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 God'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 brass 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 cushions, that did not need
arranging; she sent away the large tortoise-shell 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-push! 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 attitude 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 prone 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. God has given me
the desire of my heart, but I am not satisfied until you share my joy."
"That means that God 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!
Sit thee down, John, and tell me all about it."
So they sat down together on the bright hearth, sat down so close that
John could feel the constant touch of his mother's hand--that white,
firm hand which had guided and comforted him all his life long.
"Mother," he said, "if anyone had told me this morning that I should be
Jane's betrothed husband before I slept this night, I would hardly have
believed in the possibility. But Love is like a flower; it lies quiet in
its long still growth, and then in some happy hour it bursts into
perfect bloom. I had finished my business at Overton and stayed to eat
the market dinner with the spinners. Then in the quiet afternoon I took
my way home, and about a mile above the village I met Jane. I alighted
and took the bridle off Bendigo's neck over my arm, and asked permission
to walk with her. She said she was going to Harlow House, and would be
glad of my company. As we walked she told me they intended to return
there; she said she felt its large rooms with their faded magnificence
to be far more respectable than the little modern villa with its
creaking floors and rattling windows in which they were living."
"She is quite right," said Mrs. Hatton. "I wonder at them for leaving
the old place. Many a time and oft I have said that."
"She told me they had been up there a good deal during the past summer
and had enjoyed the peace and solitude of the situation; and the large
silent rooms were full of stories, she said--love stories of the old gay
Regency days. I said something about filling them with love stories of
the present day, and she laughed and said her mother was going there to
farm the land and make some money out of it; and she added with a smile
like sunshine, 'And I am going to try and help her. That accounts for
our walk this afternoon, Mr. Hatton,' and I told her I was that well
pleased with the walk, I cared little for what had caused it.
"In a short time we came in sight of the big, lonely house and entered
the long neglected park and garden. I noticed at once a splendid belt
of old ash-trees that shielded the house from the north and northeast
winds. I asked Jane if she knew who planted them, and she said she had
heard that the builder of the house planted the trees. Then I told her I
suspected the builder had been a very wise man, and when she asked why I
answered, Because he could hardly have chosen a better tree. The ash
represents some of the finest qualities in human nature.'"
"That wasn't much like love talk, John."
"It was the best kind of talk, mother. There had to be some commonplace
conversation to induce that familiarity which made love talk possible.
So I told her how the ash would grow _anywhere_--even at the seaside,
where all trees lean from the sea--_except the ash_. Sea or no sea, it
stands straight up. Even the oak will shave up on the side of the wind,
_but not the ash_. And best of all, the ash bears pruning better than
any other tree. Pruning! That is the great trial both for men and trees,
mother. None of us like it, but the ash-tree makes the best of it."
"What did she say to all this rigmarole about trees?"
"She said there was something very human about trees, that she had often
watched them tewing with a great wind, tossing and fretting, but very
seldom giving way to it. And she added, 'They are a great deal more
human than mountains. I really think they talk about people among
themselves. I have heard those ash-trees laughing and whispering
together. Many say that they know when the people who own them are going
to die. Then, on every tree there are some leaves splashed with white.
It was so the year father died. Do you believe in signs, Mr. Hatton?'
she asked.
"Then, mother, without my knowledge or intention I answered, '_Oh, my
dear_! The world is full of signs and the man must be deaf and blind
that does not believe in them. I have seen just round Hatton that the
whole bird world is ruled by the signs that the trees hang out.' And she
asked me what they were, and I told her to notice next spring that as
soon as the birch-leaves opened, the pheasant began to crow and the
thrush to sing and the blackbird to whistle; and when the oak-leaves
looked their reddest, and not a day before, the whole tribe of finches
broke into song.
"Thus talking, mother, and getting very close and friendly with each
other, we passed through the park, and I could not help noticing the
abundance of hares and pheasants. Jane said they had not been molested
since her father's death, but now they were going to send some of them
to market. As we approached the house, an old man came to meet us and I
gave my horse to his care. He had the keys of the house and he opened
the great door for us. The Hall was very high and cold and lonely, but
in a parlor on the right-hand side we found an old woman lighting a
fire which was already blazing merrily. Jane knew her well and she told
her to make us a pot of tea and bring it there. With her own hands she
drew forward a handsome Pembroke table, and then we went together
through the main rooms of the house. They were furnished in the time of
the Regency, Jane said, and it was easy to recognize the rich, ornate
extravagance of that period. In all this conversation, mother, we were
drawing nearer and nearer to each other and I kept in mind that I had
called her once 'my dear' and that she had shown no objection to the
words."
"I suppose the old man and woman were John Britton and his wife Dinah. I
believe they have charge of the place."
"I think so. I heard Jane give the man some orders about the glass in
the windows and he spoke to her concerning the bee skeps and the dahlia
bulbs being all right for winter. In half an hour there was a nice
little tea ready for us, and just imagine, mother, how it felt for me to
be sitting there drinking tea with Jane!"
"Was it a nice tea, John?"
"Mother, what can I tell you? I wasn't myself at all. I only know that
Dinah came in and out with hot cakes and that Jane put honey on them and
gave them to me with smiles and kind words. It was all wonderful! If I
had been dreaming, I might have felt just as much out of the body."
"Jane can be very charming, I know that, John."
"She was something better than charming, mother; she was kind and just
a little quiet. If she had been laughing and noisy and in one of her
merry moods, it would not have been half so enchanting. It was her sweet
sedateness that gave sureness and reality to the whole affair.
"We left Harlow House just as the hunting-moon was rising. Its full
yellow splendor was over everything, and Jane looked almost spiritual in
its transfiguring light. Mother, I do not remember what I said, as I
walked with her hand-in-hand through the park. Ask your own heart,
mother. I have no doubt father said the same words to you. There can
only be one language for an emotion so powerful. Wise or foolish, Jane
understood what I said, and in words equally sweet and foolish she gave
me her promise. Oh, mother, it was not altogether the words! It was the
little tremors and coy unfoldings and sweet agitations of love revealing
itself--it wakened in Jane's heart like a wandering rose. And I saw this
awakening of the woman, mother, and it was a wonderful sight."
"John, you have had an experience that most men miss; be thankful for
it."
"I am, mother. As long as I live, I will remember it."
"Did you see Mrs. Harlow?"
"For a short time only. She was much pleased at her daughter's choice.
She thought our marriage might disarrange some of her own plans, but
she said Jane's happiness came before all other considerations."
"Well, John, it is more than a few hours since you had that wonderful
tea with cakes and honey. You must have your proper eating, no matter
what comes or goes. What do you say to a slice of cold roast beef and
some apple pie?"
"Nay, mother, I'm not beef hungry. I'll have the apple pie, and a
pitcher of new milk."
"And then thou must go to bed and settle thyself with a good, deep
sleep."
"To be sure, mother. Joy tires a man as trouble does, but a deep sleep
will rest and steady me."
So John went to the deep, steadying sleep he needed; it was Mrs. Hatton
who watched the midnight hours away in anxious thought and careful
forebodings. She had not worried much about Harry's passion for Lucy
Lugur. She was sure that his Mediterranean trip would introduce him to
girls so much lovelier than Lucy that he would practically have
forgotten her when he returned. Harry had been in love with half a dozen
girls before Lucy. She let Harry slip out of her consideration.
John's case was different. It was vitally true and intense. She
understood that John must marry or be miserable, and she faced the
situation with brimming eyes and a very heavy heart. She had given John
her loving sympathy, and she would not retract a word of it to him. But
to God she could open her heart and to Him she could tell even those
little things she would not speak of to any human being. She could ask
God to remember that, boy and man, John had stood by her side for nearly
thirty years, and that he was leaving her for a woman who had been
unknown a year ago.
She could tell God that John's enthusiastic praise of this strange woman
had been hard to bear, and she divined that at least for a time she
might have to share her home with her. She anticipated all the little
offenses she must overlook, all the small unconsidered slights she must
pass by. She knew there would be difficulties and differences in which
youth and beauty would carry the day against truth and justice; and she
sat hour after hour marshaling these trials of her love and temper and
facing them all to their logical end.
Some women would have said, "Time enough to face a trial when it comes."
No, it is too late then. Trials apprehended are trials defended; and
Martha Hatton knew that she could not trust herself with unexpected
trials. In that case she believed the natural woman would behave herself
naturally, and say the words and do the deeds called forth by the
situation. So Martha in this solemn session was seeking strength to give
up, strength to bear and to forbear, strength to see her household laws
and customs violated, and not go on the aggressive for their sanctity.
She had a custom that devout women in all ages have naturally followed.
She sat quiet before God and spoke to Him in low, whispered words. It
was not prayer; it was rather the still confidence of one who asks help
and counsel from a Friend, able and willing to give it.
"Dear God," she said, in a voice that none but God could hear, "give me
good, plain, household understanding--let me keep in mind that there is
no foolishness like falling out--help me to hold my temper well in hand
so that I may put things right as fast as they go wrong. I am jealous
about John--it _is_ hard to give him up. Thou gavest him to me, Thou
knowest. Oh, let nothing that happens unmother me!"
In this way she sat in the dark and silence and asked and waited for the
answer. And no doubt it came, for about two o'clock she rose up like one
that had been strengthened and went calmly to her rest.
In the morning the first shock of the coming change was over, the
everyday use and wont of an orderly house restored the feeling of
stability, and Martha told herself things might turn out better than
looked likely. John was just as loving and attentive as he had always
been, and when he asked her to call on Jane Harlow as soon as she could
and give her welcome into the Hatton family, she did not impute his
attentions to any selfish motive.
Nevertheless, it was as the Lady of Hatton Manor, rather than as John's
mother, she went to make this necessary call. She dressed with the
greatest care, and though she was a good walker, chose to have her
victoria with its pair of white ponies carry her to the village. Jane
met her at the gate of their villa and the few words of necessary
welcome were spoken with a kindness which there was no reason to doubt.
With Mrs. Harlow Martha had a queer motherly kind of friendship, and it
was really by her advice the ladies had been led to think of a return to
Harlow House. For she saw that the elder woman was unhappy for want of
some interest in life, and she was sure that the domestic instinct, as
well as the instinct for buying and selling, was well developed in her
and only wanted exercise. Indeed, an hour's conversation on the
possibilities of Harlow House, of the money to be made on game, poultry,
eggs, milk, butter, honey, fruit, had roused such good hopes in Mrs.
Harlow's heart that she could hardly wait until the house was put in
order and the necessary servants hired.
She relied on Martha like a child, and anyone who did that was sure of
her motherly kindness. On this day Martha was particularly glad to turn
the conversation on the subject. She spoke of Jane's marriage and
pointed out what a comfort it would be when she was alone to be making a
bit of money at every turn. "Why!" she cried enthusiastically. "Instead
of moping over the fire with some silly tale of impossible tragedy, you
will have your dairy and poultry to look after. Even in winter they
bring in money, and there's game to send to market every week. Hares
come as fast as they go, and partridge are hardy and plentiful. Why,
there's a little fortune lying loose in Harlow! If I were you, I would
make haste to pick it up."
This was a safe and encouraging subject, and Mrs. Hatton pressed it for
all it was worth. It was only Jane that saw any objections to their
immediate removal to Harlow House. She said Lord Harlow, as her nearest
relative and the head of their house, had been written to that morning,
being informed of her intended marriage, and she thought no fresh step
ought to be taken until they heard from him.
But this or that, Martha Hatton spent more than two hours with the
Harlow ladies, and she left them full of hope and enthusiasm. And oh,
how good, how charming, how strengthening is a new hope in life! The two
ladies were ten or twelve degrees higher in moral atmosphere when Mrs.
Hatton left them than they had been before her call. And she went away
laughing and saying pleasant things and the last flirt of her white
kerchief as her victoria turned up the hill was like the flutter of some
glad bird's wing.
In four days there was a letter of great interest and kindness from Lord
Harlow. He said that he was well acquainted with Mr. John Hatton from
many favorable sources and that the marriage arranged between him and
his niece Jane Harlow was satisfactory in all respects. Further she was
informed that Lady Harlow requested her company during the present
season in London. It would, she said, be her duty and her pleasure to
assist in getting ready her niece's wedding outfit, but she left her to
fix the day on which she would come to London.
This letter was a little thunderbolt in the Harlow villa, and Jane said
she could not go away until her mother was settled at Harlow House. John
was much troubled at this early break in his love dream, but Mrs. Harlow
would not listen to any refusal of Lord and Lady Harlow's invitation.
She said Jane had never seen anything of life, and it was only right she
should do so before settling down at Hatton. Besides, her uncle and
aunt's gifts would be very necessary for her wedding outfit. In the
privacy of her own thoughts--yes, and several times to her daughter--she
sighed deeply over this late kindness of Lord and Lady Harlow. She
wished that Jane had been asked before she was engaged; nobody knew in
that case what good fortune might have come. It was such a pity!
Mrs. Harlow's removal was not completed until Christmas was so close at
hand that it was thought best to make it the time for their return home.
It was really John and Mrs. Hatton who managed the whole business of the
removal, and to their efforts the complete comfort--and even beauty--of
the old residence was due. But the days spent in this work were days
full of the sweet intimacies of love. John could never forget one hour
of them, and it added to their charm to see and hear Martha Hatton
everywhere, her hands making beauty and comfort, her voice sounding like
a cheerful song in all the odd corners and queer places of the house.
Upon the whole it was a wonderful Christmas, but when it was over the
realities of life were to face. Jane was going to London and John
wondered how he was to bear the days without her. In the spring he would
begin to build the house for himself he had long contemplated building.
The plan of it had been fully explained to Jane, and had been approved
by her, and John was resolved to break ground for the foundation as soon
as it was possible to do so. And he calculated somewhat on the diversion
he would find in building a home for the woman he so dearly loved.
Then the parting came, and John with tears and misgivings sent his
darling into the unknown world of London. It was a great trial to him;
fears and doubts and sad forebodings gave him tragic hours. It was a new
kind of loneliness that he felt; nothing like it had ever come to him
before.
"My food has lost all flavor," he said to his mother, "and I cannot get
any good sleep. I am very unhappy."
"Well, my dear," she answered, "if you don't turn your suffering into
some sort of gain, you'll be a great loser. But if you turn it into
patience or good hope or good temper you will make gain out of it. You
will buy it with a price. You will pay yourself down for it. It will be
yours forever. To be plain with you, John, you have been peevish all day
long. I wouldn't if I were you. Nothing makes life taste so bitter in
your mouth as a peevish temper."
"Why, mother! What do you mean?"
"Just what I say, John, and it is not like you. You have no real
trouble. Jane Harlow is having what any girl would call a happy time.
There is nothing wrong in it. She does not forget you, and you must not
make troubles out of nothing, or else real troubles are sure to come.
Surely you know _who_ to go to in your trouble?"
"Yes! Yes! In anxiety and fear we learn how necessary it was that God
should come to us as man. 'It is our flesh that we seek and that we find
in the Godhead. It is a face like my face that receives me, a Man like
to me that I love and am loved by forever.' I have learned how necessary
the revelation of Christ was in these lonely weeks. I did not know I was
cross. I will mend that."
"Do, my dear. It isn't like John Hatton to be cross. No, it isn't!"
Slowly the winter passed. John went several times to London during it
and was kindly and honorably entertained by Lord Harlow during his
visits. Then he saw his Jane in environments that made him a little
anxious about the future. Surrounded by luxury, a belle and favorite in
society, a constant participator in all kinds of amusement and the
recipient of much attention, how would she like to settle down to the
exact monotony of life at Hatton?
It was well for John that he had none of the Hellenic spirit in him. He
was not tempted to sit down and contemplate his worries. No, the Hebrew
spirit was the nobler one, and he persistently chose it--"get thee forth
into their midst, and whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy
might." John instinctively followed this advice, so that even his
employees noticed his diligence and watchfulness about everything going
on.
In the earliest days of April when spring was making the world fresh and
lovely and filling the balmy air with song, John thought of the home for
himself that he would build and he determined to see the man who was to
dig the foundation that night. He had just received a letter from Jane,
and she said she was weary of London, and longing to be with her dear
mother at Harlow House, or indeed anywhere that would allow her to see
him every day. A very little kindness went a long way with John and such
words lying near his heart made him wonderfully happy. And because he
was happy he was exceedingly busy. Even Greenwood did not trouble him
with observations; and official conversation was reduced to
monosyllables. People came in and left papers and went out without a
word; and there was a pressure on John to "do whatsoever his hand found
to do with all his might."
Suddenly the door was flung open with unrestricted force and noise and
John raised his head to reprove the offender. Instead of this, he rose
from his chair and with open arms took his brother to his heart. "Why,
Harry!" he cried. "Mother will be glad to see you. I was thinking of you
while I dressed myself this morning. When did you reach England?"
"I got to London three days ago."
"Never! I wouldn't tell mother that! She will think you ought to have
been at Hatton three days ago."
"I had to look after Lucy, first thing. I found her, John, in Bradford
in a sad state."
"I don't understand you, Harry."
"Her father had left her with a very strict aunt, and she was made to do
things she never had done--work about the house, you know--and she
looked ill and sorrowful and my heart ached for her. Her father was away
from her, and she thought I had forgotten her. The dear little woman! I
married her the next day."
"Henry Hatton! What are you saying?"
"I married there and then, as it were. It was my duty to do so."
"It was your will. There was no duty in it."
"Call it what you like, John. She is now my wife and I expect you and
mother will remember this."
"You are asking too much of mother."
"You said you would stand by me in this matter."
"I thought you would behave with some consideration for others. Is it
right for you to expect mother to take an entire stranger into her home,
a girl for whom she had no liking? Why should mother do this?"
"Because I love the girl."
"You are shamelessly selfish, and a girl who could make a mother's love
for you a pretext for entering Hatton Hall as her right is not a nice
girl."
"Lucy has done nothing of the kind. She is satisfied in the hotel. Do
you want me to stay at the hotel?"
"I should feel very much hurt if you did."
"But I shall stay where my wife stays."
"You had better go and see mother. What she does I will second."
"John, can you settle the matter of the mill now? I want no more to do
with it and you know you promised to buy my share in that case."
"I want to build my home. I cannot build and buy at the same time."
"Why need you build? There is Hatton Hall for you, and mother will not
object to the nobly born Jane Harlow."
"We will not talk of Miss Harlow. Harry, my dear, dear brother, you have
come home to turn everything upside down. Let me have a little time to
think. Go and see mother. I will talk to you immediately afterwards.
Where did you leave the yacht?"
"At London. I disliked Captain Cook. I felt as if I was with a tutor of
some sort all the time. He said he would take the yacht to her wharf at
Whitby and then write to you. You ought to have a letter today. I don't
think you are very glad to see me, John."
"Oh, Harry, you have married that girl, quite regardless of how your
marriage would affect your family! You ought to have given us some time
to prepare ourselves for such a change."
"Lucy was in trouble, and I could not bear to see her in trouble."
"Well, go and see mother. Perhaps you can bear mother's trouble more
easily."
"I hope mother will be kinder to me than you have been. John, I have no
money. Let me have a thousand pounds till we settle about the mill."
"Do you know what you are asking, Harry? A thousand pounds would run
Hatton Hall for a year."
"I have to live decently, I suppose."
With these words he left the mill and went at once to the Hall. Mrs.
Hatton was in the garden, tying up some straying branches of
honeysuckle. At her feet were great masses of snowdrops tall and white
among moss and ivy, and the brown earthen beds around were cloth of gold
with splendid crocus flowers; but beyond these things, she saw her son
as soon as he reached the gate. And she called him by his name full and
heartily and stood with open arms to receive him.
Harry plunged at once into his dilemma. "Mother! Mother!" he cried,
taking both her hands in his. "Mother, John is angry with me, but you
will stand by me, I know you will. It is about Lucy, mother. I found her
in great trouble, and I took her out of it. Don't say I did wrong,
mother. Stand by me--you always have done so."
"You took her out of it! Do you mean that you married her?"
"How else could I help her? She is my wife now, and I will take care
that no one troubles her. May I bring her to see you, mother?"
Mrs. Hatton stood looking at Harry. It was difficult for her to take in
and believe what she heard, but in a few moments she said,
"Where is she?"
"At the little hotel in the village."
"You must bring her here at once. She ought never to have gone to the
hotel. Dear me! What will people say?"
"Thank you, mother."
"Take my victoria. James is in the stable and he will drive it. Go for
your wife at once. She must come to your home."
"And you will try and love her for my sake, mother?"
"Nay, nay! If I can't love the lass for her own sake, I'll never love
her for thy sake. But if she is thy wife, she will get all the respect
due thy wife. If she can win more, she'll get more, and that is all
there is to it."
With this concession Harry had to be satisfied. He brought his wife to
the Hall and Mrs. Hatton met her with punctilious courtesy. She gave her
the best guest room and sent her own maid to help her dress. The little
woman was almost frightened by the ceremonious nature of her reception.
But when John came home he called her "Lucy," and tempered by many
little acts of brotherly kindness, that extreme politeness which is
harder to bear than hard words.
And as John and his mother sat alone and unhappy after Harry and his
wife had bid them good night, John attempted to comfort his mother. "You
carried yourself bravely and kindly, mother," he said, "but I see that
you suffer. What do you think of her?"
"She is pretty and docile, but she isn't like a mother of Hatton men.
Look at the pictured women in the corridor upstairs. They were born to
breed and to suckle men of brain and muscles like yourself, John. The
children of little women are apt to be little in some way or other. Lucy
does not look motherly, but Harry is taken up with her. We must make the
best of the match, John, and don't let the trial of their stay here be
too long. Get them away as soon as possible."
"Harry says that he has decided to make his home in or near London."
"Then he is going to leave the mill?"
"Yes."
"What is he thinking of?"
"Music or art. He has no settled plans. He says he must settle his home
first."
"Well, when Harry can give up thee and me for that girl, we need not
think much of ourselves. I feel a bit humiliated by being put below
her."
"Don't look at it in that way, mother."
"Nay, but I can't help it. I wonder wherever Harry got his fool notions.
He was brought up in the mill and for the mill, and I've always heard
say that as the twig is bent the tree is inclined."
"That is only a half-truth, mother. You have the nature of the tree to
reckon with. You may train a willow-tree all you like but you will never
make it an oak or an ash. Here is Harry who has been trained for a
cotton-spinner turns back on us and says he will be an artist or a
singer, and what can we do about it? It is past curing or altering now."
But though the late owner of Hatton Mill had left the clearest
instructions concerning its relation to his two sons, the matter was not
easily settled. He had tied both of them so clearly down to his will in
the matter that it was found impossible to alter a tittle of his
directions. Practically it amounted to a just division of whatever the
mill had made after the tithe for charities had been first deducted. It
gave John a positive right to govern the mill, to decide all disputes,
and to stand in his place as master. It gave to Henry the same financial
standing as his brother, but strictly denied to either son who deserted
the mill any sum of larger amount than five thousand pounds; "to be made
in one payment, and not a shilling more." A codicil, however, three
years later, permitted one brother to buy the other out at a price to be
settled by three large cotton-spinners who had long been friends of the
Hatton family. These directions appeared to be plain enough but there
was delay after delay in bringing the matter to a finish. It was nearly
a month before Harry had his five thousand pounds in his pocketbook, and
during this time he made no progress with his mother. She thought him
selfish and indifferent about the mill and his family. In fact, Harry
was at that time a very much married man, and though John was capable of
considering the value of this affection, John's mother was not. John
looked on it as a safeguard for the future. John's mother saw it only as
a marked and offensive detail of the present. Lucy did nothing to help
the situation. In spite of the attention paid her, she knew that she was
unwelcome. "Your people do not like me, Harry," she complained; and
Harry said some unkind things concerning his people in reply.
So the parting was cool and constrained, and Harry went off with his
bride and his five thousand pounds, caring little at that time for any
other consideration.
"He will come to himself soon, mother," said John. "It isn't worth while
to fret about him."
"I never waste anything, John, least of all love and tears. I can learn
to do without, as well as other mothers."
But it was a hard trial, and her tired eyes and weary manner showed it.
John was not able to make any excuse she would listen to about Harry's
marriage. Its hurried and almost clandestine character deeply offended
her; and the young wife during her visit had foolishly made a point of
exhibiting her power over her husband, while both of them seemed
possessed by that egotistical spirit which insists on their whole world
seeing how vastly superior their love is to any other love that ever had
been. Undoubtedly the young couple were offensive to everyone, and Mrs.
Hatton said they had proved to her perfect satisfaction the propriety
and even the necessity for the retirement of newly married people to
some secluded spot for their honeymoon.
Soon after their departure Jane Harlow returned. She came home attended
by the rumor of her triumphs and enriched by a splendid wardrobe and
many fine pieces of jewelry. She told modestly enough the story of the
life she had been leading, and Mrs. Hatton was intensely interested in
it.
"Jane Harlow is a woman of a thousand parts, and you have chosen a wife
to bring you friendship and honor," she said to John. "Dear knows one
cannot weary in her company. She has an opinion on every subject."
"She has been in highly cultivated society and it has improved her a
great deal, mother. Perhaps if Lucy had had the same opportunity she
would have been equally benefited."
"I beg to remind you, John, of what you said about training trees--'the
nature of the tree has to be taken into account'; no amount of training
could make an oak out of a willow."
"True, mother. Yet there are people who would prefer the willow to the
oak."
"And you couldn't help such people, now could you? You might be sorry
for them. But there--what could you do?"
And John said softly,
"What can we do o'er whom the unbeholden
Hangs in a night, wherewith we dare not cope;
What but look sunward, and with faces golden,
Speak to each other softly of our Hope?"