That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze.
No towers along the steep,
Her march is on the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till Danger's troubled night depart,
And the Star of Peace return."
The last line spoke for every heart, and the honest, proud, joyous burst of loyalty and admiration made men and women something more than men and women for a few glorified moments. Then the satisfied lull that followed was thrilled anew by that most delicious charmful music ever written, "O sweetest melody!" This was the event of the evening. It drew Harry close to every heart. It made his mother the proudest woman in Yorkshire. It caused John to smile at his brother and to clasp his hand as he passed him. It charmed Jane and Lucy and they glanced at each other with wondering pleasure and delight.
After the songs some of the elder guests sat down to a game of whist, the younger ones danced Money Musk, Squire Beverly and Mrs. Stephen Hatton leading, while Harry played the old country dance with a snap and movement that made hearts bound and feet forget that age or rheumatism were in existence.
At eleven o'clock the party dispersed and the great dinner was over. Harry had justified it. His mother felt sure of that. He had sung his way into every heart, and if John was so indifferent about political honors and office, she could think of no one better to fill Stephen Hatton's place than his son Harry. Her dreams were all for Harry because John formed his own plans and usually stood firmly by them, while Harry was easily persuaded and not averse to see things as others saw them.
The next day Harry wrote a very full account of the dinner and the company who attended it, describing each individual, their social rank or station, their physical and mental peculiarities, their dress and even their ornaments or jewelry. This account was read to all the family, then dated, sealed and carefully placed among the records and heirlooms of Hatton Hall. The receptacle containing these precious relics was a very large, heavily carved oak chest, standing in the Master's room. This chest was iron-bound, triple-locked, and required four strong men to lift it, and the family traditions asserted it had stood in its present place for three hundred and forty years. It was the palladium of Hatton Hall and was regarded with great honor and affection.
After this event there were no more attempts at festivity. The clouds gathered quickly and a silent gloom settled over all the cotton-spinning and weaving districts of England. But I shall only touch this subject as it refers to the lives and characters of my story. Its facts and incidents are graven on thousands of lives and chronicled in numerous authentic histories. It is valuable here as showing how closely mankind is now related and that the cup of sorrow we have to drink may be mingled for us at the ends of the earth by people whose very names are strange on our lips. Then
To me or my swift passage, that I slide
O'er years."
Very sorrowful years in which the strong grew stronger, and the weak perished, unless carried in the Everlasting Arms. Three of them had passed in want and suffering, constantly growing more acute. Mill after mill closed, and the dark, quiet buildings stood among the starving people like monuments of despair. No one indeed can imagine the pathos of these black deserted factories, that had once blazed with sunlight and gaslight and filled the town with the stir of their clattering looms and the traffic of their big lorries and wagons and the call and song of human voices. In their blank, noiseless gloom, they too seemed to suffer.[1]
FOOTNOTE:
[1] I need hardly remind my readers that I refer to the war of 1861 between the Northern and Southern States. At this time it was in its third year, and the Southern States were closely blockaded and no cotton allowed to leave them. Consequently the cotton-spinning counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire were soon destitute of the necessary staple, and to be "out of cotton" meant to more than a million cotton-spinning families absolute starvation—for a cotton-spinner's hands are fit for no other labor, and are spoiled by other work. This starvation was borne with incredible faith and patience, because the success of the blockading States meant freedom for the slaves of the cotton-growing States.
A large proportion of mill-owners had gone to the continent. They could live economically there and keep their boys and girls at inexpensive schools and colleges. They were not blamed much, even by their employees. "Rathmell is starting wife and childer, bag and baggage for Geneva today," said one of them to another, and the answer was, "Happen we would do the same thing if we could. He hes a big family. He'll hev to spare at both ends to make his bit o' brass do for all. He never hed any more than he needed."
This was an average criticism and not perhaps an unfair one. Men, however, did not as a rule talk much on the subject; they just quietly disappeared. Everyone knew it to be a most unexpected and unmerited calamity. They had done nothing to deserve it, they could do nothing to prevent it. Some felt that they were in the hands of Destiny; the large majority were patient and silent because they believed firmly that it was the Lord's doing and so was wonderful in their eyes. Some even said warmly it was time slavery was put down, and that millions could not be set free without somebody paying for it, and to be sure England's skirts were not clean, and she would hev to pay her share, no doubt of it. Upon the whole these poor, brave, blockaded men and women showed themselves at this time to be the stoutest and most self-reliant population in the world; and in their bare, denuded homes there were acted every day more living, loving, heroic stories than fiction or poetry ever dreamed of. So far the sufferers of Hatton had kept their troubles to themselves and had borne all their privations with that nobility which belongs to human beings in whom the elements are finely mixed.
John had suffered with them. His servants, men and women, had gradually been dismissed, until only a man and woman remained. Jane had at first demurred and reminded John that servants must live, as well as spinners.
"True," answered John, "but servants can do many things beside the one thing they are hired to do. A spinner's hands can do nothing but spin. They are unfit for any other labor and are spoiled for spinning if they try it. Servants live in other people's houses. Nearly all of Hatton's spinners own, or partly own, their homes. In its seclusion they can bear with patience whatever they have to bear."
Throughout the past three years of trouble John had been the Greatheart of his people, and they loved and trusted him. They knew that he had mortgaged or sold all his estate in order to buy cotton and keep them at work. They knew that all other factories in the neighborhood had long been closed and that for the last four months Hatton had been running only half-time, and alas! John knew that his cotton was nearly gone and that peace appeared to be as far off as ever.
"You see, sir," said Greenwood, in a half-admiring and half-apologizing way, "both North and South are mostly of good English breed and they don't know when they are whipped."
One afternoon Mrs. Stephen Hatton called at the mill to see John. It was such a strange thing for her to do that he was almost frightened when he heard of it. Strengthening his heart for anything, he went to his private room to meet her, and his anxiety was so evident that she said immediately in her cheerful comforting way,
"Nay, nay, my lad, there is nothing extra for thee to worry about. I only want thee to look after something in a hurry—it must be in a hurry, or I would not have come for thee."
"I know, mother. What is it?"
"They have brought thirty-four little children from Metwold here, and they are in a state of starvation. I want thee to see about getting mattresses and blankets into the spinners' lecture room. I have looked after food for them."
"Have you anything to spare for this purpose, mother?"
"No, I hev not, John. The town hes plenty. They will do whatever thou tells them to do."
"Very well, mother. I will go at once."
"I hev been in the village all day. I hev seen that every poor nursing woman hes hed some soup and tea and that these thirty-four little ones were well and properly fed. Now I am going home to save every drop of milk I can spare for them."
"Is it fair for Metwold to send her starving children here?"
"If thou could see them, John, thou would never ask that question. Some of them are under three years old. They are only skin and bone, they are as white as if they were dead—helpless, enfeebled, crippled, and, John, three of them are stone blind from starvation!"
"O my God!" cried John, in an acute passion of pity and entreaty.
"Every sign of severe and speechless misery is on their small, shrunken faces and that dreadful, searching look that shows the desperate hunger of a little child. John, I cried over every one of them. Where was the pitiful Christ? Why did He not comfort them?"
"Mother! Mother! Tell me no more. I can not bear it. Who brought them here?"
"The town officer. They were laid on straw in big wagons. It was a hard journey."
"Where are their mothers?"
"Dead or dying."
"I will see they have beds and blankets. Do you want money, mother, for this service?"
"No."
"But you must."
"I never give money. I give myself, my health, my time, my labor. Money—no!"
"Why not money?"
"Because money answers all ends, and I don't know what end is coming; but I do know that it will be a very uncommon end that money can't answer. Thou must have spent nearly all of it thou had."
"It will come back to me."
"If the war stops soon, happen some of it will come back. If it does not stop soon, thou art standing to lose every shilling of it. So thou sees I must save my shillings in case my children need them. How is Jane?"
"Very well. She is the greatest help and comfort to me. I do not know how I could have borne and done without her."
"Mebbe thy mother might hev helped thee."
And John answered with a beaming smile, "My mother never failed me."
"What is Jane doing?"
"Did you not hear that Mrs. Levy and Jane started a sewing-club for the girl mill-hands? Very few of this class of workers can sew, and they are being taught how to make all kinds of garments for themselves and others. They meet in a large room over Mr. Levy's barn. He has had it well warmed and he gives them one good meal every day."
"I am sure I never thought Jane would notice that woman."
"Mrs. Levy? She says she has the sweetest, kindest nature, and the wisest little ways of meeting emergencies. And I can tell you, mother, that her husband has given his full share of help both in money and work during all these last three bitter years. He will be a greater honor to the Gentlemen's Club than any of the gentlemen who have run away to rest in Italy and left Hatton to starve or survive as she could. Have you seen Harry lately? How is he managing?"
"Harry does not manage at all, but he is very manageable, the best quality a man can possess. Lucy manages Harry and everything else at Yoden to perfection. She expects another baby with the spring, but she is well and cheerful and busy as a bee."
"Does Yoden farm do anything worth while?"
"To be sure it does. Lugur helps Harry about the farm and Harry likes work in the open, but Harry's voice is worth many farms. It has improved lately, and next week he goes to Manchester to sing in oratorio. He will bring a hundred pounds or more back with him."
"Then at last he is satisfied and happy."
"Happy as the day is long. He is wasteful though, in money matters, and too ready to give the men he knows a sovereign if they are in trouble. And it is just wasting yourself to talk to him about wasting money. I told him yesterday that I had heard Ben Shuttleworth had been showing a sovereign Mr. Harry gave him and that he ought not to waste his money, and he said some nonsense about saved money being lost money, and that spending money or giving it away was the only way to save it. Harry takes no trouble and Medway, the new preacher, says, Henry Hatton lifts up your heart, if he only smiles at you."
"So he does, mother—God bless him!"
"Well, John, I can't stop and talk with thee all day, it isn't likely; but thou art such a one to tempt talk. I must be off to do something. Good-bye, dear lad, and if thy trouble gets hard on thee and thou wants a word of human love, thy mother always has it ready and waiting for you—so she has!"
John watched his mother out of sight; then he locked his desk and went about her commission. She had trusted him to find beds for thirty-four children, and it never entered his mind that any desire of hers could possibly be neglected. Fortunately, circumstances had gone before him and prepared for his necessity. The mattresses were easily found and carried to the prepared room, and the children had been nourished on warm milk and bread, had been rolled in blankets and had gone to sleep ere John arrived at his own home. He was half-an-hour behind time, and Jane did not like that lost half-hour, so he expected her usual little plaintive reproach, "You are late tonight, John." But she met him silently, slipped her hand into his and looked into his face with eyes tender with love and dim with sorrow.
"Did you see those little children from Metwold, John?"
"No, my dear. Mother told me about them."
"Your mother is a good woman, John. I saw her today bathing babies that looked as if they had never been washed since they were born. Oh, how they smiled lying in the warm water! And how tenderly she rubbed them and fed them and rocked them to sleep in her arms. John, your mother would mother any miserable neglected child. She made me cry. My anger melted away this afternoon as I watched her. I forgave her everything."
"O my darling! My darling Jane!"
"I wanted to kiss her, and tell her so."
After this confession it seemed easier for John to tell his wife that he must close the mill in the morning. They were sitting together on the hearth. Dinner was over and the room was very still. John was smoking a cigar whose odor Jane liked, and her head leaned against his shoulder, and now and then they said a low, loving word, and now and then he kissed her.
"John," she said finally, "I had a letter from Aunt Harlow today. She is in trouble."
"I am sorry for it."
"Her only child has been killed in a skirmish with the Afghans—killed in a lonely pass of the mountains and buried there. It happened a little while since and his comrades had forgotten where his grave was. The man who slew him, pointed it out. He had been buried in his uniform, and my uncle received his ring and purse and a scarf-pin he bought for a parting present the day he sailed for India."
"I do not recollect. I never saw him, I am sure."
"Oh, no! He went with his regiment to Simla seventeen years ago. Then he married a Begum or Indian princess or something unusual. She was very rich but also very dark, and Uncle would not forgive him for it. After the marriage his name was never mentioned in Harlow House, but he was not forgotten and his mother never ceased to love him. When they heard of his death, Uncle sent the proper people to make investigations because of the succession, you know."
"I suppose now the nephew, Edwin Harlow, will be heir to the title and estate?"
"Yes, and Uncle and Aunt so heartily dislike him. Uncle has spent so many, many years in economizing and restoring the fortune of the House of Harlow, and now it will all go to—Edwin Harlow. I am sorry to trouble you with this bad news, when you have so much anxiety of your own."
"Listen, dearest—I must—shut—the mill—tomorrow—some time."
"O John!"
"There is no more cotton to be got—and if there was, I have not the money to buy it. Would you like to go to London and see your uncle and aunt? A change might do you good."
"Do you think I would leave you alone in your sorrow? No, no, John! The only place for me is here at your side. I should be miserable anywhere else."
John was much moved at this proof of her affection, but he did not say so. He clasped her hand a little tighter, drew her closer to his side, and kissed her, but the subject dropped between them into a silence filled with emotion. John could not think of anything but the trial of the coming day. Jane was pondering two circumstances that seemed to have changed her point of view. Do as she would, she could not regard things as she had done. Of a stubborn race and family, she had hitherto regarded her word as inviolable, her resolves, if once declared, as beyond recall. She quite understood Lord and Lady Harlow's long resentment against their son, and she knew instinctively that her uncle's extreme self-denial for the purpose of improving the Harlow estate was to say to his heir, "See how I have loved you, in spite of my silence."
Now Jane had declared her mind positively to John on certain questions between them, and it never occurred to her that retraction was possible. Or if it did occur, she considered it a weakness to be instantly conquered. Neither Jane Harlow nor Jane Hatton could say and then unsay. And she was proud of this racial and family characteristic, and frequently recalled it in the motto of her house—"I say! I do!"
It is evident then that some strong antagonistic feeling would be necessary to break down this barrier raised by a false definition of honor and yet the circumstances that initially assailed it were of ordinary character. The first happened a few weeks previously. Jane had gone out early to do some household shopping and was standing just within the open door of the shop where she had made her purchases. Suddenly she heard John's clear, joyous laugh mingling with the clatter of horses' feet. The sound was coming near and nearer and in a moment or two John passed on his favorite riding-horse and with him was his nephew Stephen Hatton on a pretty pony suitable to his size. John was happy, Stephen was happy, and she! She had absolutely no share in their pleasure. They were not thinking of her. She was outside their present life.
An intense jealousy of the boy took possession of her. She went home in a passion of envy and suspicion. She was a good rider, but John in these late years had never found time to give her a gallop, and indeed had persuaded her to sell her pretty riding-horse and outfit. Yet Stephen had a pony and she was sure John must have bought it. Stephen must have been at the mill early. Why? Then she recalled John's look of love and pride in the boy, his watchful care over him, his laughter and apparent cheerfulness.
She brooded over these things for some hours, then gave her thought speech and in slow, icy tones said with intense feeling, "Of course, he regards Stephen as the future master of Hatton Hall and Hatton factory. He is always bringing Stephen and my Martha together. He intends them to marry. They shall not. Martha is mine—she is Harlow"—then after a long pause, "They are cousins. I shall have religious scruples."
She did not name this incident to John and it was some days before John said, "Stephen is going to be a fine horseman. His grandfather bought him a pony, a beautiful spirited animal, and Steve was at once upon his back. Yorkshire boys take to horses, as ducks to the water. Mother says I leaped into the saddle before I was five years old."
Jane smiled faintly at this last remark and John said no more on the subject. He understood it to be the better way. But it had been ever since a restless, unhappy thought below all other thoughts in Jane's mind, and finally she had swift personal whispers and slow boring suppositions which, if she had put them into words, would have sounded very like, "Lucy may be disappointed yet! John might have a son of his own. Many things happen as the clock goes round."
She was in one of these jealous moods on the morning after John had told her he must close the mill. Then Mrs. Levy called, and asked if she would drive with her to Brent's Farm. "We have received a large number of young children from Metwold," she said, "and I want to secure milk for them."
"Brent's Farm!" replied Jane. "I never heard of the place."
"O my dear Mrs. Hatton, it is only a small farm on the Ripon road. The farmer is a poor man but he has five or six cows and he sells their milk in Hatton. I want to secure it all."
"Is that fair to the rest of his customers?" asked Jane, with an air of righteous consistency.
"I do not know," was the answer. "I never asked myself. I think it is fair to get it for babies who cannot bargain for their milk—the people they take it from can speak for themselves."
They found Brent's Farm to be a rough, roomy stone cottage on the roadside. There was some pasture land at the back of the house and some cows feeding on it. A stone barn was not far off, and the woman who answered their call said, "If you be wanting Sam Brent, you'll find him in the barn, threshing out some wheat."
Mrs. Levy went to interview the milk dealer; Jane was cold and went into the cottage to warm herself. "It is well I'm at ironing today," said Mrs. Brent, "for so I hev a good fire. Come your ways in, ma'am, and sit on the hearth. Let me make you a cup o' tea."
"My friend will be here in a few minutes," Jane answered. "She only wants to make a bargain with Mr. Brent for all his milk."
"Then she won't be back in a few minutes; Sam Brent does no business in a hurry. It's against his principles. You bed better hev a cup o' hot tea."
It seemed easier to Jane to agree than to dispute, and as the kettle was simmering on the hob it was ready in five minutes. "You see," continued Mrs. Brent, "I hev a big family, and washing and ironing does come a bit hard on me now, but a cup o' tea livens me up, it does that!"
"How many children have you, Mrs. Brent?"
"I hev been married seventeen years, and I hev ten lads and lasses—all of them fair and good and world-like. God bless them!"
"Ten! Ten! How do you manage?"
"Varry well indeed. Sam Brent is a forelooking man. They hev a good father, and I try to keep step with him. We are varry proud of our childer. The eldest is a boy and helps his father with the cows main well. The second is a girl and stands by her mother—the rest are at school, or just babies. It is hard times, it is that, but God blesses our crust and our cup, and we don't want. We be all well and healthy, too."
"I wonder you are not broken down with bearing so many children."
"Nay, not I! Every fresh baby gives me fresh youth and health—if I do it justice. Don't you find it so, ma'am?"
"No."
"How many hev you hed?"
"One. A little girl."
"Eh, but that's a shame! What does your good man say?"
"He would like more."
"I should think he would like more. And it is only fair and square he should hev more! Poor fellow!"
"I do not think so."
"Whatever is the matter with thee?"
"I think it is a shame and a great wrong for a woman to spend her life in bearing and rearing children."
"To bear and to rear children for His glory is exactly and perfectly what God sent her into the world to do. It is her work in the days which the Lord her God gives her. Men He told to work. Women He told to hev children and plenty o' them."
"There are more women working in the factories than men now."
"They hev no business there. They are worse for it every way. They ought to be in some kind of a home, making happiness and bringing up boys and girls. Look at the whimpering, puny, sick babies factory women bear—God, how I pity them!"
"Tell me the truth, Mrs. Brent. Were you really glad to have ten children?"
"To be sure, I was glad. Every one of them was varry welcome. I used to say to mysen, 'God must think Susy Brent a good mother, or He wouldn't keep on sending her children to bring up for Him.' It is my work in this life, missis, to bring up the children God sends me, and I like my work!" With the last four words, she turned a beaming face to Jane and sent them home with an emphatic thump of her iron on the little shirt she was smoothing.
CHAPTER XII
PROFIT AND LOSS
The common things scarce worth recall,
Whereof no visible trace remains,
These are the main springs after all.
Should Love's best gifts be given!
How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot,
On this side of heaven?
The thing that John feared, had happened to him, no miracle had prevented it, and that day he must shut the great gates of Hatton factory. He could hardly realize the fact. He kept wondering if his father knew it, but if so, he told himself he would doubtless know the why and the wherefore and the end of it. He would know, also, that his son John had done all a man could do to prevent it. This was now a great consolation and he had also a confident persuasion that the enforced lock-out would only last for a short time.
"Things have got to their worst, Greenwood," he said, "and when the tide is quite out, it turns instantly for the onward flow."
"To be sure it does, sir," was the answer. "Your honored father, sir, used to say, 'If changes don't come, make them come. Things aren't getting on without them.'"
"How long can we run, Greenwood?"
"Happen about four hours, sir."
"When the looms give up, send men and women to the lunchroom."
"All right, sir."
Was it all right? If so, had he not been fighting a useless battle and got worsted? But he could not talk with his soul that morning. He could not even think. He sat passive and was dumb because it was evidently God's doing. Perhaps he had been too proud of his long struggle, and it was good spiritual correction for him to go down into the valley of humiliation. Short ejaculatory prayers fell almost unconsciously from his lips, mainly for the poor men and women he must lock out to poverty and suffering.
Finally his being became all hearing. Life appeared to stand still a moment as loom after loom stopped. A sudden total silence followed. It was broken by a long piercing wail as if some woman had been hurt, and in a few minutes Greenwood looked into his office and said, "They be all waiting for you, sir." The man spoke calmly, even cheerfully, and John roused himself and with an assumed air of hopefulness went to speak to his workers.
They were standing together and on every face there was a quiet steadfastness that was very impressive. John went close to them so that he seemed to mingle with them. "Men and women," he said, "I have done my best."
"Thou hes, and we all know it."
It was Timothy Briggs, the manager of the engine room, who spoke, a man of many years and many experiences. "Thou hes done all a man could do," he added, "and we are more than a bit proud of thee."
"I do not think we shall be long idle," continued John, "and when we open the gates again, there will be spinning and weaving work that will keep the looms busy day and night. And the looms will be in fine order to begin work at an hour's notice. When the first bell rings, I shall be at my desk; let me see how quickly you will all be at your looms again."
"How long, master, will it be till we hear the sound of the bell again?"
"Say till midsummer. I do not think it will be longer. No, I do not. Let us bear the trial as cheerfully as we can. I am not going a mile from Hatton, and if any man or woman has a trouble I can lighten, let them come to me. And our God is not a far-off God. He is a very present help in time of need." With these words John lifted his hat a moment, and as he turned away, Greenwood led the little company out, singing confidently,
John did not go home for some hours. He went over his books and brought all transactions up to date, and accompanied by Greenwood made a careful inspection of every loom, noted what repairs or alterations were necessary, and hired a sufficient number of boys to oil and dust the looms regularly to keep the mill clean and all the metal work bright and shining. So it was well on in the afternoon when he turned homeward. Jane met him at the park gates, and they talked the subject over under the green trees with the scent of the sweetbriar everywhere and the April sunshine over every growing thing. She was a great help and comfort. He felt her encouraging smiles and words to be like wine and music, and when they sat down to dinner together, they were a wonder to their household. They did not speak of the closed mill and they did not look like people who expected a hard and sorrowful time.
"They hev a bit o' money laid by for theirsens," said the selfish who judged others out of their own hearts; but the majority answered quickly, "Not they! Not a farthing! Hatton hes spent his last shilling to keep Hatton mill going, and how he is going to open it when peace comes caps everyone who can add this and that together."
The first week of idleness was not the worst. John and Greenwood found plenty to do among the idle looms, but after all repairs and alterations had been completed, then John felt the stress of hours that had no regular daily task. For the first time in his life his household saw him irritable. He spoke impatiently and did not know it until the words were beyond recall. Jane had at such times a new feeling about her husband. She began to wonder how she could bear it if he were always "so short and dictatorial." She concluded that it must be his mill way. "But I am not going to have it brought into my house," she thought. "Poor John! He must be suffering to be so still and yet so cross."
One day she went to Harlow House to see her mother and she spoke to her about John's crossness. Then she found that John had Mrs. Harlow's thorough sympathy.
"Think of the thousands of pounds he has lost, Jane. For my part I wonder he has a temper of any kind left; and all those families on his hands, as it were. I am sure it is no wonder he is cross at times. Your father would not have been to live with at all."
"I hope you have not lost much, mother."
"O Jane, how could I help losing? Well then, I have been glad I could give. When hungry children look at you, they do not need to speak. My God, Jane! You must have seen that look—if it was in Martha's eyes——"
Jane caught her breath with a cry, "O mother! Mother! Do not say such words! I should die!"
"Yes. Many mothers did die. It was like a knife in their heart. When did you see John's mother?"
"The day the children came from Metwold."
"Did you speak to her?"
"No."
"Why not? She has been kind to me."
"You have given her milk for the children, I suppose."
"All I could spare. I do not grudge a drop of it."
Then Jane laid her arm across her mother's shoulders and looked lovingly at her. "I am so glad," she said. "You may value money highly, mother, but you can cast it away for higher things."
"I hope I should never hesitate about that, Jane. A baby's life is worth all the money I have"—and Jane sighed and went home with a new thought in her heart.
She found John and his little daughter in the garden planting bulbs and setting out hardy geraniums. She joined them, and then she saw the old, steadfast light on her husband's face and the old sure smile around his mouth. She put her hand in his hand and looked at him with a question in her loving eyes. He smiled and nodded slightly and drew her hand through his arm.
"Let us go into the house," he said. "The evenings are yet chilly"—and they walked together silently and were happy without thought or intention of being happy. A little later as they sat alone, Jane said, "You look so much better than you have done lately, John. Have you had any good news?"
"Yes, my dear one—the best of news."
"Who brought it?"
"One who never yet deceived me."
"You know it to be true?"
"Beyond a doubt. My darling, I have been thinking of the sad time you have had here."
"I hope I have done some good, John."
"You have done a great deal of good. The trouble is nearly over, it will be quite over in a few weeks. Now you could go to London and see your aunt. A change will do you good."
"Cannot you and Martha go with me? You have nothing to do yet."
"I shall have plenty to do in a short time. I must be preparing for it."
"Then I must be content with Martha. It will be good for the child to have a change."
"Oh, I could not part with both you and Martha!"
"Nor could I part with both you and Martha. Besides, who is to watch over the child? She would be too much alone. I should be miserable in London without her."
"I thought while you were in London, I would have the house thoroughly cleaned and renovated. I would open it up to every wind of heaven and let them blow away all sad, anxious thoughts lurking in the corners and curtains."
"O John, I would like that so much! It would be a great comfort to me. But you can see that Martha would be running about cold and warm, wet and dry, and her old nurse went to Shipley when she left here."
"I have considered these things, Jane, and decided that I would take Martha up to Hatton Hall, and we would stay with mother while you were away. It would be a great pleasure to mother, and do us all good."
"But, John, London would be no pleasure to me without Martha."
"I feel much the same, Jane. Martha is the joy of life to me. You must leave me my little daughter. You know her grandmother will take every care of her."
"I can take care of her myself. She has been my companion and comforter all through these past four years of sorrow. I cannot part with her, not for a day."
This controversy regarding the child was continued with unremitting force of feeling on both sides for some time, but John finally gave way to Jane's insistence, and the early days of April were spent in preparations for the journey to London and the redecoration of the home. Then one exquisite spring morning they went away in sunshine and smiles, and John returned alone to his lonely and disorderly house. The very furniture looked forlorn and unhappy. It was piled up and covered with unsightly white cloths. John hastily closed the doors of the rooms that had always been so lovely in their order and beautiful associations. He could not frame himself to work of any kind, his heart was full of regrets and forebodings. "I will go to my mother," he thought. "Until I hear they are safe in Lord Harlow's house, I can do nothing at all."
So he went up to Hatton Hall and found his mother setting her dinner-table. "Eh, but I am glad to see thee, John!" she cried joyfully. "Come thy ways in, dear lad. There's a nice roast turning over a Yorkshire pudding; thou art just in a fit time. What brought thee up the hill this morning?"
"I came to see your face and hear your voice, mother."
"Well now! I am glad and proud to hear that. How is Martha and her mother?"
"They are on their way to London."
"However could thou afford it?"
"Sometimes we spend money we cannot afford."
"To be sure we do—and are always sorry for it. Thou should have brought Martha up here and sent her mother to London by herself."
"Jane would not go without her."
"I'm astonished at thee! I am astonished at thee, John Hatton!"
"I did not want her to go. I said all I could to prevent it."
"That was not enough. Thou should not have permitted her to go."
"Jane thought the change would do her good."
"Late hours, late dinners, lights, and noise, and crowded streets, and air that hes been breathed by hundreds and thousands before it reaches the poor child, and——"
"Nay, mother, that's enough. Count up no more dangers. I am miserable as it is. How goes all with you?"
"Why, John, it goes and goes, and I hardly know where it goes or how it goes, and the mischief of it all is this—some are getting so used to the Government feeding and clothing them that they'll think it a hardship when they hev to feed and clothe themselves."
"Not they, or else they are not men of this countryside. How is Harry? I heard a queer story about him and others yesterday."
"Queer it might be, but it was queer in a good way if it is set against Harry. What did you hear?"
"That Harry had trained a quartette of singers and that they had given two concerts in Harrow-gate and three in Scarborough and Halifax, and come back with nearly five hundred pounds for the starving mill-hands in Hatton District."
"That is so—and I'm thankful to say it! People were glad to give. Many were not satisfied with buying tickets; they added a few pounds or shillings as they could spare them. Lord Thirsk went with the company as finance manager. People like a lord at the head of anything, and Thirsk is Yorkshire, well known and trusted."
"No more known and trusted than is Hatton. I think Harry might have asked me. It is a pity they did not think of this plan earlier."
"There may be time enough for the plan to wear itself out yet."
"No. We shall have peace and cotton in three months."
"However can thou say a thing like that?"
"Because I know it."
Then she looked steadily at him. He smiled confidently back, and no further doubt troubled her. "I believe thee, John," she said, "and I shall act accordingly."
"You may safely do so, mother. How is Lucy?" "Quite well, and the new baby is the finest little fellow I ever saw. Harry says they are going to call him John. Harry is very fond of thee."
"To be sure he is and I am fond of him. I wonder how they manage for cash? Do you think they need it? Have they asked you for any?"
"Not a farthing. Lucy makes the income meet the outgo. The farm feeds the family and Harry earns more than a little out of the music and song God put into him."
"A deal depends on a man's wife, mother."
"Everything depends on her. A man must ask his wife whether he is to do well with his life or make a failure of it. What wilt thou do with thyself while Jane is in London?"
"I am going to stay with you mostly, mother. There will be painters and paperers and cleaners in my home and a lot of dirt and confusion."
"Where is thy economy now, John?"
"When God turns again and blesses Hatton, He will come with both hands full. The mill is in beautiful order, ready for work at any moment. I will make clean and fair my dwelling; then a blessing may light on both places."
It was in this spirit he worked and as the days lengthened his hopes and prospects strengthened and there was soon so much to do that he could not afford the time for uncalled anxiety. He was quickly set at rest about his wife and daughter. Jane wrote that they had received a most affectionate welcome and that Martha had conquered her uncle and aunt's household.
Uncle is not happy, if Martha is out of sight [she wrote] and Aunt is always planning some new pleasure for her. And, John, Uncle is never tired of praising your pluck and humanity. He says he wishes the Almighty had given him such an opportunity; he thinks he would have done just as you have done. It was a little strange that Uncle met a great Manchester banker the other day, and while they were talking of the trouble, now so nearly over, this man said, "Gentlemen, a great many of us have done well, but there is a cotton-spinner in the Yorkshire wolds that has excelled us all—one John Hatton. He mortgaged and sold all he had and kept his looms going till the war was practically over. His people have not been idle two months. What do you think of that?"
Some man answered, he did not think it was extraordinary, for John Hatton of Hatton-Elmete was of the finest blood in England. He could not help doing the grand thing if it was there to be done. And then another man took it up and said your blood and family had nothing to do with your conduct. Many poor spinners would have done as you did, if they had been your equals in money. Then the first speaker answered, "We can do without any of your 'equality' talk, Sam Thorpe. What the cream is, the cheese is. Chut! Where's your equality now?" Uncle told me much more but that is enough of praise for you, at once. Martha and I are very happy, and if all the news we hear is true, I expect you to be living by the factory bell when we get home. Dear, good John, we love you and think of you and talk of you all the day long.
JANE.
Jane's letters came constantly and they gave to this period of getting ready for work again a sense of great elation. If a man only passed John on the hill or in the corridors of the mill during these days, he caught spirit and energy and hope from his up-head and happy face and firm step. At the beginning of May the poor women had commenced with woeful hearts to clean their denuded houses, and make them as homelike as they could; and before May was half over, peace was won and there were hundreds of cotton ships upon the Atlantic.
John's finished goods were all now in Manchester warehouses, and Greenwood was watching the arrival of cotton and its prices in Liverpool. John had very little money—none in fact that he could use for cotton, but he confidently expected it, though ignorant of any certain cause for expectation.
As he was eating dinner with his mother one day, she said, "Whatever have you sent Greenwood to Liverpool for?"
"To buy any cotton he can."
"But you have no money."
"Simpson and Hager paid me at once for the calicoes I sent them. I shall be getting money every day now."
"Enough?"
"I shall have enough—some way or other—no fear."
"I'll tell you what, John. I can lend you twenty thousand pounds. I'll be glad to do it."
"O mother! Mother! That will be very salvation to me. How good you are! How good you are!" and there was a tone in John's voice that was perhaps entirely fresh and new. It went straight to his mother's heart, and she continued, "I'll give you a check in the morning, John. You are varry, varry welcome, my dear lad."
"How can you spare me so much?"
"Well, I've been saving a bit here and there and now and then for thirty years, and with interest coming and coming, a little soon counts up. Why, John, I must have been saving for this very strait all these years. Now, the silent money will talk and the idle money roll here and there, making more. That is what money is cut round for—I expect."
"Mother, this is one of the happiest hours in my life. I was carrying a big burden of anxiety."
"Thou need not have carried it an hour; thou might hev known that God and thy mother would be sufficient."
The next morning John went down the hill with a check for twenty thousand pounds in his pocket and a prayer of rest in his heart and a bubbling song on his lips. And all my readers must have noticed that good fortune as well as misfortune has a way of coming in company. There is a tendency in both to pour if they rain, and that day John had another large remittance from a Manchester house and the second mail brought him a letter which was as great a surprise as his mother's loan. It was from Lord Harlow and read as follows: