The Measure of a Man

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."

Jane smiled faintly at this last remark and John said no more on the subject. He understood it to be the better way. But it had been ever since a restless, unhappy thought below all other thoughts in Jane's mind, and finally she had swift personal whispers and slow boring suppositions which, if she had put them into words, would have sounded very like, "Lucy may be disappointed yet! John might have a son of his own. Many things happen as the clock goes round."

She was in one of these jealous moods on the morning after John had told her he must close the mill. Then Mrs. Levy called, and asked if she would drive with her to Brent's Farm. "We have received a large number of young children from Metwold," she said, "and I want to secure milk for them."

"Brent's Farm!" replied Jane. "I never heard of the place."

"O my dear Mrs. Hatton, it is only a small farm on the Ripon road. The farmer is a poor man but he has five or six cows and he sells their milk in Hatton. I want to secure it all."

"Is that fair to the rest of his customers?" asked Jane, with an air of righteous consistency.

"I do not know," was the answer. "I never asked myself. I think it is fair to get it for babies who cannot bargain for their milk—the people they take it from can speak for themselves."

They found Brent's Farm to be a rough, roomy stone cottage on the roadside. There was some pasture land at the back of the house and some cows feeding on it. A stone barn was not far off, and the woman who answered their call said, "If you be wanting Sam Brent, you'll find him in the barn, threshing out some wheat."

Mrs. Levy went to interview the milk dealer; Jane was cold and went into the cottage to warm herself. "It is well I'm at ironing today," said Mrs. Brent, "for so I hev a good fire. Come your ways in, ma'am, and sit on the hearth. Let me make you a cup o' tea."

"My friend will be here in a few minutes," Jane answered. "She only wants to make a bargain with Mr. Brent for all his milk."

"Then she won't be back in a few minutes; Sam Brent does no business in a hurry. It's against his principles. You bed better hev a cup o' hot tea."

It seemed easier to Jane to agree than to dispute, and as the kettle was simmering on the hob it was ready in five minutes. "You see," continued Mrs. Brent, "I hev a big family, and washing and ironing does come a bit hard on me now, but a cup o' tea livens me up, it does that!"

"How many children have you, Mrs. Brent?"

"I hev been married seventeen years, and I hev ten lads and lasses—all of them fair and good and world-like. God bless them!"

"Ten! Ten! How do you manage?"

"Varry well indeed. Sam Brent is a forelooking man. They hev a good father, and I try to keep step with him. We are varry proud of our childer. The eldest is a boy and helps his father with the cows main well. The second is a girl and stands by her mother—the rest are at school, or just babies. It is hard times, it is that, but God blesses our crust and our cup, and we don't want. We be all well and healthy, too."

"I wonder you are not broken down with bearing so many children."

"Nay, not I! Every fresh baby gives me fresh youth and health—if I do it justice. Don't you find it so, ma'am?"

"No."

"How many hev you hed?"

"One. A little girl."

"Eh, but that's a shame! What does your good man say?"

"He would like more."

"I should think he would like more. And it is only fair and square he should hev more! Poor fellow!"

"I do not think so."

"Whatever is the matter with thee?"

"I think it is a shame and a great wrong for a woman to spend her life in bearing and rearing children."

"To bear and to rear children for His glory is exactly and perfectly what God sent her into the world to do. It is her work in the days which the Lord her God gives her. Men He told to work. Women He told to hev children and plenty o' them."

"There are more women working in the factories than men now."

"They hev no business there. They are worse for it every way. They ought to be in some kind of a home, making happiness and bringing up boys and girls. Look at the whimpering, puny, sick babies factory women bear—God, how I pity them!"

"Tell me the truth, Mrs. Brent. Were you really glad to have ten children?"

"To be sure, I was glad. Every one of them was varry welcome. I used to say to mysen, 'God must think Susy Brent a good mother, or He wouldn't keep on sending her children to bring up for Him.' It is my work in this life, missis, to bring up the children God sends me, and I like my work!" With the last four words, she turned a beaming face to Jane and sent them home with an emphatic thump of her iron on the little shirt she was smoothing.