THE PEOPLE OF THE STORY
Slowly, steadily, to and fro,
Swings our life in its weary way;
Now at its ebb, and now at its flow,
And the evening and morning make up the day.
Sorrow and happiness, peace and strife,
Fear and rejoicing its moments know;
Yet from the discords of such a life,
The clearest music of heaven may flow.
Duty led John Hatton to take the quickest road to Hatton-in-Elmete, a
small manufacturing town in a lovely district in Yorkshire. In Saxon
times it was covered with immense elm forests from which it was
originally called Elmete, but nearly a century ago the great family of
Hatton (being much reduced by the passage of the Reform Bill and their
private misfortunes) commenced cotton-spinning here, and their mills,
constantly increasing in size and importance, gave to the Saxon Elmete
the name of Hatton-in-Elmete.
The little village had become a town of some importance, but nearly
every household in it was connected in some way or other with the
cotton mills, either as cotton masters or cotton operatives. There were
necessarily a few professional men and shopkeepers, but there was street
after street full of cotton mills, and the ancient manor of the lords of
Hatton had become thoroughly a manufacturing locality.
But Hatton-in-Elmete was in a beautiful locality, lying on a ridge of
hills rising precipitously from the river, and these hills surrounded
the town as with walls and appeared to block up the way into the world
beyond. The principal street lay along their base, and John Hatton rode
up it at the close of the long summer day, when the mills were shut and
the operatives gathered in groups about its places of interest. Every
woman smiled at him, every man touched his cap, but a stranger would
have noticed that not one man bared his head. Yorkshire men do not offer
that courtesy to any man, for its neglect (originally the expression of
strong individuality and self-respect) had become a habit as natural and
spontaneous as their manner or their speech.
About a mile beyond the town, on the summit of a hill, stood Hatton
Hall, and John felt a hurrying sense of home as soon as he caught a
glimpse of its early sixteenth-century towers and chimneys. The road to
it was all uphill, but it was flagged with immense blocks of stone and
shaded by great elm-trees; at the summit a high, old-fashioned iron gate
admitted him into a delightful garden. And in this sweet place there
stood one of the most ancient and picturesque homes of England.
It is here to be noticed that in the early centuries of the English
nation the homes of the nobles distinctly represented local feeling and
physical conditions. In the North they generally stood on hillsides
apart where the winds rattled the boughs of the surrounding pines or
elms and the murmur of a river could be heard from below. The hill and
the trees, the wind and the river, were their usual background, with the
garden and park and the great plantations of trees belting the estate
around; the house itself standing on the highest land within the circle.
Such was the location and adjuncts of the ancient home of the Hattons,
and John Hatton looked up at the old face of it with a conscious love
and pride. The house was built of dark millstone grit in large blocks,
many of them now green and mossy. The roof was of sandstone in thin
slabs, and in its angles grass had taken root. In front there was a
tower and tall gables, with balls and pinnacles. The principal entrance
was a doorway with a Tudor arch, and a large porch resting on stone
pillars. Within this porch there were seats and a table, pots of
flowers, and a silver Jacobean bell. And all round the house were gables
and doorways and windows, showing carvings and inscriptions wherever the
ivy had not hid them.
The door stood wide open and in the porch his mother was sitting. She
had a piece of old English lace in her hand, which she was carefully
darning. Suddenly she heard John's footsteps and she lifted her head and
listened intently. Then with a radiant face she stood upright just as
John came from behind the laurel hedge into the golden rays of the
setting sun, and her face was transfigured as she called in a strong,
joyful voice,
"O John! John! I've been longing for you days and days. Come inside, my
dear lad. Come in! I'll be bound you are hungry. What will you take?
Have a cup of tea, now, John; it will be four hours before suppertime,
you know."
"Very well, mother. I haven't had my tea today, and I am a bit hungry."
"Poor lad! You shall have your tea and a mouthful in a few minutes."
"I'll go to my room, mother, and wash my face and hands. I am not fit
company for a dame so sweet as you are," and he lifted his right hand
courteously as he passed her.
In less than half an hour there was tea and milk, cold meat and fruit
before John, and his mother watched him eating with a beaming
satisfaction. And when John looked into her happy face he wondered at
his dream in Edinburgh, and said gratefully to himself,
"All is right with mother. Thank God for that!"
She did not talk while John was eating, but as he sat smoking in the
porch afterwards, she said,
"I want to ask you where you have been all these weeks, John, but Harry
isn't here, and you won't want to tell your story twice over, will you,
now?"
"I would rather not, mother."
"Your father wouldn't have done it, whether he liked to or not. I don't
expect you are any different to father. I didn't look for you, John,
till next week."
"But you needed me and wanted me?"
"Whatever makes you say that?"
"I dreamed that you wanted me, and I came home to see."
"Was it last Sunday night?"
"Yes."
"About eleven o'clock?"
"I did not notice the time."
"Well, for sure, I was in trouble Sunday. All day long I was in trouble,
and I am in a lot of trouble yet. I wanted you badly, John, and I did
call you, but not aloud. It was just to myself. I wished you were here."
"Then yourself called to myself, and here I am. Whatever troubles you,
mother, troubles me."
"To be sure, I know that, John. Well, then, it is your brother Harry."
A look of anxiety came into John's face and he asked in an anxious
voice, "What is the matter with Harry? Is he well?"
"Quite well."
"Then what has he been doing?"
"Nay, it's something he wants to do."
"He wants to get married, I suppose?"
"Nay, I haven't heard of any foolishness of that make. I'll tell you
what he wants to do--he wants to rent his share in the mill to Naylor's
sons."
Then John leaped to his feet and said angrily, "Never! Never! It cannot
be true, mother! I cannot believe it! Who told you?"
"Your overseer, Jonathan Greenwood, and Harry asked Greenwood to stand
by him in the matter, but Jonathan wouldn't have anything to do with
such business, and he advised me to send for you. He says the lad is
needing looking after--in more ways than one."
"Where is Harry?"
"He went to Manchester last Saturday."
"What for, mother?"
"I don't know for certain. He said on business. You had better talk with
Jonathan. I didn't like the way he spoke of Harry. He ought to remember
his young master is a bit above him."
"That is the last thing Jonathan would remember, but he is a
good-hearted, straight-standing man."
"Very, if you can believe in his words and ways. He came here Saturday
to insinuate all kinds of 'shouldn't-be's' against Harry, and then on
Sunday he was dropping his 'Amens' about the chapel so generously I
felt perfectly sure they were worth nothing."
"Well, mother, you may trust me to look after all that is wrong. Let not
your heart be troubled. I will talk with Jonathan in the morning."
"Nay, I'll warrant he will be here tonight. He will have heard thou art
home, and he will be sure he is wanted before anybody else."
"If he comes tonight, tell him I cannot see him until half-past nine in
the morning."
"That is right--but what for?"
"Because I am much troubled and a little angry. I wish to get myself in
harness before I see anyone."
"Well, you know, John, that Harry never liked the mill, but while father
lived he did not dare to say so. Poor lad! He hated mill life."
"He ought at least to remember what his grandfather and father thought
of Hatton Mill. Why, mother, on his twenty-first birthday, father
solemnly told him the story of the mill and how it was the seal and
witness between our God and our family--yet he would bring strangers
into our work! I'll have no partner in it--not the best man in England!
Yet Harry would share it with the Naylors, a horse-racing, betting,
irreligious crowd, who have made their money in byways all their
generations. Power of God! Only to think of it! Only to think of it!
Harry ought to be ashamed of himself--he ought that."
"Now, John, my dear lad, I will not hear Harry blamed when he is not
here to speak for himself--no, I will not! Wait till he is, and it will
be fair enough then to say what you want to. I am Harry's mother, and I
will see he gets fair play. I will that. It is my bounden duty to do so,
and I'll do it."
"You are right, mother, we must all have fair judgment, and I will see
that the brother I love so dearly gets it."
"God love thee, John."
"And, mother, keep a brave and cheerful heart. I will do all that is
possible to satisfy Harry."
"I can leave him safely with God and his brother. And tomorrow I can now
look after the apricot-preserving. Barker told me the fruit was all
ready today, but I could not frame myself to see it properly done, but
tomorrow it will be different." Then because she wanted to reward John
for his patience, and knowing well what subject was close to his heart,
she remarked in a casual manner,
"Mrs. Harlow was here yesterday, and she said her apricots were safely
put away."
"Was Miss Harlow with her?"
"No. There was a tennis game at Lady Thirsk's. I suppose she was there."
"Have you seen her lately?"
"She took tea with me last Wednesday. What a beauty she is! Such color
in her cheeks! It was like the apricots when the sun was on them. Such
shining black hair so wonderfully braided and coiled! Such sparkling,
flashing black eyes! Such a tall, splendid figure! Such a rosy mouth! It
seemed as if it was made for smiles and kisses."
"And she walks like a queen, mother!"
"She does that."
"And she is so bright and independent!"
"Well, John, she is. There's no denying it."
"She is finely educated and also related to the best Yorkshire families.
Could I marry any better woman, mother?"
"Well, John, as a rule men don't approve of poor wives, but Miss Jane
Harlow is a fortune in herself."
"Two months ago I heard that Lord Thirsk was very much in love with her.
I saw him with her very often. I was very unhappy, but I could not
interfere, you know, could I?"
"So you went off to sea, and left mother and Harry and your business to
anybody's care. It wasn't like you, John."
"No, it was not. I wanted you, mother, a dozen times a day, and I was
half-afraid to come back to you, lest I should find Miss Jane married or
at least engaged."
"She is neither one nor the other, or I am much mistaken. Whatever are
you afraid of? Jane Harlow is only a woman beautiful and up to date, she
is not a 'goddess excellently fair' like the woman you are always
singing about, not she! I'm sure I often wonder where she got her
beauty and high spirit. Her father was just a proud hanger-on to his
rich relations; he lived and died fighting his wants and his debts. Her
mother is very near as badly off--a poor, wuttering, little creature,
always fearing and trembling for the day she never saw."
"Perhaps this poverty and dependence may make her marry Lord Thirsk. He
is rich enough to get the girl he wants."
"His money would not buy Jane, if she did not like him; and she doesn't
like him."
"How do you know that, mother?"
"I asked her. While we were drinking our tea, I asked her if she were
going to make herself Lady Thirsk. She made fun of him. She mocked the
very idea. She said he had no chin worth speaking of and no back to his
head and so not a grain of _forthput_ in him of any kind. 'Why, he can't
play a game of tennis,' she said, 'and when he loses it he nearly cries,
and what do you think, Mrs. Hatton, of a lover like that?' Those were
her words, John."
"And you believe she was in earnest?"
"Yes, I do. Jane is too proud and too brave a girl to lie--unless----"
"Unless what, mother?"
"It was to her interest."
"Tell me all she said. Her words are life or death to me."
"They are nothing of the kind. Be ashamed of yourself, John Hatton."
"You are right, mother. My life and death are by the will of God, but I
can say that my happiness or wretchedness is in Jane Harlow's power."
"Your happiness is in your own power. Her 'no' might be a disappointment
in hours you weren't busy among your looms and cotton bales, or talking
of discounts and the money market, but its echo would grow fainter every
hour of your life, and then you would meet the other girl, whose 'yes'
would put the 'no' forever out of your memory."
"Well, mother, you have given me hope, and I have been comforted by you
'as one whom his mother comforteth.' If the dear girl is not to be won
by Thirsk's title and money, I will see what love can do."
"I'll tell you, John, what love can do"--and she went to a handsome set
of hanging book shelves containing the favorite volumes of Dissent
belonging to John's great-grandfather, Burnet, Taylor, Doddridge,
Wesley, Milton, Watts, quaint biographies, and books of travel. From
them she took a well-used copy of Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying," and
opening it as one familiar with every page, said,
"Listen, John, learn what Love can do.
"Love solves where learning perplexes. Love attracts the best in
every one, for it gives the best, Love redeemeth, Love lifts up,
Love enlightens, Love hath everlasting remembrance, Love advances
the Soul, Love is a ransom, and the tears thereof are a prayer.
Love is life. So much Love, so much Life. Oh, little Soul, if rich
in Love, thou art mighty."
"My dear mother, thank you. You are best of all mothers. God bless you."
"Your father, John, was a man of few words, as you know. He copied that
passage out of this very book, and he wrote after it, 'Martha Booth, I
love you. If you can love me, I will be at the chapel door after
tonight's service, then put your hand in mine, and I will hope to give
you hand and heart and home as long as I live.' And for years he kept
his word, John--he did that!"
"Father always kept his word. If he but once said a thing, no power on
earth could make him unsay it. He was a handsome, well-built man."
"Well, then, what are you thinking of?"
"I was thinking that Lord Thirsk is, by the majority of women,
considered handsome."
"What kind of women have that idea?"
"Why, mother, I don't exactly know. If I go into my tailor's, I am told
about his elegant figure, if into my shoemaker's, I hear of his small
feet, if to Baylor's glove counter, some girl fitting my number seven
will smilingly inform me that Lord Thirsk wears number four. And if you
see him walking or driving, he always has some pretty woman at his
side."
"What by all that? His feet are fit for nothing but dancing. He could
not take thy long swinging steps for a twenty-mile walk; he couldn't
take them for a dozen yards. His hands may be small enough, and white
enough, and ringed enough for a lady, but he can't make a penny's worth
with them. I've heard it said that if he goes to stay all night with a
friend he has to take his valet with him--can't dress himself, I
suppose."
"He is always dressed with the utmost nicety and in the tip-top of the
fashion."
"I'll warrant him. Jane told me he wore a lace cravat at the Priestly
ball, and I have no doubt that his pocket handkerchief was edged with
lace. And yet she said, 'No woman there laughed at him.'"
"At any rate he has fine eyes and hair and a pleasant face."
"I wouldn't bother myself to deny it. If anyone fancies curly hair and
big brown eyes and white cheeks and no chin to speak of and no feet fit
to walk with and no hands to work with, it isn't Martha Hatton and it
isn't Jane Harlow, I can take my affidavit on that," and the confident
smile which accompanied these words was better than any sworn oath to
John Hatton.
"You see, John," she continued, "I talked the man up and down with Jane,
from his number four gloves to his number four shoes, and I know what
she said--what she said in her own way, mind you. For Jane's way is to
pretend to like what she does not like, just to let people feel the road
to her real opinions."
"I do not quite understand you, mother."
"I don't know whether I quite understand myself, and it isn't my way to
explain my words--people usually know what I mean--but I will do it for
once, as John Hatton is wanting it. For instance, I was talking to Jane
about her lovers--I did not put you among them--and she said, 'Mrs.
Hatton, there are no lovers in these days. The men that are men are no
longer knights-errant. They don't fight in the tournament lists for
their lady-love, nor even sing serenades under her window in the
moonlight. We must look for them,' she said, 'in Manchester warehouses,
or Yorkshire spinning-mills. The knights-errant are all on the stock
exchange, and the poets write for _Punch_.' And I could not help
laughing, and she laughed too, and her laugh was so infectious I could
not get clear of it, and so poured my next cup of tea on the tea board."
"I wish I had been present."
"So do I, John. Perhaps then you would have understood the
contradictious girl, as well as I did. You see, she wanted me to know
that she preferred the Manchester warehouse men, and the Yorkshire
spinners, and the share-tumblers of the stock exchange to knights and
poets and that make of men. Now, some women would have said the words
straightforward, but not Jane. She prefers to state her likings and
dislikings in riddles and leave you to find out their meaning."
"That is an uncomfortable, uncertain way."
"To be sure it is, but if you want to marry Jane Harlow, you had better
take it into account. I never said she was perfect."
"If ever she is my wife, I shall teach her very gently to speak
straightforward words."
"Then you have your work set, John. Whether you can do it or not, is a
different thing. I don't want you to marry Jane Harlow, but as you have
set your heart on her, I have resolved to make the most of her strong
points and the least of her weak ones. You had better do the same."
There was silence for a few moments, then John asked, "Was that all,
mother?"
"We had more to say, but it was of a personal nature--I don't think it
concerns you at present."
"Nay, but it does, mother. Everything connected with Jane concerns me."
Mrs. Hatton appeared reluctant to speak, but John's anxiety was so
evident, she answered, "Well, then, it was about my children."
"What about them?"
"She said she had heard her mother speak of my 'large family' and yet
she had never seen any of them but Henry and yourself. She wondered if
her mother had been mistaken. And I said, 'Nay, your mother told the
truth, thank God!'
"'You see,' she continued, 'I was at school until a year ago, and our
families were not at all intimate.' I said, 'Not at all. Your father was
a proud man, Miss Harlow, and he would not notice a cotton-spinner on
terms of social equality. And Stephen Hatton thought himself as good as
the best man near him. So he was. And no worse for the mill. It kept up
the Hall, so it did.' She said I was right, and would I tell her about
my children."
"I hope you did, mother. I do hope you did."
"Why not? I am proud of them all, living or dead--here or _there_. So I
said, 'Well, Miss Harlow, John is not my firstborn. There was a lovely
little girl, who went back to God before she was quite a year old.
People said I ought to think it a great honor to give my first child to
God, but it was a great grief to me. Soon after her death John was born,
and after John came Clara Ann. She married before she was eighteen, a
captain of artillery in the army, and she has ever since been with him
in India, Africa, or elsewhere. Then I had Stephen, who is now a
well-known Manchester warehouse man and seldom gets away from his
business. Then Paul was given to me. He is a good boy, and a fine
sailor. His ship is the _Ajax_, a first-class line of battleship. I see
him now and then and get a letter from every port he touches. Then came
Harry, who served an apprenticeship with his father, but never liked the
mill; and at last, the sweetest gift of all God's gifts, twin daughters,
called Dora and Edith. They lived with us nearly eight years, and died
just before their father. They were born in the same hour and died
within five minutes of each other. The Lord gave them, and the Lord took
them away, and blessed be the name of the Lord!' This is about what I
said, John."
The conversation was interrupted here, by the entrance of a parlor-maid.
She said, "Sir, Jonathan Greenwood is here to ask if you can see him
this evening."
"Tell him I cannot. I will see him at the mill about half-past nine in
the morning."
The girl went away, but returned immediately. "Jonathan says, sir, that
will do. He wants to go to a meeting tonight, sir." Then Mrs. Hatton
looked at her son, and exclaimed, "How very kind of your overseer to
make your time do! Is that his usual way?"
"About it. He is a very independent fellow, and he knows no other way of
talking. But father found it worth his while to put up with his free
speech. Jonathan has a knowledge of manufactures and markets which
enables him to protect our interests, and entitles him to speak his mind
in his own way."
"I'm glad the same rule does not go in my kitchen. I have a first-class
cook, but if she asked me for a holiday and I gave her two days and she
said nothing but, 'That will do,' I would tell her to her face I was
giving her something out of my comfort and my pocket, and not something
that would only 'do' in the place of what she wanted. I would show her
my side of the question. I would that."
"For what reason?"
"I would be doing my duty."
"Well, mother, you could not match her and the bits of radicalism she
would give you. Keep the peace, mother; you have not her weapons in your
armory."
"I am just talking to relieve myself, John. I know better than to fratch
with anyone--at least I think I do."
"Just before I went away, mother, Jonathan came to me and said, 'Sir, I
hev confidence in human nature, generally speaking, but there's tricks
and there's turns, and if I was you I would run no risks with them
Manchester Sulbys'. Then he put the Sulby case before me, and if I had
not taken his advice, I would have lost three hundred pounds. It is
Jonathan's way to love God and suspect his neighbor."
"He will find it hard to do the two things at the same time, John."
"I do not understand how John works the problem, mother, but he does it
at least to his own satisfaction. He has told us often in the men's
weekly meeting that he is 'safe religiously, and that all his eternal
interests are settled,' but I notice that he trusts no man until he has
proved him honest."
"I don't believe in such Christians, John, and I hope there are not very
many of the same make."
"Indeed, mother, this union of a religious profession with a sharp
worldly spirit is the common character among our spinners. Jonathan has
four sons, and he has brought every one of them up in the same way."
"One of the four got married last week--married a girl who will have a
factory and four hundred looms for her fortune--old Aker's
granddaughter, you know."
"Yes, I know. Jonathan told me about it. He looked on the girl as a good
investment for _his_ family, and discussed her prospects just as he
would have discussed discounts or the money market."
Then John went to look after the condition of the cattle and horses on
the home farm. He found all in good order, told the farmer he had done
well, and made him happy with a few words of praise and appreciation.
But he said little to Mrs. Hatton on the subject, for his thoughts were
all close to the woman he loved. As they sat at supper he continually
wondered about her--where she was, what she was doing, what company she
was with, and even how she was dressed.
Mrs. Hatton did not always answer these queries satisfactorily. In fact,
she was a little weary of "dear Jane," and had already praised her
beyond her own judgment. So she was not always as sympathetic to this
second appeal for information as she might have been.
"I'll warrant, John," she answered a little judicially, "that Jane is
at some of the quality houses tonight; and she'll be singing or dancing
or playing bridge with one or other of that pale, rakish lot I see when
I drive through the town."
"Mother!"
"Yes, John, a bad, idle, lounging lot, that don't do a day's work to pay
for their living."
"They are likely gentlemen, mother, who have no work to do."
"Gentlemen! No, indeed! I will give them the first four letters of the
word--no more. They are not gentlemen, but they may be _gents_. We don't
expect much from _gents_, and how the women of today stand them beats
me."
John laughed a little, but he said he was weary and would go to his
room. And as he stood at Mrs. Hatton's side, telling her that he was
glad to be with her again, she found herself in the mood that enabled
her to say,
"John, my dear lad, you will soon marry, either Jane or some other
woman. You must do it, you know, for you must have sons and daughters,
that you may inherit the promise of God's blessing which is for you and
_your children_. Then your family must have a home, but not in Hatton
Hall--not just yet. There cannot be two mistresses in one house, can
there?"
"No, but by my father's will and his oft-repeated desire, this house is
your home, mother, as long as you live. I am going to build my own house
on the hill, facing the east, in front of the Ash plantation."
"You are wise. Our chimneys will smoke all the better for being a little
apart."
"And you, my mother, are lady and mistress of Hatton Hall as long as you
live. I will suffer no one to infringe on your rights." Then he stooped
his handsome head to her lifted face and kissed it with great
tenderness; and she turned away with tears in her eyes, but a happy
smile on her lips. And John was glad that this question had been raised
and settled, so quickly, and so lovingly.