"I would not say that much, mother. She was out collecting for the new cooking-school. She said she wanted to see you very much."

"And pray what for is she wanting to see me? I am not related to her. I owe her nothing. I'm not going to give her anything and I don't want to see her."

"I suppose she wants your help in this new charity she has on hand. She was very polite, and sent you all kinds of good wishes. There is no harm in good wishes, is there?"

"I'm not so sure of that. If Miss Phyllis gives her good wishes, there's no harm in them, but--but I don't want to buy them at any price. I'll tell you what it is, John--"

But she never told him at that hour, for as she spoke Harry Hatton opened the door and looked in. "I am wet--dripping wet, mother," he said. "The mizzling rain turned to a downpour when I was halfway up the hill, but I will be ready for dinner in twenty minutes."

"And I am not going to keep beef and pudding on the table twenty minutes for you, Harry."

"That's right, mother. I don't deserve it. Send it to the kitchen. I'll have some partridge and pastry when I come down."

He was gone before his mother's answer could leave her lips; but there was a light in her eyes and a tone in her voice that made her a different woman as she said, "We will not talk of Miss Lugur tonight, John. There is plenty else to talk about. She is non-essential, and I believe in the man who said, 'Skip the non-essentials.'"

This proposal was carried out with all John's wisdom and kindness. He kept the conversation on the mill or on subjects relating to Harry's proposed journey until there was a sudden silence which for a moment or two no one appeared able to break. It was Mrs. Hatton who did so, and with a woman's instinct she plunged at once into a subject too sacred to dispute.

"My dear Harry," she said, in her clear vibrant voice, "my dear lad, John and I have just been talking of Wesley and how he came to light our hearthstone. You see, poor Squire Yates' fire went out last night."

"Never! Surely never, mother!"

"It did, my dear. Yates has no son, he is old and forgetful, and his nephew, who is only a Ramsby, was at Thornton market race, and n.o.body thought of the fire, and so out it went. They do say the squire is dying today. Well, then, Hatton Hall has two sons to guard her hearth, and I want to tell you, Harry, how our fire was saved not thirty years ago.

Your grandfather was then growing poor and poorer every year, and with a heavy heart he was think, think, thinking of some plan to save the dear old home.

"One morning your father was walking round the Woodleigh meadows, for he thought if we sold them, and the Woodleigh house, we might put off further trouble for a while and give Good Fortune time to turn round and find a way to help us. And as he was walking and thinking Ezra Topham met him. Now, then, Ezra and your father were chief friends, even from their boyhood, and their fathers before them good friends, and indeed, as you know the Yorkshire way in friendship, it might go back of that and that again. And Ezra said these very words,

"'Stephen, I'm going to America. My heart and hands were never made for trading and cotton-spinning. I hev been raised on the land. I hev lived on the land and eaten and drunk what the land gave me. All my forefathers did the same, and the noise and smell of these new-fangled factories takes the heart out of me. I hev a bit of bra.s.s left, and while I hev it I am going to buy me a farm where good land is sold by the acre and not by feet and inches. Now, then, I'll sell thee my mill, and its fifty looms, and heppen it may do cheerfully for thee what it will not do anyway for me. Will tha buy it?'"

"Poor chap!" interrupted Harry. "I know just how he felt. I am sorry for him."

"You needn't be anything of that sort, Harry. He is a big landowner now and a senator and a millionaire. So save thy pity for someone that needs it. As I was saying, he offered to sell his mill to thy father and thy father snapped at the offer, and it was settled there and then as they stood in Woodleigh meadows."

"What did father pay for it?" asked Harry.

"Nay, my dear, I cannot tell thee. Thy father never told his women folk what he made or what he spent. It wasn't likely. But it was a fair bargain, no doubt, for when they had settled it, Ezra said, 'Good-bye, Stephen! I shall not see thee again in this world!' and he pulled out his watch and father took out his and they changed watches for the memory of each other. Then they clasped hands and said farewell. But they wrote to each other at every New Year, and when thy father died Ezra's watch was sent back to him. Then Ezra knew his friend had no longer any need to count time. He had gone into Eternity."

"It was a good custom, mother," said John. "It is a pity such customs are dying out."

"They have to die, John," answered Mrs. Hatton, "for there's no friendships like that now. People have newspapers and books dirt cheap and clubs just as cheap, and all kinds of b.a.l.l.s to amuse them--they never feel the need of a friend. Just look at our John. He has lots of acquaintances, but he does not want to change watches with any man--does he, now?"

The young men laughed, and Harry said if they had let friends go they had not given up sweethearts. Then Mrs. Hatton felt they were on dangerous ground, and she continued her story at once.

"Thy father and I had been nearly three years married then, and John was a baby ten months old. I had not troubled myself much about debt or poverty or danger for the old Hall. I was happy enough with my little son, and somehow I felt sure that Stephen Hatton would overget all his worries and anxieties.

"Now listen to me! I woke up that night and I judged by the high moon that it was about midnight. Then I nursed my baby and tucked him snugly in his cradle. Thy father had not come to his bed but that was no care to me; he often sat reading or figuring half the night through. It was Stephen Hatton's way--but suddenly I heard a voice--the voice of a man praying. That is a sound, my dears, you can never mistake. When the soul speaks to its G.o.d and its Father, it has a different voice to the one a man uses with his fellowmen, when he talks to them about warps and yarns and shillings.

"There was a soft, restful murmur of running water from the little beck by the rose garden, but far above it rose the voice of a man in strong urgent prayer. It came from the summer-house among the rose-trees, and as I listened, I knew it was your father's voice. Then I was frightened.

Perhaps G.o.d would not like me to listen to what was only meant for His ear. I came away from the open window and sat down and waited.

"In a short time your father came to me. I could see that he had been praying. I could feel the spirit above the flesh. A great awe was over him and he was strangely loving and gentle. 'Martha,' he said, 'I am glad you are awake. I want to tell you something--something wonderful!'

And I sat down by him, and he clasped my hand and said,

"'I was tired out with figuring and counting, and near midnight I went out to cool and soothe my brain with the night air. And I suddenly thought of Jacob on his mysterious journey, meeting the angels of G.o.d as he slept in the wilderness, and wrestling with one for a blessing. And with the thought the spirit of prayer came to me, and I knelt down in the summer-house and prayed as I never prayed before in my life.

"'I told G.o.d all my perplexities and anxieties. I asked Him to straighten them out. I told G.o.d that I had bought Ezra's mill, and I asked Him to be my counselor and helper. I told Him I knew nothing about buying cotton or spinning cotton. I told Him it was the loss of everything if I failed. I promised Him to do my best, and I asked Him to help me to succeed; and, Martha, I solemnly vowed, if He would be with me and do for me, that His poor and His sick and His little children should have their share in every pound I made. And I swear to you, Martha, that I will keep my word, and if I may speak for my sons and my sons' sons, they also shall never fail in rendering unto G.o.d the thing I have promised. Remind me of it. Say to me, "Stephen, the Lord G.o.d is thy partner. Don't thee defraud Him of one farthing."' And, my dears, when I promised he kissed me, and my cheeks were wet, and his cheeks were wet, but we were both of us very sure and happy.

"Well, my dear lads, after that your father walked straight forward to his place among the biggest cotton-spinners in England. People all said, Stephen Hatton was a very philanthropic man. He was something better. He was a just and honest man who never lied, who never defrauded the poor because they were poor, and who kept his contract with the Lord his G.o.d to the last farthing. I hope to see his sons and his sons' sons keep the covenant their father made for them. I do that. It would break my heart if they did not!"

Then John rose to his feet, precisely as he would have done if his father had entered the room, and he answered, "Mother, I joined hands with father six years ago on this subject. I will carry out all he promised if it takes my last penny. We thought then that Harry was too young to a.s.sume such--"

"I am not too young now, mother, and I wish to join John in every obligation my father made for himself and us. After this John must t.i.the my share just as he t.i.thes his own."

Then while her heart was overflowing with a religious love and joy in her sons, Mrs. Hatton rose and bid them good night. "I will go to my room," she said. "I'll warrant I shall find the very company I want there."

"Stay with us, mother," said Harry. "I want to talk to you," and he was so persistent that it fretted her, and she asked with a touch of impatience,

"Harry Hatton, have you yet to learn that when a woman wants to be by herself she is expecting better company than you can give her?"

For a few moments the young men were silent. Mrs. Hatton took so much vitality out of the room with her that the level of the atmosphere was sensibly disturbed, and had to be readjusted before it was comfortably useful. John sat still during this period. His sight was inward and consequently his eyes were dropped. Harry was restless, his sight was outward and his eyes far-seeking. He was the first to speak.

"John," he said, in a tone holding both anger and grief, "John, you behaved unkindly to me this evening. You either persuaded mother to talk as she did, or you fell in with her intention and helped her."

"You might speak plainer, Harry."

"I will. Both mother and you, either by accident or agreement, prevented me naming Lucy. Lucy was the only subject I wanted to talk about, and you prevented me."

"If I did, it was the wisest and kindest thing I could do."

"For yourselves--but how about me?"

"I was thinking of you only."

"Then you must think of Lucy with me."

"It is not yet a question of _must_. If it comes to that, both mother and I will do all the situation calls for. In the interval, we do not wish to discuss circ.u.mstances we may never be compelled to face."

"Then you are counting on my being drowned at sea, or on Lucy dying or else marrying someone while I am away."

John was silent so long that Harry began to enlarge on his last proposition. "Of course," he continued, "I may be drowned, and if Lucy was false to me a watery grave of any kind would be welcome; but----"

"Harry," said John, and he leaned forward and put his hand on his brother's knee, "Harry, my dear lad, listen to me. I am going to tell you something I have never told even mother. You have met Lady Penryn, I suppose?"

"I have seen her three or four times in the hunting field. She rides horses no one else would mount. She does everything at the danger point.

Lord Thirsk said she had been disappointed in love and wanted to kill herself."

"Did you think her handsome?"

"Oh, dear, no! Far from it! She is blowsy and fat, has far too much color, and carries too much flesh in spite of the rough way she uses herself."