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

pleasant errand, John Hatton. I am in trouble about my daughter and her husband."

"What is wrong there?" and John asked the question a little coldly.

"You must go to London, and see what is wrong. Harry is gambling. Lucy makes no complaints, but I have eyes and ears. I need no words."

"Are you sure of what you are saying, Lugur?"

"I went and took him out of a gambling-house three days ago."

"Thank you! I will attend to the matter."

"You have no time to lose. If I told you your brother was in a burning house, what haste you would make to save him! He is in still greater danger. The first train you can get is the best train to take."

"O Harry! Harry!" cried John, as he rose and began to lock his desk and his safe.

"Harry loves and will obey you. Make haste to help him before he begins to love the sin that is now his great temptation."

"Do you know much of Harry?"

"I do and I love him. I have kept watch over him for some months. He is worth loving and worth saving. Go at once to him."

"Have you any opinion about the best means to be used in the future?"

"He must leave London and come to Hatton where he can be under your constant care. Will you accept this charge? I do not mind telling you that it is your duty. These looms and spindles any clever spinner can direct right, but it takes a soul to save a soul. You know that."

"I will be in London tonight, Mr. Lugur. You are a friend worth having. I thank you."

"Good-bye! I leave for Cardiff at once. I leave Harry with God and you--and I would not be hard with Harry."

"I shall not. I love Harry."

"You cannot help loving him. He is doing wrong, but you cannot stop loving him, and you know it was _while as yet we were sinners_, God loved and saved us. Good-bye, sir!"

The door closed and John turned the key and sat down for a few minutes to consider his position. This sorrow on the top of his disagreement with Jane and his anxiety about the threatened war in America called forth all his latent strength. He told himself that he must now put personal feelings aside and give his attention first of all to Harry's case, it being evidently the most urgent of the duties before him. Jane if left for a few days would no doubt be more reasonable. Greenwood could be safely left to look after Hatton mill and to buy for it all the cotton he could lay his hands on. He had not the time to visit his mother, but he wrote her a few words of explanation and as he knew Jane's parlors were full of women, he sent her the following note:

MY DEARLY LOVED WIFE,

Instant and important business takes me at a moment's notice to
London. I have no time to come and see you, and solace my heart
with a parting glance of your beauty, to hear your whispered
good-bye, or taste the living sweetness of your kiss, but you will
be constantly present with me. Waking, I shall be loving and
thinking of you; sleeping I shall be dreaming of you. Dearest of
all sweet, fair women, do not forget me. Let me throb with your
heart and live in your constant memory. I will write you every day,
and you will make all my work easy and all my hours happy if you
send me a few kind words to the Charing Cross Hotel. I do not
think I shall be more than three or four days absent, but however
short or long the time may be, I am beyond all words,

Your devoted husband,
JOHN HATTON.

This letter written, John hurried to the railway station, but in spite of express trains, it was dark when he reached London, and long after seven o'clock when he reached his brother's house. He noticed at once that the parlors were unlit and that the whole building had a dark, unprosperous, unhappy appearance. A servant woman admitted him, and almost simultaneously Lucy came running downstairs to meet him, for during the years that had passed since her marriage to Harry Hatton, Lucy had become a real sister to John and he had for her a most sincere affection.

They went into a parlor in which there had been a fire and stood talking for a few moments. But the fire was nearly out, and the girl had only left a candle on the table, and Lucy said, "I was sitting upstairs, John, beside the children. Harry told me it would be late when he returned home, so I went to the nursery. You see children are such good company. Will you go with me to the nursery? It is the girl's night out, but if you prefer to----"

"Let us go to the nursery, Lucy, and send the girl out. I have come specially to have a long talk with you about Harry and her absence will be a good thing."

Then he took her hand and they went together to a large room upstairs. There was a bright fire burning on this hearth and a large fur rug before it. A pretty bassinet, in which a lovely girl-baby was sleeping, was on one side of the hearth and Lucy's low nursing-chair on the other side, and a little round table set ready for tea in the center. A snow-white bed in a distant corner held the two boys, Stephen and Ralph, who were fast asleep. John stooped first to the baby, and kissed it, and Lucy said, "I have called her Agnes. It was my mother's name when she was on earth. Do you think they call her Agnes in heaven, John?"

_"He hath called thee by thy name_, is one of the tokens given us of God's fatherhood, Lucy."

"Well, John, a father must care what his children are called--if he cares for the children."

"Yes, we may be sure of that." As he spoke, he was standing by the sleeping boys. He loved both, but he loved Stephen, the elder, with an extraordinary affection. And as he looked at the sleeping child, the boy opened his eyes. Then a beautiful smile illumined his face, a delightful cry of wonder and joy parted his lips, and he held out his arms to John. Without a moment's hesitation, John lifted him.

"Dear little Stephen!" he said. "I wish you were a man!"

"Then I would always stay with you, Uncle."

"Yes, yes! Now you must go to sleep and tomorrow I will take you to the Hippodrome."

"And Ralph, too?"

"To be sure, Ralph goes, too." Then he tenderly laid Stephen back in bed and watched Lucy from the fireside. She talked softly to him, as she went about the room, attending to those details of forethought of which mothers have the secret. He watched her putting everything in place with silent pleasure. He noted her deft, clever ways, the exquisite neatness of her dress, her small feet so trigly shod, her lovely face bending over the most trivial duty with a smile of sweet contentment; and he could not help thinking hopefully of Harry. Indeed her atmosphere was so afar from whatever was evil or sorrowful that John wondered how he was to begin a conversation which must be a disturbance.

Presently the room was in perfect order, and the children asleep; then she touched a bell, but no one answered it. After waiting a few minutes, she said, "John, the girl has evidently gone out. I must go down for my supper tray. In five minutes I will be back."

"I will go with you."

"Thank you! When Harry is not home, I like to eat my last meal beside the sleeping children. Then I can take a book and read leisurely, so the hours pass pleasantly away."

"Is Harry generally late?"

"He has to be late. Very often his song is the last on the program. Here is the tray. It is all ready--except your cup and plate. You will take a cup of tea with me, John?"

"Yes, but I am going to look for Harry soon and I may keep him all night. Do you care? Are you afraid?"

"Harry is safe with you. I am glad you are going to keep him all night, I am not at all afraid," and as she arranged the tray and its contents on the table by the hearth, John heard the sweetest strain of melody thrill the little space between them. He looked at her inquiringly, and she sang softly,


"I dwell
Too near to God, for doubt or fear,
And share the eternal calm."


"Where is Harry tonight?" he asked.

"He was to sing at the _Odeon_ in the oratorio of 'Samson.' I used to go and hear him but I cannot leave the children now."

"My dear Lucy, I have come to London specially to talk with you and Harry. I have been made miserable about Harry."

"Who told you anything wrong of Harry?"

"Your father. He is distressed at the road Harry is taking. He says Harry is beginning to gamble."

"Is my father sure of what he says?"

"Lucy, I am Harry's elder brother. He is dear as life to me. I am your true friend; be trustful of me. You may speak to me as to your own heart. I have come to help you."

Then she let all the minor notes of doubt and uncertainty go and answered, "Harry needs you, John, though I hardly know how. He is in great temptations--he lost every shilling of the last money you sent. I do not know how he lost it. We are living now on money I saved when Harry made so much more, and my father gave me fifty pounds when he was here, but he advised me not to tell Harry I had it. I was to save it for days Harry had none--for the children. O John, all this troubles me!"

And John's face flamed up, for his family pride was keenly touched. How could Henry Hatton humble his family and his own honor by letting the poor schoolmaster feed his wife and children? And he threw aside then some considerations he had intended to make in Lucy's favor, for he saw that she already shared his anxiety, and so would probably be his best helper in any plan for Harry's salvation, from the insidious temptation by which he was assailed.


CHAPTER IX


JOHN INTERFERES IN HARRY'S AFFAIRS

Gamblers are reckless men, always living between ebb and flow.

The germ of every sin, is the reflection, whether it be possible.

After John had recovered from the shock which the knowledge of Lugur's interference in the financial affairs of his brother had given him, he drew closer to his sister and took her hand and she said anxiously, "John, what can I do to help you in getting Harry into the right way? I know and feel that all is at