Kitabı oku: «The Measure of a Man», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XI
JANE RECEIVES A LESSON

"There are times in life when circumstances decide for us; it is then the part of wisdom to accept and make the best of what they offer."

Of course Harry would have felt it intolerable to come home just like his neighbors. So he returned to the Hatton district as if he had condescended to accept some pressing invitation to do so. It was, however, almost the last exhibition of his overweening youthful egotism. His mother's best carriage was at the station for Mrs. Henry Hatton and family; his mother's gigs and wagons there for his servants and baggage. Two or three of the village societies to which he had belonged or did yet belong crowded the railway platform. They cheered him when he alighted, and sent him homeward to the music of,

 
There may be fairer lands beyond the sea,
But it's Home! It's Home in the North Country!
 

Harry's mother was delighted. This public approbation justified her own rather extravagant welcome, and when John's face showed a shadow of disapproval, she was not pleased.

"It is too much especially at this time, mother. It is more than Harry can or will live up to. Trust me, mother, for I know the men. This noisy welcome was not so much a mark of their friendship and admiration as it was a bid for Harry's help and patronage, and when Harry gets weary of giving and doing or becomes unable to give or do, they will feel wronged and offended and perhaps express their dissatisfaction just as pointedly."

"He is thy own brother, and I wouldn't be jealous of his popularity if I was thee."

"Jealous! Mother! How can you accuse me of such a feeling?" He could say no more for he was deeply pained at the charge.

"Well, John, I was wrong to say 'jealous.' I said it because it was the ugliest word I could think of at the moment."

"If you thought I was jealous, you were right to tell me so."

"Nay, my lad, I didn't think so—not for a moment—so I was wrong. Well, then, we all say the wrong word sometimes."

"To be sure we do."

"Just out of pure ugliness."

"Or misunderstanding?"

"Not in Martha Hatton's case. She understands well enough. Sometimes she is sorry, as she is now. Generally speaking, she is satisfied with herself. Why did you not go to Yoden with your brother? Were you afraid of vexing Jane?"

"I thought as you did, that they would prefer going home alone. The children were tired and hungry. Lucy had a headache, and after sending off their baggage and servants, I gave them a promise to see them tomorrow. I think, too, that Mr. Lugur was sure to be at Yoden."

This air of returning home victorious over some undeserved misfortune and of taking possession of a home to which he had some ancient right, was the tone given to Harry's settlement at Yoden, and for a long time he felt compelled to honor it, even after it had become stale and tedious. For it pleased his mother, and she did many unconsidered things to encourage it. For instance, she gave a formal dinner at Hatton Hall to which she invited all the county families and wealthy manufacturers within her knowledge. A dinner at Hatton Hall was a rare social ceremony and had not been observed since the death of the late Master of Hatton. But Stephen Hatton had been a member of Parliament, and chairman of many clubs and associations, and it belonged to his public position to give dinners to his supporters.

However, Hatton dinners and receptions had always been popular when in vogue, and the countryside was well satisfied in their apparent renewal; and as there were two weeks given to prepare for the occasion, it was fairly possible that everyone invited would answer the call personally. For several reasons John seriously objected to the entertainment, but seeing that opposition would be both offensive and useless, he accepted what he could not decline.

Then he began to look for ways in which good might come from such an occasion. It would certainly give him an opportunity of trying to unite the cotton-spinners in Hatton district and of systematizing the best manner of helping the already large body of men out of work. In Hatton Hall he found that it gave his mother a delightful rejuvenation. She became the busiest and happiest of women amid her preparations, and it brought his wife and Lucy together in a sensible way after he had given up all hope of doing so. For when Lucy received her invitation she began at once to consider what she must wear at such an important social function. Harry had but a confused idea, Mrs. Stephen Hatton's favorite fashions were considerably behind the period, and Mr. Lugur's advice was after the strictest Methodist rules.

So Lucy waived all rites and ceremonies and called on Mrs. John Hatton for advice. Jane was alone when the visit was made, and the heaviness and boredom of mid-afternoon was upon her. Mrs. Harry's card was a relief. It would please John very much, she reflected, and so looking in her mirror and finding her dress correct and becoming, she had Lucy brought to her private sitting-room. She met her sister-in-law with a kindness that astonished herself, and nothing occurred during the visit to make her regret her courtesy.

Lucy's sweet nature and her utter want of self-consideration won its way, as it always did; and Jane was astonished at her youthful freshness and her great beauty. They shook hands and smiled pleasantly, and then Lucy apologized for her initiative call and Jane waxed ashamed of her cold, aloof attitude. She felt that she had lost something irrevocably by her neglect of domestic duties so obvious and so generally observed. "I did not think you were really settled yet," she explained, "and it was so kind of you to call first."

"I am afraid it is rather a selfish call, Mrs. Hatton."

"Oh, you must not call me Mrs. Hatton. There are three of us, you know; though it is likely that our mother-in-law assumes the title, and you are Mrs. Harry and I am Mrs. John. It would be quite in sympathy with her way, and her manner of thinking. So call me Jane, and I will call you Lucy. John always speaks of you as Lucy."

"John gave me a sister's place from the first. John does not know how to be unkind. I came, Jane, to ask you how I must dress for the Hatton dinner. I could make nothing of Harry's advice."

"What did he suggest?"

"Anything from cloth of gold to book muslin."

"And the color?"

"A combination impossible. Harry's idea of color in pictures is wonderfully good; in dress it would be for me almost ridiculous. I think Harry likes all colors and he did not know which to select. He advises me also, that I must wear a low-cut bodice and very short sleeves. I have never done this, and I do not think that I should either feel right or do right to follow such advice."

"There would not be anything wrong in such a dress, but you would not be graceful in any kind of garment you do not wear habitually."

Then Jane showed her sister-in-law all her finest costumes, told her what modistes made them, and at what social functions they were worn. When this exhibition was over, the afternoon was advanced. They drank a cup of tea together and Jane thought Mrs. Harry the most attractive and affectionate woman she had ever met. She begged her to send for Harry and to stay for dinner, and Lucy was delighted at the invitation but said she could not leave her children because Agnes was not yet weaned and "she will need me and cry for me." Then with an enchanting smile she added, "And you know, I should want her. A mother cannot leave a nursing babe, can she?"

These words were the only minor notes in the interview; they were the only words Jane did not tell her husband. Otherwise, she made a charming report of the visit. "She is a darling!" was her comment, and, "No wonder that Harry adores her. John, she makes you feel that goodness is beautiful, and she looks so young and lovely and yet she has three children! It is amazing!"

John longed to intimate that the three children might be the secret of Lucy's youth and beauty, but he refrained himself even from good words. And which of us cannot recall certain interviews in life when we refrained from good words and did wisely; and other times when we said good words and did foolishly? So all John said was,

"Did you tell her how to dress, Jane?"

"No. I let her look at my prettiest frocks, and she took note of what she thought possible. I gave her an introduction to my dressmaker who is clever enough to make anything Lucy is likely to desire. What is there about Lucy that makes her so enchanting? While she was in my room, I felt as if there were violets in it."

"It is the perfume of a sweet, loving life, Jane. She brought the love of God into the world with her. Her soul was never at enmity with Him. She would look incredulously at you, if you told her so. I wish you would return her call—very soon, Jane."

"Oh, I certainly shall! I have fallen in love with Lucy, besides people would talk ill-naturedly about me, if I did not."

"Would you care for that?"

"Surely. You do not think, John, that I call on the Taylors and Dobsons and such people because I like them. I am trying to make friends and votes for you, when you decide to take your father's place in the House."

"Then, my dear, you are sacrificing yourself uselessly. I don't know a Yorkshire man who would vote for any candidate for any office because he liked him personally. I would not do so. My father never did such a thing, and Harry, though so thoughtless and emotional, would be equally stubborn."

"But why? Such nonsense, John!"

"No. You do not vote for yourself only; your interest is bound up with the interests of many others. You may be voting for a generation yet unborn. A vote is a sacred obligation."

"I am glad you have told me this. I can now drop several names from my visiting list."

"If you think that is the right way—"

"What do you think is the right way?"

"The kind way is the right way and also the wise way."

"O John, what uncomfortable things you can think of!"

Until the great dinner at Hatton Hall was over, it formed the staple of conversation in the neighborhood. Everyone wondered who would be there and who would be left out. About the dinner itself there was no doubt, for there is little variety in such entertainments. The meat and the drink offerings are similar, and the company are bound by fashion and commonplaces. In the days of John's father men drank heavily of red wines and it was the recognized way for ladies to leave them awhile to discuss their port and politics. John Hatton's hospitality was of a more modern type, although it still preserved a kind of antique stateliness. And this night it had a very certain air of a somewhat anxious amusement. The manufacturers silently wondered as to the condition of each other's mills, and the landed gentry had in their minds a fear of the ability of the land to meet the demands that were likely to be made upon it.

It was a happy turn of feeling that followed an impetuous, unanimous call for song, and Harry rose in their midst and made the room ring to,

 
"Ye mariners of England,
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze.
 
 
"Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep,
Her march is on the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
 
 
"The meteor flag of England!
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till Danger's troubled night depart,
And the Star of Peace return."
 

The last line spoke for every heart, and the honest, proud, joyous burst of loyalty and admiration made men and women something more than men and women for a few glorified moments. Then the satisfied lull that followed was thrilled anew by that most delicious charmful music ever written, "O sweetest melody!" This was the event of the evening. It drew Harry close to every heart. It made his mother the proudest woman in Yorkshire. It caused John to smile at his brother and to clasp his hand as he passed him. It charmed Jane and Lucy and they glanced at each other with wondering pleasure and delight.

After the songs some of the elder guests sat down to a game of whist, the younger ones danced Money Musk, Squire Beverly and Mrs. Stephen Hatton leading, while Harry played the old country dance with a snap and movement that made hearts bound and feet forget that age or rheumatism were in existence.

At eleven o'clock the party dispersed and the great dinner was over. Harry had justified it. His mother felt sure of that. He had sung his way into every heart, and if John was so indifferent about political honors and office, she could think of no one better to fill Stephen Hatton's place than his son Harry. Her dreams were all for Harry because John formed his own plans and usually stood firmly by them, while Harry was easily persuaded and not averse to see things as others saw them.

The next day Harry wrote a very full account of the dinner and the company who attended it, describing each individual, their social rank or station, their physical and mental peculiarities, their dress and even their ornaments or jewelry. This account was read to all the family, then dated, sealed and carefully placed among the records and heirlooms of Hatton Hall. The receptacle containing these precious relics was a very large, heavily carved oak chest, standing in the Master's room. This chest was iron-bound, triple-locked, and required four strong men to lift it, and the family traditions asserted it had stood in its present place for three hundred and forty years. It was the palladium of Hatton Hall and was regarded with great honor and affection.

After this event there were no more attempts at festivity. The clouds gathered quickly and a silent gloom settled over all the cotton-spinning and weaving districts of England. But I shall only touch this subject as it refers to the lives and characters of my story. Its facts and incidents are graven on thousands of lives and chronicled in numerous authentic histories. It is valuable here as showing how closely mankind is now related and that the cup of sorrow we have to drink may be mingled for us at the ends of the earth by people whose very names are strange on our lips. Then

 
…"Impute it not a crime
To me or my swift passage, that I slide
O'er years."
 

Very sorrowful years in which the strong grew stronger, and the weak perished, unless carried in the Everlasting Arms. Three of them had passed in want and suffering, constantly growing more acute. Mill after mill closed, and the dark, quiet buildings stood among the starving people like monuments of despair. No one indeed can imagine the pathos of these black deserted factories, that had once blazed with sunlight and gaslight and filled the town with the stir of their clattering looms and the traffic of their big lorries and wagons and the call and song of human voices. In their blank, noiseless gloom, they too seemed to suffer.¹

A large proportion of mill-owners had gone to the continent. They could live economically there and keep their boys and girls at inexpensive schools and colleges. They were not blamed much, even by their employees. "Rathmell is starting wife and childer, bag and baggage for Geneva today," said one of them to another, and the answer was, "Happen we would do the same thing if we could. He hes a big family. He'll hev to spare at both ends to make his bit o' brass do for all. He never hed any more than he needed."

This was an average criticism and not perhaps an unfair one. Men, however, did not as a rule talk much on the subject; they just quietly disappeared. Everyone knew it to be a most unexpected and unmerited calamity. They had done nothing to deserve it, they could do nothing to prevent it. Some felt that they were in the hands of Destiny; the large majority were patient and silent because they believed firmly that it was the Lord's doing and so was wonderful in their eyes. Some even said warmly it was time slavery was put down, and that millions could not be set free without somebody paying for it, and to be sure England's skirts were not clean, and she would hev to pay her share, no doubt of it. Upon the whole these poor, brave, blockaded men and women showed themselves at this time to be the stoutest and most self-reliant population in the world; and in their bare, denuded homes there were acted every day more living, loving, heroic stories than fiction or poetry ever dreamed of. So far the sufferers of Hatton had kept their troubles to themselves and had borne all their privations with that nobility which belongs to human beings in whom the elements are finely mixed.

John had suffered with them. His servants, men and women, had gradually been dismissed, until only a man and woman remained. Jane had at first demurred and reminded John that servants must live, as well as spinners.

"True," answered John, "but servants can do many things beside the one thing they are hired to do. A spinner's hands can do nothing but spin. They are unfit for any other labor and are spoiled for spinning if they try it. Servants live in other people's houses. Nearly all of Hatton's spinners own, or partly own, their homes. In its seclusion they can bear with patience whatever they have to bear."

Throughout the past three years of trouble John had been the Greatheart of his people, and they loved and trusted him. They knew that he had mortgaged or sold all his estate in order to buy cotton and keep them at work. They knew that all other factories in the neighborhood had long been closed and that for the last four months Hatton had been running only half-time, and alas! John knew that his cotton was nearly gone and that peace appeared to be as far off as ever.

"You see, sir," said Greenwood, in a half-admiring and half-apologizing way, "both North and South are mostly of good English breed and they don't know when they are whipped."

One afternoon Mrs. Stephen Hatton called at the mill to see John. It was such a strange thing for her to do that he was almost frightened when he heard of it. Strengthening his heart for anything, he went to his private room to meet her, and his anxiety was so evident that she said immediately in her cheerful comforting way,

"Nay, nay, my lad, there is nothing extra for thee to worry about. I only want thee to look after something in a hurry—it must be in a hurry, or I would not have come for thee."

"I know, mother. What is it?"

"They have brought thirty-four little children from Metwold here, and they are in a state of starvation. I want thee to see about getting mattresses and blankets into the spinners' lecture room. I have looked after food for them."

"Have you anything to spare for this purpose, mother?"

"No, I hev not, John. The town hes plenty. They will do whatever thou tells them to do."

"Very well, mother. I will go at once."

"I hev been in the village all day. I hev seen that every poor nursing woman hes hed some soup and tea and that these thirty-four little ones were well and properly fed. Now I am going home to save every drop of milk I can spare for them."

"Is it fair for Metwold to send her starving children here?"

"If thou could see them, John, thou would never ask that question. Some of them are under three years old. They are only skin and bone, they are as white as if they were dead—helpless, enfeebled, crippled, and, John, three of them are stone blind from starvation!"

"O my God!" cried John, in an acute passion of pity and entreaty.

"Every sign of severe and speechless misery is on their small, shrunken faces and that dreadful, searching look that shows the desperate hunger of a little child. John, I cried over every one of them. Where was the pitiful Christ? Why did He not comfort them?"

"Mother! Mother! Tell me no more. I can not bear it. Who brought them here?"

"The town officer. They were laid on straw in big wagons. It was a hard journey."

"Where are their mothers?"

"Dead or dying."

"I will see they have beds and blankets. Do you want money, mother, for this service?"

"No."

"But you must."

"I never give money. I give myself, my health, my time, my labor. Money—no!"

"Why not money?"

"Because money answers all ends, and I don't know what end is coming; but I do know that it will be a very uncommon end that money can't answer. Thou must have spent nearly all of it thou had."

"It will come back to me."

"If the war stops soon, happen some of it will come back. If it does not stop soon, thou art standing to lose every shilling of it. So thou sees I must save my shillings in case my children need them. How is Jane?"

"Very well. She is the greatest help and comfort to me. I do not know how I could have borne and done without her."

"Mebbe thy mother might hev helped thee."

And John answered with a beaming smile, "My mother never failed me."

"What is Jane doing?"

"Did you not hear that Mrs. Levy and Jane started a sewing-club for the girl mill-hands? Very few of this class of workers can sew, and they are being taught how to make all kinds of garments for themselves and others. They meet in a large room over Mr. Levy's barn. He has had it well warmed and he gives them one good meal every day."

"I am sure I never thought Jane would notice that woman."

"Mrs. Levy? She says she has the sweetest, kindest nature, and the wisest little ways of meeting emergencies. And I can tell you, mother, that her husband has given his full share of help both in money and work during all these last three bitter years. He will be a greater honor to the Gentlemen's Club than any of the gentlemen who have run away to rest in Italy and left Hatton to starve or survive as she could. Have you seen Harry lately? How is he managing?"

"Harry does not manage at all, but he is very manageable, the best quality a man can possess. Lucy manages Harry and everything else at Yoden to perfection. She expects another baby with the spring, but she is well and cheerful and busy as a bee."

"Does Yoden farm do anything worth while?"

"To be sure it does. Lugur helps Harry about the farm and Harry likes work in the open, but Harry's voice is worth many farms. It has improved lately, and next week he goes to Manchester to sing in oratorio. He will bring a hundred pounds or more back with him."

"Then at last he is satisfied and happy."

"Happy as the day is long. He is wasteful though, in money matters, and too ready to give the men he knows a sovereign if they are in trouble. And it is just wasting yourself to talk to him about wasting money. I told him yesterday that I had heard Ben Shuttleworth had been showing a sovereign Mr. Harry gave him and that he ought not to waste his money, and he said some nonsense about saved money being lost money, and that spending money or giving it away was the only way to save it. Harry takes no trouble and Medway, the new preacher, says, Henry Hatton lifts up your heart, if he only smiles at you."

"So he does, mother—God bless him!"

"Well, John, I can't stop and talk with thee all day, it isn't likely; but thou art such a one to tempt talk. I must be off to do something. Good-bye, dear lad, and if thy trouble gets hard on thee and thou wants a word of human love, thy mother always has it ready and waiting for you—so she has!"

John watched his mother out of sight; then he locked his desk and went about her commission. She had trusted him to find beds for thirty-four children, and it never entered his mind that any desire of hers could possibly be neglected. Fortunately, circumstances had gone before him and prepared for his necessity. The mattresses were easily found and carried to the prepared room, and the children had been nourished on warm milk and bread, had been rolled in blankets and had gone to sleep ere John arrived at his own home. He was half-an-hour behind time, and Jane did not like that lost half-hour, so he expected her usual little plaintive reproach, "You are late tonight, John." But she met him silently, slipped her hand into his and looked into his face with eyes tender with love and dim with sorrow.

"Did you see those little children from Metwold, John?"

"No, my dear. Mother told me about them."

"Your mother is a good woman, John. I saw her today bathing babies that looked as if they had never been washed since they were born. Oh, how they smiled lying in the warm water! And how tenderly she rubbed them and fed them and rocked them to sleep in her arms. John, your mother would mother any miserable neglected child. She made me cry. My anger melted away this afternoon as I watched her. I forgave her everything."

"O my darling! My darling Jane!"

"I wanted to kiss her, and tell her so."

After this confession it seemed easier for John to tell his wife that he must close the mill in the morning. They were sitting together on the hearth. Dinner was over and the room was very still. John was smoking a cigar whose odor Jane liked, and her head leaned against his shoulder, and now and then they said a low, loving word, and now and then he kissed her.

"John," she said finally, "I had a letter from Aunt Harlow today. She is in trouble."

"I am sorry for it."

"Her only child has been killed in a skirmish with the Afghans—killed in a lonely pass of the mountains and buried there. It happened a little while since and his comrades had forgotten where his grave was. The man who slew him, pointed it out. He had been buried in his uniform, and my uncle received his ring and purse and a scarf-pin he bought for a parting present the day he sailed for India."

"I do not recollect. I never saw him, I am sure."

"Oh, no! He went with his regiment to Simla seventeen years ago. Then he married a Begum or Indian princess or something unusual. She was very rich but also very dark, and Uncle would not forgive him for it. After the marriage his name was never mentioned in Harlow House, but he was not forgotten and his mother never ceased to love him. When they heard of his death, Uncle sent the proper people to make investigations because of the succession, you know."

"I suppose now the nephew, Edwin Harlow, will be heir to the title and estate?"

"Yes, and Uncle and Aunt so heartily dislike him. Uncle has spent so many, many years in economizing and restoring the fortune of the House of Harlow, and now it will all go to—Edwin Harlow. I am sorry to trouble you with this bad news, when you have so much anxiety of your own."

"Listen, dearest—I must—shut—the mill—tomorrow—some time."

"O John!"

"There is no more cotton to be got—and if there was, I have not the money to buy it. Would you like to go to London and see your uncle and aunt? A change might do you good."

"Do you think I would leave you alone in your sorrow? No, no, John! The only place for me is here at your side. I should be miserable anywhere else."

John was much moved at this proof of her affection, but he did not say so. He clasped her hand a little tighter, drew her closer to his side, and kissed her, but the subject dropped between them into a silence filled with emotion. John could not think of anything but the trial of the coming day. Jane was pondering two circumstances that seemed to have changed her point of view. Do as she would, she could not regard things as she had done. Of a stubborn race and family, she had hitherto regarded her word as inviolable, her resolves, if once declared, as beyond recall. She quite understood Lord and Lady Harlow's long resentment against their son, and she knew instinctively that her uncle's extreme self-denial for the purpose of improving the Harlow estate was to say to his heir, "See how I have loved you, in spite of my silence."

Now Jane had declared her mind positively to John on certain questions between them, and it never occurred to her that retraction was possible. Or if it did occur, she considered it a weakness to be instantly conquered. Neither Jane Harlow nor Jane Hatton could say and then unsay. And she was proud of this racial and family characteristic, and frequently recalled it in the motto of her house—"I say! I do!"

It is evident then that some strong antagonistic feeling would be necessary to break down this barrier raised by a false definition of honor and yet the circumstances that initially assailed it were of ordinary character. The first happened a few weeks previously. Jane had gone out early to do some household shopping and was standing just within the open door of the shop where she had made her purchases. Suddenly she heard John's clear, joyous laugh mingling with the clatter of horses' feet. The sound was coming near and nearer and in a moment or two John passed on his favorite riding-horse and with him was his nephew Stephen Hatton on a pretty pony suitable to his size. John was happy, Stephen was happy, and she! She had absolutely no share in their pleasure. They were not thinking of her. She was outside their present life.

An intense jealousy of the boy took possession of her. She went home in a passion of envy and suspicion. She was a good rider, but John in these late years had never found time to give her a gallop, and indeed had persuaded her to sell her pretty riding-horse and outfit. Yet Stephen had a pony and she was sure John must have bought it. Stephen must have been at the mill early. Why? Then she recalled John's look of love and pride in the boy, his watchful care over him, his laughter and apparent cheerfulness.

She brooded over these things for some hours, then gave her thought speech and in slow, icy tones said with intense feeling, "Of course, he regards Stephen as the future master of Hatton Hall and Hatton factory. He is always bringing Stephen and my Martha together. He intends them to marry. They shall not. Martha is mine—she is Harlow"—then after a long pause, "They are cousins. I shall have religious scruples."

She did not name this incident to John and it was some days before John said, "Stephen is going to be a fine horseman. His grandfather bought him a pony, a beautiful spirited animal, and Steve was at once upon his back. Yorkshire boys take to horses, as ducks to the water. Mother says I leaped into the saddle before I was five years old."