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 present just as it should _not_ be. I will
do whatever you advise." She was not weeping, but her face was white and
resolute and her eyes shone with the hope that had entered her heart.
"As I traveled to London, Lucy, I thought of many ways and means, but
none of them stood the test of their probable ultimate results; and as I
entered my hotel I let them slip from me as useless. Then I saw a
gentleman writing his name in the registry book, and I knew it was
Matthew Ramsby. As soon as I saw him the plan for Harry's safety came
to me in a flash of light and conviction. So I went and spoke to him and
we had dinner together. And I asked him if he was ever coming to Yoden
to live, and he said, 'No, it is too far from my hunt and from the races
I like best.' Then I offered to rent the place, and he was delighted. I
made very favorable terms, and Harry must go there with you and your
dear children. Are you willing?"
"O John! It would be like a home in Paradise. And Harry would be safe if
he was under your influence."
"You know, Lucy, what Jane's mother has done with Harlow House. Yoden
can be made far prettier and far more profitable. You may raise any
amount of poultry and on the wold there is a fine run for ducks and
geese. I will see that you have cows and a good riding-horse for Harry
and a little carriage of some kind for yourself and the children."
"I shall soon have all these pleasant things at my finger ends. O John!"
"But you must have a good farmer to look after the cattle and horses,
the meadowland and the grain-land and also the garden and orchard must
be attended to. Oh, I can see how busy and happy you will all be! And,
Lucy, you must use all your influence to get Harry out of London."
"Harry will go gladly, but how can he be employed? He will soon be weary
of doing nothing."
"I have thought of that. What is your advice on this subject, Lucy?"
"He is tired of painting, and he has let his musical business fall away
a great deal lately. He does not keep in practice and in touch with the
men of his profession. He has been talking to me about writing a novel.
I am sure he has all the material he wants. Do not smile, John. It might
be a good thing even if it was a failure. It would keep him at home."
"So it would, Lucy. And Harry always liked a farm. He loves the land. He
used to trouble mother meddling in the management of Hatton until he got
plainly told to mind his own business."
"Well, then, John, we will let him manage Yoden land, and encourage him
to write a book, and he need not give up his music. He has always been
prominent in the Leeds musical festivals and Mr. Sullivan insists on
Harry's solo wherever he leads."
"You are right, Lucy. In Hatton Harry used to direct all our musical
entertainments and he liked to do so. Men and women will be delighted to
have him back."
"And he was the idol of the athletic club. I have heard him talk about
that very often. O John, I can see Harry's salvation. I have been very
anxious, but I knew it would come. I will work joyfully with you in
every way to help it forward."
"You have been having a hard time I fear, Lucy."
"Outwardly it was sometimes hard, but there was always that wonderful
inner path to happiness--you know it, John."
"And you never lost your confidence in God?"
"If I had, I should have come to you. Did I ever do so? No, I waited
until God sent you to me. When I first went to Him about this anxiety,
He made me a promise. God keeps his promises."
"Now I am going to look for Harry."
"Do you know where he is?"
"I know where the house he frequents is."
"Suppose they will not let you see him?"
"I am going to Scotland Yard first."
"Why?"
"For a constable to go with me."
"You will be kind to Harry?"
"As you are kind to little Agnes. I may have to strip my words for him
and make them very plain, but when that is done I will comfort and help
him. Will you sleep and rest and be sure all is well with Harry?"
"As soon as my girl returns, I will do as you tell me. Tomorrow I--"
"Let us leave tomorrow. It will have its own help and blessing, but
neither is due until tomorrow. We have not used up all today's blessing
yet. Good-bye, little sister! Sleeping or waking, dream of the happiness
coming to you and your children."
It was only after two hours of delays and denials that John was able to
locate his brother. Lugur had given him the exact location of the
house, but the man at the door constantly denied Harry's presence. It
was a small, dull, inconspicuous residence, but John felt acutely its
sinister character, many houses having this strange power of revealing
the inner life that permeates them. The man obtained at Scotland Yard
was well acquainted with the premises, but at first appeared to be
either ignorant or indifferent and only answered John's questions in
monosyllables until John said,
"If you can take me to my brother, I will give you a pound."
Then there was a change. The word "pound" went straight to his nervous
center, and he became intelligent and helpful.
"When the door is opened again," he said, "walk inside. There is a long
passage going backward, and a room at the end of that passage. The kid
you want will be in that room."
"You will go with me?"
"Why not? They all know me."
"Tell them my name is John Hatton."
"I don't need to say a word. I have ways of putting up my hand which
they know, and obey. Ring the bell. I'll give the doorman the word to
pass you in. Walk forward then and you'll find your young man, as I told
you, in the room at the end of the passage. I'll bet on it. I shall be
close behind you, but do your own talking."
John followed the directions given and soon found himself in a room
handsomely but scantily furnished. There were some large easy chairs, a
wide comfortable sofa, and tables covered with green baize. A fire
blazed fitfully in a bright steel grate, but there were no pictures, no
ornaments of any kind, no books or musical instruments. The gas burned
dimly and the fire was dull and smoky, for there was a heavy fog outside
which no light could fully penetrate. The company were nearly all
middle-aged and respectable-looking. Their hands were full of cards, and
they were playing with them like men in a ghostly dream. They never
lifted their eyes. They threw down cards on the table in silence, they
gathered them up with a muttered word and went on again. They seemed to
John like the wild phantasmagoria of some visionary hell. Their silent,
mechanical movements, their red eyelids, their broad white faces,
utterly devoid of intellect or expression, terrified him. He could not
avoid the tense, shocked accent with which he called his brother's name.
Harry looked up as if he had heard a voice in his sleep. A strained
unlovely light was on his face. His luck had turned. He was going to
win. He could not speak. His whole soul was bent upon the next throw and
with a cry of satisfaction he lifted the little roll of bills the
croupier pushed towards him.
Then John laid his hand firmly on Harry's shoulder. "_Give that money to
me_," he said and in a bewildered manner Harry mechanically obeyed the
command. Then John, holding it between his finger and thumb, walked
straight to the hearth and threw the whole roll into the fire. For a
moment there was a dead silence; then two of the youngest men rose to
their feet. John went back to the table. Cards from every hand were
scattered there, and looking steadily at the men round it, John asked
with intense feeling,
"GENTLEMEN, _what will it profit you, if you gain the whole world and
lose your own souls; for what shall a man give in exchange for his
soul?_"
A dead silence followed these questions, but as John left the room with
his brother, he heard an angry querulous voice exclaim,
"Most outrageous! Most unusual! O croupier! croupier!"
Then he was at the door. He paid the promised pound, and as his cab was
waiting, he motioned to Harry to enter it. All the way to Charing Cross,
John preserved an indignant silence and Harry copied his attitude,
though the almost incessant beating of his doubled hands together showed
the intense passion which agitated him.
Half an hour's drive brought them to the privacy of their hotel rooms
and as quickly as they entered them, John turned on his brother like a
lion brought to bay.
"How dared you," he said in a low, hard voice, "how dared you let me
find you in such a place?"
"I was with gentlemen playing a quiet game. You had no right to disturb
me."
"You were playing with thieves and blackguards. There was not a
gentleman in the room--no, not one."
"John, take care what you say."
"A man is no better than the company he keeps. Go with rascals and you
will be counted one of them. Yes, and so you ought to be. I am ashamed
of you!"
"I did not ask you to come into my company. I did not want you. It was
most interfering of you. Yes, John, I call it impudently interfering. I
gave way to you this time to prevent a police scene, but I will never do
it again! Never!"
"You will never go into such a den of iniquity again. Never! Mind that!
The dead and the living both will block your way. We Hattons have been
honest men in all our generations. Sons of the soil, taking our living
from the land on which we lived in some way or other--never before from
dirty cards in dirty hands and shuffled about in roguery, treachery, and
robbery. I feel defiled by breathing the same air with such a crowd of
card-sharpers and scoundrels."
"I say they were good honest gentlemen. Sir Thomas Leland was there,
and----"
"I don't care if they were all princes. They were a bad lot, and theft
and cards and brandy were written large on every sickly, wicked, white
face of them. O Harry, how dared you disgrace your family by keeping
such company?"
"No one but a Methodist preacher is respectable in your eyes, John.
Everyone in Hatton knew the Naylors, yet you gave them the same bad
names."
"And they deserved all and more than they got. They gambled with horses
instead of cards. They ran nobler animals than themselves to death for
money--and money for which neither labor nor its equivalent is given is
dishonest money and the man who puts it in his pocket is a thief and
puts hell in his pocket with it."
"John, if I were you I would use more gentlemanly language."
"O Harry! Harry! My dear, dear brother! I am speaking now not only for
myself but for mother and Lucy and your lovely children. Who or what is
driving you down this road of destruction? I have left home at a hard
time to help you. Come to me, Harry! Come and sit down beside me as you
always have done. Tell me what is wrong, my brother!"
Harry was walking angrily about the room, but at these words his eyes
filled with tears. He stood still and looked at John and when John
stretched out his arms, he could not resist the invitation. The next
moment his head was on John's breast and John's arm was across Harry's
shoulders and John was saying such words as the wounded heart loves to
hear. Then Harry told all his trouble and all his temptation and John
freely forgave him. With little persuasion, indeed almost voluntarily,
he gave John a sacred promise never to touch a card again. And then
there were some moments of that satisfying silence which occurs when a
great danger has been averted or a great wrong been put right.
But Harry looked white and wretched. He had been driven, as it were, out
of the road of destruction, but he felt like a man in a pathless desert
who saw no road of any kind. The fear of a lost child was in his heart.
"What is it, Harry?" asked John, for he saw that his brother was faint
and exhausted.
"Well, John, I have eaten nothing since morning--and my heart sinks. I
have been doing wrong. I am sorry. I ought to have come to you."
"To be sure. Now you shall have food, and then I have something to tell
you that will make you happy." So while Harry ate, John told him of the
renting of Yoden and laid before him all that it promised. And as John
talked the young man's countenance grew radiant and he clasped his
brother's hand and entered with almost boyish enthusiasm into every
detail of the Yoden plan. He was particularly delighted at the prospect
of turning the fine old house into an unique and beautiful modern home.
He laughed joyously as he saw in imagination the blending of the old
carved oak furniture with his own pretty maple and rosewood. His
artistic sense saw at once how the high dark chimney-pieces would glow
and color with his bric-a-brac, and how his historical paintings would
make the halls and stairways alive with old romance; and his copies of
Turner and other landscapes would adorn the sitting-and sleeping-rooms.
John entered fully into his delight and added, "Why, Ramsby told me that
there were some fine old carpets yet on the floors and Genoese velvet
window-curtains lined with rose-colored satin which were not yet past
use."
"Oh, delightful!" cried Harry. "We will blend Lucy's white lace ones
with them. John, I am coming into the dream of my life."
"I know it, Harry. The farm is small but it will be enough. You will
soon have it like a garden. Harry, you were born to live on the land and
by the land, and when you get to Yoden your feverish dream of cities and
their fame and fortune will pass, even from your memory. Lucy and you
are going to be so busy and happy, happier than you ever were before!"
It was however several days before the change could be properly entered
upon. There were points of law to settle and the packing and removal to
arrange for, and though John was anxious and unhappy he could not leave
Harry and Lucy until they thoroughly understood what was to be done. But
how they enjoyed the old place in anticipation! John smiled to see Harry
from morning to night in deshabille as workmanlike as possible, with a
foot rule or hammer constantly in his hand.
Yes, the London house was all in confusion, but Oh, what a happy
confusion! Lucy was so busy, she hardly knew what to do first, but her
comfortable good-temper suffused the homeliest duties of life with the
sacred glow of unselfish love, and John, watching her sunny
cheerfulness, said to himself,
"Surely God smiled upon her soul before it came to this earth."
In a short time Lucy had got right under the situation. She knew exactly
what ought to be done and did it, being quite satisfied that Harry
should spend his time in measuring accurately and packing with extremest
care his pictures and curios and all the small things so large and
important to himself. And it was not to Harry but to Lucy that John gave
all important instructions, for he soon perceived that it was Harry's
way to rush into the middle of things but never to overtake himself.
At length after ten days of unwearying superintendence, John felt that
Lucy and Harry could be left to manage their own affairs. Now, we like
the people we help and bless, and John during his care for his brother's
family had become much attached to every member of it, for even little
Agnes could now hold out her arms to him and lisp his name. So his last
duty in London was to visit Harry's house and bid them all a short
farewell. He found Harry measuring with his foot rule a box for one of
his finest paintings. It had to be precisely of the size Harry had
decided on and he was as bent on this result as if it was a matter of
great importance.
"You see, John," he said, "it is a very hard thing to make the box fit
the picture. It is really a difficult thing to do."
John smiled and then asked, "Why should you do it, Harry? It would be so
easy _not_ to do it, or to have a man who makes a business of the work
do it for you." And Harry shook his head and began the measurement of
box and picture over again.
"The little chappies are asleep, John, I wouldn't disturb them. Lucy is
in the nursery. You had better tell her anything that ought to be done.
I shall be sure to forget with these measurements to carry in my head."
"Put them on paper, Harry."
"The paper might get lost."
And John smiled and answered, "So it might."
So John went to the nursery and first of all to the boys' bed. Very
quietly they slipped their little hands into his and told him in
whispers, "Mamma is singing Agnes to sleep, and we must not make any
noise." So very quiet good-bye kisses full of sweet promises were given
and John turned towards Lucy. She sat in her low nursing-chair slowly
rocking to-and-fro the baby in her arms. Her face was bent and smiling
above it and she was singing sweet and singing low a strain from a
pretty lullaby,
"O rock the sweet carnation red,
And rock the silver lining,
And rock my baby softly, too,
With skein of silk entwining.
Come, O Sleep, from Chio's Isle!
And take my little one awhile!"
She had lost all her anxious expression. She was rosy and smiling, and
looked as if she liked the nursery rhyme as well as Agnes did and that
Agnes liked it was shown by the little starts with which she roused
herself if she felt the song slipping away from her.
"Let me kiss the little one," said John, "and then I must bid you
good-bye. We shall soon meet again, Lucy, and I am glad to leave you
looking so much better."
Lucy not only looked much better, she was exceedingly beautiful. For her
nature reached down to the perennial, and she had kept a child's
capacity to be happy in small, everyday pleasures. It was always such an
easy thing to please her and so difficult for little frets to annoy her.
Harry's inconsequent, thoughtless ways would have worried and tried some
women to the uttermost, for he was frequently less thoughtful and less
helpful than he should have been. But Lucy was slow to notice or to
believe any wrong of her husband and even if it was made evident to her
she was ready to forgive it, ready to throw over his little tempers, his
hasty rudenesses, and his never-absent selfishness, the cloak of her
merciful manifest love.
"What a loving little woman she is!" thought John, but really what
affected him most was her constant cheerfulness. No fear could make her
doubt and she welcomed the first gleam of hope with smiles that filled
the house with the sunshine of her sure and fortunate expectations. How
did she do it? Then there flashed across John's mind the words of the
prophet Isaiah, "Thou meetest him _that rejoiceth_, and worketh
righteousness." God does not go to meet the complaining and the doubting
and the inefficient. He goes to meet the cheerful, the courageous and
the good worker; that is, God helps those who help themselves. And God's
help is not a peradventure; it is potential and mighty to save; "for our
Redeemer is strong. He shall thoroughly plead our cause," in every
emergency of Life.
Very early next morning John turned a happy face homeward. The hero of
today has generally the ball of skepticism attached to his foot, but
between John Hatton and the God he loved there was not one shadow of
doubt. John knew and was sure that everything, no matter how evil it
looked, would work together for good.
It was a day of misty radiance until the sun rose high and paved the
clouds with fire. Then the earth was glad. The birds were singing as if
they never would grow old, and, Oh, the miles and miles of green, green
meadows, far, far greener than the youngest leaves on the trees! There
were no secrets and no nests in the trees yet, but John knew they were
coming. He could have told what kind of trees his favorite birds would
choose and how they would build their nests among the branches.
Towards noon he caught the electric atmosphere pouring down the northern
mountains. He saw the old pines clambering up their bulwarks, and the
streams glancing and dancing down their rocky sides and over the brown
plowed fields below great flocks of crows flying heavily. Then he knew
that he was coming nigh to Hatton-in-Elmete and at last he saw the great
elm-trees that still distinguished his native locality. Then his heart
beat with a warmer, quicker tide. They blended inextricably with his
thoughts of mother and wife, child and home, and he felt strongly that
mystical communion between Man and Nature given to those
Whose ears have heard
The Ancient Word,
Who walked among the silent trees.
Not that Nature in any form or any measure had supplanted his thoughts
of Jane. She had been the dominant note in every reflection during all
the journey. Mountain and stream, birds and trees and shifting clouds
had only served as the beautiful background against which he set her in
unfading beauty and tenderness. For he was sure that she loved him and
he believed that Love would yet redeem the past.
During his absence she had written him the most affectionate and
charming letters and when the train reached Hatton-in-Elmete, she was
waiting to receive him. He had a very pardonable pride in her appearance
and the attention she attracted pleased him. In his heart he was far
prouder of being Jane's husband than of being master of Hatton. She had
driven down to the train in her victoria, and he took his seat proudly
at her side and let his heart fully enjoy the happy ride home in the
sunshine of her love.
A delightful lunch followed and John was glad that the presence of
servants prevented the discussion of any subject having power to disturb
this heavenly interlude. He talked of the approaching war, but as yet
there was no tone of fear in his speculations about its effects. He told
her of his visits to her uncle, and of the evenings they had spent
together at Lord Harlow's club; or he spoke in a casual way of Harry's
coming to Yoden and of little external matters connected with the
change.
But as soon as they were alone Jane showed her disapproval of this
movement. "Whatever is bringing your brother back to the North?" she
asked. "I thought he objected both to the people and the climate."
"I advised him to take Ramsby's offer for Yoden. The children needed
the country and Harry was not as I like to see him. I think they will be
very happy at Yoden. Harry always liked living on the land. He was made
to live on it."
"I thought he was made to fiddle and sing," said Jane with a little
scornful laugh.
"He does both to perfection, but a man's likes and dislikes change, as
the years go by."
"Yes, plenty of women find that out."
Her tone and manner was doubtful and unpleasant, the atmosphere of the
room was chilled, and John said in a tentative manner, "I will now ride
to Hatton Hall. Mother is expecting me, I know. Come with me, Jane, and
I will order the victoria. It is a lovely afternoon for a drive."
"I would rather you went alone, John."
"Why, my dear?"
"It will spare me telling you some things I do not care to speak about."
"What is wrong at Hatton Hall?"
"Only Mrs. John Hatton."
Then John was much troubled. The light went out of his eyes and the
smile faded from his face and he stood up as he answered,
"You have misunderstood something that mother has said."
"Why do you talk of things impossible, John?" Jane asked. "Mrs. Stephen
Hatton speaks too plainly to be misunderstood. Indeed her words enter
the ears like darts."
"Yes, she strips them to the naked truth. If it be a fault, it is one
easy to excuse."
"I do not find it so."
"I am sorry you will not go with me, for I shall have to give a good
deal of this evening to Greenwood."
"I expected that."
"Go with me this afternoon, _do_, my dear! We can ride on to Harlow
also."
"I spent all yesterday with my mother."
"Then, good-bye! I will be home in an hour."
John found it very pleasant to ride through the village and up Hatton
Hill again. He thought the very trees bent their branches to greet him
and that the linnets and thrushes sang together about his return. Then
he smiled at his foolish thought, yet instantly wondered if it might not
be true, and thus fantastically reasoning, he came to the big gates of
the Hall, and saw his mother watching for his arrival.
He took her hands and kissed her tenderly. "O mother! Mother!" he cried.
"How glad I am to see you!"
"To be sure, my dear lad. But if I had not got your note this morning, I
would have known by the sound of your horse's feet he was bringing John
home, for your riding was like that of Jehu, the son of Nimshi. But
there! Come thy ways in, and tell me what has happened thee, here and
there."
They talked first of the coming war, and John advised his mother to
prepare for it. "It will be a war between two rich and stubborn
factions," he said. "It is likely enough to last for years. I may have
to shut Hatton mill."
"Shut it while you have a bit of money behind it, John. I heard Arkroyd
had told his hands he would lock his gates at the end of the month."
"I shall keep Hatton mill going, mother, as long as I have money enough
to buy a bale of cotton at any price."
"I know you will. But there! What is the good of talking about
_maybe's_? At every turn and corner of life, there is sure to stand a
_maybe_. I wait until we meet and I generally find them more friendly
than otherwise."
"I wanted Jane to come with me this afternoon, and she would not do so."
"She is right. I don't think I expect her to come. She didn't like what
I said to her the last time she favored me with a visit."
"What did you say to her, mother?"
"I will not tell thee. I hev told her to her face and I will not be a
backbiter. Not I! Ask thy wife what I said to her and why I said it and
the example I set before her. She can tell thee."
"Whatever is the matter with the women of these days, mother?"
"I'm sure I cannot tell. If they had a thimbleful of sense, they would
know that the denial of the family tie is sure to weaken the marriage
tie. One thing I know is that society has put motherhood out of
fashion. It considers the nursery a place of punishment instead of a
place of pleasure. Young Mrs. Wrathall was here yesterday all in a
twitter of pleasure, because her husband is letting her take lessons in
music and drawing."
"Why, mother, she must be thirty years old. What did you say to her?"
"I reminded her that she had four little children and the world could
get along without water-color sketches and amateur music, but that it
could not possibly get along without wives and mothers."
"You might have also told her, mother, that if the Progressive Club
would read history, they might find out that those times in any nation
when wives were ornaments and not mothers were always periods of
national decadence and moral failures."
"Well, John, you won't get women to search history for results that
wouldn't please them; and to expect a certain kind of frivolous, selfish
woman to look beyond her own pleasure is to expect the great miracle
that will never come. You can't expect it."
"But Jane is neither frivolous nor selfish."
"I am glad to hear it."
"Is that all you can say, mother?"
"All. Every word. Between you and her I will not stand. I have given her
my mind. It is all I have to give her at present. I want to hear
something about Harry. Whatever is he coming to Yoden for? Yoden will
take a goodish bit of money to run it and if he hasn't a capable wife,
he had better move out as soon as he moves in."
Then John told her the whole truth about Harry's position--his weariness
of his profession, his indifference to business, and his temptation to
gamble.
"The poor lad! The poor lad!" she cried. "He began all wrong. He has
just been seeking his right place all these years."
"Well, mother, we cannot get over the stile until we come to it. I think
Harry has crossed it now. And there could not be a better wife and
mother than Lucy Hatton. You will help and advise her, mother? I am sure
you will."
"I will do what I can, John. She ought to have called the little girl
after me. I can scarce frame myself to love her under Agnes. However, it
is English enough to stick in my memory and maybe it may find the way to
my heart. As to Harry, he is my boy, and I will stand by him everywhere
and in every way I can. He is sweet and true-hearted, and clever on all
sides--the dangerous ten talents, John! We ought to pity and help him,
for their general heritage is
"The ears to hear,
The eyes to see,
And the hands
That let all go."