton tonight. A word or two from thee, sir,
might settle him a bit."
"I think you settled him very well last night."
"It suited me to do so. I like to threep a man that is my equal in his
head piece. Yorke is nobbut a hunchbacked dwarf and he talks a lot of
nonsense, but he _feels_ all he says. He's just a bit of crooked
humanity on fire and talking at white heat."
"What was he talking about?"
"Rights and wrongs, of course. There was a good deal of truth in what he
said, but he used words I didn't like; they came out of some
blackguard's dictionary, so I told him to be quiet, and when he wouldn't
be quiet, we sung him down with a verse out o' John Wesley's hymn-book."
"All right! You are a match for Yorke, Greenwood. I will leave him to
you. I am very weary. The last two days have been hard ones."

There was a tone of pathos in John's words and voice and Greenwood
realized it. He touched his cap, and turned away. "Married men hev their
own tribulations," he muttered. "I hev had a heartache mysen all day
long about the way Polly went on this morning. And her with such a good
husband as I am!"
Greenwood went home to such discouraging reflections, and John's were
just as discomforting. For he had left his wife on the previous night,
in a distressed unsettled condition, and he felt that there was now
something in Jane's, and his own, past which must not be referred to,
and indeed he had promised himself never to name it.
But a past that is buried alive is a difficult ghost to lay, and he
feared Jane would not be satisfied until she had opened the dismal
grave of their dead happiness again--and perhaps again and again. He set
his lips straight and firm during this reflection, and said something of
which only the last four words were audible, "Thy grace is sufficient."
However, there was no trace of a disposition to resume a painful
argument in Jane's words or attitude. She looked pale from headache and
wakefulness, but was dressed with her usual care, and was even more than
usually solicitous about his comfort and satisfaction. Still John
noticed the false note of make-believe through all her attentions and he
was hardly sorry when she ended a conversation about Harry's affairs by
a sudden and unexpected reversion to her own. "John," she said, with
marked interest, "I was telling you last night about my visit to Hatton
Hall while you were in London. You interrupted and then left me. Have
you any objections to my finishing the story now? I shall not go to
Hatton Hall again and as mother declines to tell her own fault, it is
only fair to me that you know the whole truth. I don't want you to think
worse of me than is necessary."
"Tell me whatever you wish, Jane, then we will forget the subject."
"As if that were possible! O John, as if it were possible to forget one
hour of our life together!"
"You are right. It is not possible--no, indeed!"
"Well, John, when I left Harlow House that afternoon, I went straight to
Hatton Hall. It was growing late, but I expected to have a cup of tea
there and perhaps, if asked, stay all night and have a good wise talk
over the things that troubled me. When I arrived at the Hall your mother
had just returned from the village. She was sitting by the newly-made
fire with her cloak and bonnet on but they were both unfastened and her
furs and gloves had been removed. She looked troubled, and even angry,
and when I spoke to her, barely answered me. I sat down and began to
tell her I had been at Harlow all day. She did not inquire after
mother's health and took no interest in any remark I made."
"That was very unlike my mother."
"It was, John. Finally I said, 'I see that you are troubled about
something, mother,' and she answered sharply, 'Yes, I'm troubled and
plenty of reason for trouble.' I asked if I could help in any way."
John sat upright at this question and said, "What reply did mother
make?"
"She said, 'Not you! The trouble is past all help now. I might have
prevented it a few days ago, but I did not know the miserable lass was
again on the road of sin and danger. Nobody knew. Nobody stopped her.
And, O merciful God, in three days danger turned out to be death! I have
just come back from her funeral.' 'Whose funeral?' I asked. 'Susanna
Dobson's funeral,' mother said. 'Did you never hear John speak of her?'
I told her you never spoke to me of your hands; I knew nothing about
them. 'Well then,' mother continued, 'I'll tell you something about
Susanna. Happen it may do you good. She came here with her husband and
baby all of three years ago, and they have worked in Hatton factory ever
since. She was very clever and got big wages. The day before John went
to London she was ill and had to leave her loom. The next day Gammer
Denby came to tell me she was very ill and must have a good doctor. I
sent one and in the afternoon went to see her. By this time her husband
had been called from the mill, and while I was sitting at the dying
woman's side, he came in.'"
"Stop, Jane. My dear love, what is the use of bringing that dying bed to
our fireside? Mother should not have repeated such a scene."
"She did, however. I was leaving the room when she said, 'Listen a
moment, Jane. The man entered angrily, and leaning on the footboard of
the bed cried out, "So you've been at your old tricks once more,
Susanna! This is the third time. You are a bad woman. I will never live
with you again. I am going away forever, and I'll take little Willy with
me. If you aren't fit to be a mother, you aren't fit to be a wife!" She
cried out pitifully, but he lifted the child in his arms and went out
with him.'
"At these words, John, I rang the bell and ordered my horse. Mother paid
no attention to that, but continued, 'The woman raved all night, and
died early the next morning.' I said with a good deal of anger, that
her husband's brutality had killed her and that the grave was the only
place for a poor woman who was married to such a monster. And then I
heard the trampling of horses' feet and I came away without another
word. But my heart was hot and I was sick and trembling and I rode so
recklessly that it was a wonder I ever reached home."
"My dear Jane, I think--"
"Nay, John, I do not want you to express any opinion on the subject. I
should not respect you if you said your mother could do wrong, and I do
not wish to hear you say she did right. I only want you to understand
why I refuse to go to Hatton Hall any more."
"Do not say that, Jane. I am sure mother was conscious of no feeling but
a desire to do good."
"I do not like her way of doing good. I will not voluntarily go to
receive it. Would you do so, John?"
"She is my mother. A few words could not drive us apart. She may come to
you, you may go to her. As to that, nothing is certain."
"Except that your words are most uncertain and uncomforting, John."
Then John rose and went to her side and whispered those little words,
those simple words, those apparently meaningless, disconnected words
which children and women love and understand so well. And she wept a
little and then smiled, and the wretched story was buried in love and
pity--and perhaps the poor soul knew it!
"You see, Jane, my dear one, the Unknown fulfills what we never dare to
expect, so we will leave the door wide open for Faith and Hope." And as
John said these words, he had a sudden clear remembrance of the empty
loom and the fair little woman he had so often seen at work there. Then
a prayer leaped from his heart to the Everlasting Mercy, a prayer we too
seldom use, "Father, forgive, they know not what they do."
For a moment or two they sat hand in hand and were silent. Then Jane,
who was visibly suffering, from headache, went to her room, and John
took a pencil and began to make figures and notes in his pocketbook. His
face and manner was quiet and thoughtful. He had consented to his trial
outwardly; inwardly he knew it to be overcome. And to suffer, to be
wronged and unhappy, yet not to cease being loving and pleasant, implies
a very powerful, Christ-like disposition.
He knew well very hard days were before his people, and he was now
endeavoring by every means in his power to provide alleviations for the
great tragedy he saw approaching. All other things seemed less urgent,
and a letter from Harry full of small worries about pictures and
bric-a-brac was almost an irritation. But he answered it in brotherly
fashion and laid the responsibility so kindly on Harry himself that the
careless young fellow was proudly encouraged and uplifted.
In the meantime the small cloud in the far west was casting deeper
shadows of forthcoming events, but in the lovely springtime they were
not very alarming. Also in Hatton town the people relied on the Master
of Hatton. They told themselves he was doing all that could be done to
ward off evil and they trusted in him. And no one foresaw as yet how
long the struggle would last. So Harry Hatton's return to the home
county and neighborhood was full of interest. He was their favorite and
their friend, and he had been long enough away to blot out any memory of
his faults; and indeed a fault connected with horses calls forth from
Yorkshiremen ready excuse and forgiveness. As to the mill, few of its
workers blamed him for hating it. They hated it also and would have
preferred some other out-door employment. So Harry's return was far more
interesting than the supply of cotton, and then England might do this
and that and perhaps France might interfere. That wide, slippery word
"perhaps" led them into many delusive suppositions.
Very nearly three weeks after John left him in London, Harry announced
his purpose of being in Yoden the following afternoon. He said his
furniture and trunks had arrived there three days previously, having
gone to Yoden by railway. In the afternoon John went up the hill to tell
his mother and found her thoroughly aware of all Harry's plans.
"I went to Yoden, John, a week ago," she said, "to hire men to meet the
furniture and take it to the house. Well, I can tell you I was a bit
amazed to find there had been a lot of workmen there for more than two
weeks--paperers, painters, decorators and upholsterers. I thought you
had sent them to Yoden."
"Not I! Not one of them. Did you think I could be so wicked? I want
every penny I can touch for cotton."
"Wicked or not, the men were there. They were not men of this side of
England either. I asked who sent them to Yoden, and one of them told me
they came from Sandfords', Bond Street, London. I dare say Harry sent
them."
"Then I fear Harry must pay for it. It is a bad time for him to be
extravagant."
"Well then, if Harry can't pay, I can. Don't thee be cross with the poor
lad. He hesn't found life very pleasant so far and now that a bit of
pleasure comes into it, he's right to make the most of it."
"All shall be as you wish, mother. Will you meet them tomorrow
afternoon?"
"Nay, I know better. Lucy will be worn out, dusty and hungry, and she'll
thank nobody for bothering her, until she is rested. I'll go early next
morning. Lucy knows there is a time to call and a time to bide at home."
John took dinner with his mother, and as they were eating it, Mrs.
Hatton said, "I suppose Jane is at Thirsk Hall tonight."
"Yes," answered John. "I refused the invitation. I could not think of
feasting and dancing with the cry of War and Famine at my door."
"You are saying too much, John. Neither war nor famine can touch you."
"If it touches those who work for me and with me, it touches me. I must
think of them as well as myself."
"How is little Martha? I never see her now."
"Jane keeps her at her own side. She has many fine new ideas about the
bringing up of children."
"Did she take Martha to Thirsk with her?"
"Not likely. I hope not."
"_Hum-m!!_"
Towards dusk John rode slowly down the hill. Somehow he had missed the
usual tonic of his mother's company, and Harry's unexpected expenses
troubled him, for it is the petty details of life rather than its great
sorrows which fret and irritate the soul. Indeed, to face simple daily
duties and trials bravely and cheerfully is the most heroic struggle and
the greatest victory the soul can win. That it is generally unwitnessed
and unapplauded, that it seldom gains either honor or gratitude, that it
is frequently despised and blamed, is not to be regarded. It is the fine
tooling or graving on the soul capable of bearing it, of that supreme
grace we call character; that grace that makes all the difference
between one human being and another that there is between a block of
granite and a reach of shifting sand. Every person we meet, has more or
less of this quality, and not to be influenced by it is to belong to
those hard blocks of humanity whom Carlyle calls formulas and phantoms.
Well, this little incident of Harry's unexpected extravagance was a line
of character-tooling on John's soul. He felt the first keen touches, was
suddenly angry, then passive, and as he rode down the hill, satisfied.
Some way or other he felt sure the expense would not interfere with the
things so vitally important to him. As he rode through the village he
noticed that the Spinners' Hall was lit up and that there was a mixed
sound of song and laughter and loud talking within and as Jane was at
Thirsk he alighted at the door of the hall and went in.
On the platform there was one of his own spinners, a lad of seventeen
years old. The audience were mostly young men and women, and they were
dressed for dancing. A mirthful spirit pervaded the room and the usual
order was wanting. The lad speaking appeared to be an object of
criticism and amusement rather than of respect but he went on talking in
a schoolboy fashion of "the rights of the people." He was in a West
Riding evening-suit, he had a flower in his coat, and a pair of white
gloves in his hand.
"Rich people all hev their rights," he said, "but a poor lad like me
can't spend his hard-earned wage without heving to pay this and that
sixpenny claim--"
"For board and lodging, Sam," cried a pretty girl impatient for the
talking to cease, and the dance to begin.
"Silence!" a voice called authoritatively and the lecturer stopped and
looked round. Then a big dark man pushed his way through the tittering
crowd of girls and reaching the platform, stretched out his hand and
grasping one of its supports, leaped lightly to it. The feat was not an
easy one and it was boldly and gracefully done; a hearty cheer greeted
its success. Even John joined in it and then he looked at the man and
though there was a slight change in appearance, knew him. It was Ralph
Lugur, and as soon as he was generally recognized, order and silence
reigned. He turned first to the speaker.
"Samuel, my boy," he said, "keep quiet until you learn how to talk. Your
place is at a bobbin frame, it isn't on a platform. What do you know
about a rich man's rights?" and a pretty girl looked saucily at the
blushing lad and laughed.
"I'll tell you, friends," continued Lugur, "how much right a rich man
has in his wealth. He has practically very little. The Poor Laws, the
Sunday Laws, the School Laws, the Income Tax, and twenty other taxes
that he must pay completely prevent him from doing as he likes with his
own money. Rich men are only the stewards of the poor man. They have to
provide him with bread, homes, roads, ships, railways, parks, music,
schools, doctors, hospitals, and a large variety of other comforts and
amusements. And, my dear friends, this is not tyranny. Oh no! It is
civilization. And if all these obligations did not control him, there
are two powerful and significant people whom he _has_ to obey whether he
likes to or not. I mean a lady you don't know much about, called Mrs.
Grundy; and a gentleman whom you know as much of as you want to know,
called Policeman A. Don't you fall into the mistake of taking sides
against your country. No! Don't do that but,
    "Let the laws of your own land,
    Good or bad, between you stand."
Then he slipped off the platform, and the band began to tune up. And the
boy who had been sent off the platform to his bobbin frame went up to
the pretty girl who had laughed at his oratorical efforts and asked her
to dance. She made a mocking curtsey, and refused his request, and John
who knew both of them said, "Don't be so saucy, Polly. Samuel will do
better next time." But Polly with a little laugh turned away singing,
    "He wears a penny flower in his coat, lah-de-dah!
    And a penny paper collar round his throat, lah-de-dah!
    In his mouth a penny pick,
                In his hand a penny stick,
    And a penny in his pocket, lah-de-dah-heigh!"
John and Lugur walked through the village together, and then John
discovered that the remodeling of Yoden was Lugur's gift to the young
people who were really to begin life over again in its comfortable
handsome shelter.
"My father, Colonel Thomas Lugur, died two years ago," said Lugur, "and
as it is now certain that my elder brother was killed in a late Afghan
engagement, I came into the Lugur estate naturally. It is not considered
a very rich one, but it is quite large enough for all the demands I
shall make on it."
Some words of congratulation followed, and then they talked of Harry.
"He has a good heart," said Lugur, "and when I learned you were moving
in such a sensible way for his salvation, I wanted to help. The
improvements I have made at Yoden were not carelessly chosen. Harry
loves beautiful surroundings. They may mean little to you or to me, but
to him they are almost necessary. He is easily persuaded, but you cannot
reason with him. As a general thing you cannot reason with youth. You
may as well try to beat a cloud with a stick. Youth moves in the sublime
region of its own aspirations."
John laughed softly as he answered, "That is the difficult point with
Harry. He cannot find a reality that fills his ideals."
"Well then, Hatton, that is a sign of a rich and varied nature. We must
bear with patience and good nature Harry's gushing, little
condescensions, for he really thinks the majority of his elders to be
grossly ignorant, perverse, and cynical. Yet he really loves us in spite
of our faults, so I think we must be lenient with his faults."
Lugur's ideas exactly fitted John's and as the men parted Lugur said, "I
foresee that we shall be friends. Call on me, if in the bad days coming
I can help you."
"I will do so gladly, Lugur"--and then a silent clasp of their hands
said all that was necessary.
At the entrance to John's grounds Lugur turned to the railway station
and John walked slowly onward through the wooded park till he came to
the main entrance of the house. There were few lights in the front rooms
and when the door was opened to him he was painfully conscious of a
great silence. He had expected the want of company and light, for Jane
had told him she would not return until the following day; but even if
we expect unpleasant conditions, the realized expectation does not
console us for them. But his dinner was immediately served and he ate it
with leisurely enjoyment, letting his thoughts drift calmly with his
physical rest and refreshment.
After dinner he was quickly absorbed in a variety of calculations and,
lost in this arbitrary occupation, forgot all else until the clock
chimed ten. Then with a sigh he folded away a note of results and
ordered the closing of the house. A new light was immediately on his
face, and he went upstairs like a man who has a purpose. This purpose
took him to little Martha's sleeping-room. He opened the door gently.
There was only a rush light burning, but its faint beams showed him the
soft white bed on which his darling lay sleeping. Noiselessly he stepped
to her side and for a few moments stood in silent prayer, looking at the
lovely sleeper. No one saw him, no one heard him, and he left the little
sanctuary unnoticed by any human eye.
Then he went to his own room, turned the key in his chamber door, and
walked straight to the Bible lying open on its stand; and as he read, a
glory seemed to shine over its pages and his face reflected the comfort
and joy he found there. And afterwards as he stood before the Book with
lifted eyes and clasped hands, he was a visible incarnation of that
beautiful manliness which is the outcome and result of nearly two
thousand years of Christian thought and feeling.
[Illustration: "Noiselessly he stepped to her side and ... stood in
silent prayer."]
He had not permitted himself to think of his wife. His calculations had
demanded his whole mind and intellect and he had purposely occupied
himself with subjects that would not permit wandering thought. For he
was aware that he had once been jealous of Lord Thirsk and he knew that
it was not pleasant for him to think of Jane brightening with her
beauty Lord Thirsk's mansion while he sat lonely in his own silent home.
But he soon put all such reveries vigorously, even a little angrily,
under the positive stamp of his foot as he began to take his own share
in the circumstance. "I could have gone with Jane--I did not want to
go--I don't like Thirsk--I do not want his hospitality. How could I
feast and dance when I know some of my men must be out of work and out
of bread in a few weeks--Jane does not feel as I do--Mother does not
either--I cannot expect it--but I know!--I know!--I took my own wish and
way, and I have no right to complain--I must be just and fair--just and
fair to all--to all;" and with this decision, he slept well, courting
sleep consciously, because he knew that the times were too full of
anxiety to lose the rest so needful in unhappy and doubtful brooding.
In the morning a thing quite unlooked-for occurred. When John went into
the breakfast-room Jane was there to receive him. "O John!" she cried,
"I am delighted that I caught you napping. I left Thirsk at seven
o'clock. Are you not glad to see me?"
"Glad!" He could not find words to express his gladness, but his silent
kisses spoke for him and his beaming eyes and the warm clasp of his
strong hand. And his coffee was not coffee, it was some heavenly nectar,
and his bread was more than the staff of life, it was the bread of
love. She brought her chair close to his side, she said _that_ was the
place of honor. She fed his heart with soft, beaming glances, and she
amused him with laughable descriptions of her partners. "After you,
John," she said with a pretty seriousness, "after you, John, all other
men look so small!" And what man wholly devoted to his wife, would not
have been intoxicated with the rapture of a love so near and yet so far
from understanding him?