The Measure of a Man

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.