The Measure of a Man, Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr [free children's ebooks pdf TXT] 📗

to dispute her words. For he suffered in seeing her suffer far more than she could understand.

At her own room door he left her and his heart was so heavy he could not go to the mill. He could not think of gold and cotton while there was such an abyss between him and his wife. Truly she had wronged and wounded him in an intolerable manner, but his great love could look beyond the wrong to her repentance and to his forgiveness.

Walking restlessly about his room or lost in sorrowful broodings an hour passed, and then he began to tell himself that he must not for the indulgence of even his great grief desert his lawful work. If things went wrong at the mill, because of his absence, and gain was lost for his delay, he would be wronging many more than John Hatton. Come what might to him personally, he was bound by his father's, as well as his own, promise to be "diligent in business, serving the Lord." That was the main article of Hatton's contract with the God they served--the poor, the sick, the little children whom no one loved, he could not wrong them because he was in trouble with his wife.

Such thoughts came over him like a flood and he instantly rose up to answer them. In half an hour he was at his desk, and there he lost the bitterness of his grief in his daily work. _Work_, the panacea for all sorrow, the oldest gospel preached to men! And because his soul was fit for the sunshine it followed him, and the men who only met him among the looms went for the rest of the day with their heads up and a smile on their faces, so great is the strengthening quality in the mere presence of a man of God, going about his daily business in the spirit of God.

He found no wife to meet him at the end of the day. Jane had gone to Harlow House and taken her maid and a trunk with her. He made no remark. What wise thing could he do but quietly bear an evil that was past cure and put a good face on it? He did not know whether or not Jane had observed the same reticence, but he quickly reflected that no good could come from servants discussing what they knew nothing about.

However, when Jane did not return or send him any message, the following day his anxiety was so great that he called on Dr. Sewell in the evening and asked if he could tell him of his wife's condition.

"I was sent for this morning to Harlow House," he answered.

"Is she ill--worse?"

"No. She is fretting. She ought to fret. I gave her some soothing medicine. I am not sure I did right."

"O Sewell, what shall I do?"

"Go to Madame Hatton. She is a good, wise woman. She is not in love with her daughter-in-law, but she is as just as women ever are. She will give you far better counsel than a mere man can offer you."

So late as it was, John rode up to Hatton Hall. It had begun to rain but he heeded not any physical discomfort. Still he had a pleasant feeling when he saw the blaze of Hatton hearthfire brightening the dark shadows of the dripping trees. And he suddenly sent his boyish "hello" before him, so it was Mrs. Hatton herself who opened the big hall door, who stood in the glow of the hall lamp to welcome him, and who between laughing and scolding sent him to his old room to change his wet clothing.

He came back to her with a smile and a dry coat, saying, "Dear mother, you keep all the same upstairs. There isn't pin nor paper moved since I left my room."

"Of course I keep all the same. I would feel very lonely if I hadn't thy room and Harry's to look into. They are not always empty. Sometimes I feel as if you might be there, and Oh but I am happy, when I do so! I just say a 'good morning' or a 'good night' and shut the door. It is a queer thing, John."

"What is queer, mother?"

"That feeling of 'presence.' But whatever brings thee here at this time of night? and it raining, too, as if there was an ark to float!"

"Well, mother, there is in a way. I am in trouble."

"I was fearing it."

"Why?"

"I heard tell that Jane was at Harlow. What is she doing there, my dear?"

"Dr. Sewell told me something about Jane."

"Oh! He told you at last, did he! He ought to have told you long ago."

"Has he known it a long time?"

"He has--if he knows anything."

"And you--mother?"

"I was not sure as long as he kept quiet, and hummed and ha'ed about it. But I said enough to Jane on two occasions to let her know I suspected treachery both to her own life and soul and to thee."

"And to my unborn children, mother."

"To be sure. It is a sin and a shame, both ways. It is that! The last time she was here, she told me as a bit of news, that Mary Fairfax had died that morning of cancer, and I said, 'Not she. She killed herself.' Then Jane said, 'You are mistaken, mother, she died of cancer.' I replied a bit hotly, 'She gave herself cancer. I have no doubt of that, and so she died as she deserved to die.' And when Jane said, 'No one could give herself cancer,' I told her plain and square that she did it by refusing the children God sent her to bear and to bring up for Him, taking as a result the pangs of cancer. She knew very well what I meant."

"What did she say?"

"Not a word. She was too angry to speak wisely and wise enough not to speak at all."

"Well, mother?"

"I said much more of the same kind. I told her that no one ever abused Nature and got off scot-free. _'Why-a!'_ I said, 'it is thus and so in the simplest matters. If you or I eat too much we have a sick headache or dyspepsia. If you dance or ride too much your heart suffers, and you know what happened to Abram Bowles with drinking too much. It is much worse,' I went on, 'if a tie is broken it is death to one or the other or both, especially if it is done again and again. Nature maltreated will send in her bill. That is sure as life and death, and the longer it is delayed, the heavier the bill.' I went on and told her that Mary Fairfax had been married seventeen years and had never borne but one child. She had long credit, I said, but Nature sent in her bill at last, and Mary had it to settle. Now, John, I did my duty, didn't I?"

"You did, mother. What did Jane say?"

"She said women had a hard lot to endure. She said they were born slaves and died slaves and a good deal more of the same kind of talk. I told her in reply that women were sent into life _to give life_, to be, as thou said, _mothers of men_, and she laughed, a queer kind of laugh though. Then I added, 'You may like the reason or not, Jane. You may accept or defy it, but I tell you plainly, motherhood was and is and always will be the chief reason and end of womanhood.'"

"Well, mother?"

"She was unpleasant and sarcastic and said this and that for pure aggravation about the selfishness of men. So our cup of tea was a bit bitter, and as a last fling she said my muffins were soggy and she would send me her mother's receipt. And I have been making muffins for thirty years, John!"

"I am astonished at Jane. She is usually so careful not to hurt or offend."

"Well, she forgets once in a while. I had the best of the argument, for I had only to remind her that it was I who taught her mother how to make muffins and who gave her my receipt for the same. Then she said, 'Really,' and, 'It is late, I must go!' And go she did and I have not seen her since."

"I wish I knew what to do, mother."

"Go to thy bed now and try to sleep. This thing is beyond thy ordering or mending. Leave it to those who are wiser than thou art. It will be put right at the right time by them. And don't meddle with it rashly. Every step thou takes is like stirring in muddy water--every step makes it muddier."

"But I must go to Harlow and see Jane if she does not come home."

"Thou must not go a step on that road. If thou does, thou may go on stepping it time without end. She left thee of her own free will. Let her come back in the same way. She is wrong. If thou wert wrong, I would tell thee so. Yes, I would be the first to bid thee go to Harlow and say thou wanted to be forgiven and loved again."

"I believe that, mother."

"By the Word of Christ, I would!"

"I shall be utterly unhappy if I do not know that she is well."

"Ask Sewell. If she is sick he will know and he will tell thee the truth. Go now and sleep. Thy pillow may give thee comfort and wisdom."

"Your advice is always right, mother. I will take it."

"Thou art a good man, John, and all that comes to thee shall be good in the fullness of its time and necessity. Kiss me, thou dear lad! I am proud to be thy mother. It is honor enough for Martha Hatton!"

That night John slept sorrowfully and he had the awakening from such a sleep--the slow, yet sudden realization of his trouble finding him out. It entered his consciousness with the force of a knockdown blow; he could hardly stand up against it. Usually he sang or whistled as he dressed himself, and this was so much a habit of his nature that it passed without notice in his household. Once, indeed, his father had fretfully alluded to it, saying, "Singing out of time is always singing out of tune," and Mrs. Hatton had promptly answered,

"Keep thyself to thyself, Stephen. Singing beats grumbling all to pieces. Give me the man who _can_ sing at six o'clock in the morning. He is worth trusting and loving, I'll warrant that. I wish thou would sing thyself. Happen it might sweeten thee a bit." And Stephen Hatton had kept himself to himself, about John's early singing thereafter.

This morning there was no song in John's heart and no song on his lips. He dressed silently and rapidly as if he was in a hurry to do something and yet he did not know what to do. His mother's positive assertion, that the best way out of the difficulty was to let it solve itself, did not satisfy him. He wanted to see his wife. He knew he must say some plain, hard words to her; but she loved him, and she would surely listen and understand how hard it was for him to say them.

He went early to the