The Measure of a Man Part 12

"Harry, eight years ago I was as madly in love with Lady Penryn as you are now with Lucy Lugur. All that you are suffering I have suffered.

Eight years ago we parted with tears and embraces and the most solemn promises of faithful love. In four months she was married to Lord Penryn."

"Oh, John, what did you do?"

"I forgot her."

"How could you?"

"As soon as I knew she was another man's wife, I did not dare to think of her, and finding how much _thought_ had to do with this sin, I filled my thoughts with complex and fatiguing business; in a word, I refused to think of her in any way.

"Six years afterwards I met her at a garden party; she was with a crowd of men and women. She had lost all her power over me. My pulses beat at their ordinary calm pace and my heart was unmoved."

"And how did she bear the ordeal?"

"She said, 'Good afternoon, Mr. Hatton. I think we may have met before.' A few days ago, we pa.s.sed each other on the highway between Hatton and Overton. I lifted my hat, and she pretended not to see me."

"Oh, John, how could the woman treat you so!"

"She acted wisely. I thank her for her discretion. Now, Harry, give yourself and Lucy time to draw back, if either of you find out you have been mistaken. There are many engagements in life that can be broken and no great harm done; but a marriage engagement, if once fulfilled, opens to you the gates of all Futurity, and if there are children it is irrevocable by any law. No divorce undoes it. You may likely unroll a long line of posterity who will live when you are forgotten, but whose actions, for good or evil, will be traced back to you."

"Well, then, John, if I am to go away and give myself an opportunity to draw back, I want to go immediately. Lucy's father takes her to an aunt in Bradford tomorrow. I think when people grow old, they find a perfect joy in separating lovers."

"It is not only your love affairs that want pause and consideration, Harry. You appear to hate your business as much as you ought to love and honor it, and I am in hopes that a few weeks or months of nothing to do will make you glad to come back to the mill. If not--"

"What then will you do for me, John?"

"I will buy your share of the mill."

"Thank you, John. I know you are good to me, but you cannot tell how certain I am about Lucy; yes, and the mill, too."

"Well, my dear lad, I believe you tonight; but what I want you to believe is that tomorrow some new light may s.h.i.+ne and you may see your thoughts on these two subjects in a different way. Just keep your mind open to whatever you may see or hear that can instruct your intentions.

That is all I ask. If you are willing to be instructed, the Instructor will come, not perhaps, but certainly."

Four days after this conversation life in Hatton had broken apart, and Harry was speeding down the Bay of Biscay and singing the fine old sea song called after it, to the rhythm and music of its billowy surge. The motion of the boat, the wind in the sails, the "chanties" of the sailors as they went about their work, and the evident content and happiness around him made Harry laugh and sing and toss away his cap and let the fresh salt wind blow on his hot brain in which he fancied the clack and clamor of the looms still lingered. He thought that a life at sea, resting or sailing as the mood took him, would be a perfect life if only Lucy were with him.

Sitting at dinner he very pointedly made the absence of women the great want in this otherwise perfect existence. The captain earnestly and strongly denied it. "There is nowhere in the world," he said, "where a woman is less wanted than on a s.h.i.+p. They interfere with happiness and comfort in every way. If we had a woman on board tonight, she would be deathly seasick or insanely frightened. A s.h.i.+p with a woman's name is just as much as any captain can manage. You would be astonished at the difference a name can make in a s.h.i.+p. When this yacht belonged to Colonel Brotherton, she was called the _Dolphin_, and G.o.d and angels know she tried to behave like one, diving and plunging and careering as if she had fins instead of sails. I was captain of her then and I know it. Well, your father bought her, and your mother threw a bottle of fine old port over her bow, and called her the _Martha Hatton_, and she has been a different s.h.i.+p ever since--ladylike and respectable, no more b.u.t.ting of the waves, as if she was a ram; she lifts herself on and over them and goes curtseying into harbor like a d.u.c.h.ess."

As they talked the wind rose, and the play of its solemn music in the rigging of the yacht and in the deep ba.s.s of the billows was, as Harry said, "like a chant of High Ma.s.s. I heard one for the sailors leaving Hull last Christmas night," he said, "and I shall never forget it."

"But you are a Methodist, sir?"

"Oh, that does not hinder! A good Methodist can pray wherever there is honest prayer going on. John was with me, and I knew by John's face he was praying. I was but a lad, but I said 'Our Father,' for I knew that Christ's words could not be wrong wherever they were said."

"Well, sir, I hope you will recover your health soon and be able to return to your business."

"My health, Captain, is firstrate! I have not come to sea for my health.

Surely to goodness, John did not tell you that story?"

"No, he did not, and I saw that you were well enough as soon as you came on board."

"Well, Captain, I am here to try how a life of pleasure and idleness will suit me. I hate the mill, I hate its labor and all about it, and John thought a few months of nothing to do would make me go cheerfully back to work."

"Do you think it will?"

"I say no--downright."

"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 c.u.mber the mills and the market-places, the courts of law and the courts of the church--yes, even the wide s.p.a.ces of the ocean."

"Are you not a bit hard, Captain?"

"No; I am not hard enough. Do you think G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 bra.s.s 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 cus.h.i.+ons, that did not need arranging; she sent away the large tortoise-sh.e.l.l 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-pus.h.!.+ 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 att.i.tude 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 p.r.o.ne 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. G.o.d has given me the desire of my heart, but I am not satisfied until you share my joy."

"That means that G.o.d 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!