The Measure of a Man

"And what then, sir?"

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

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

"Are you not a bit hard, Captain?"

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

"Are you preaching me a sermon, Captain?"

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

CHAPTER VI

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That wasn't much like love talk, John."

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

"What did she say to all this rigmarole about trees?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Was it a nice tea, John?"

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

"Jane can be very charming, I know that, John."

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

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

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

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

"Did you see Mrs. Harlow?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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