The Measure of a Man by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (inspirational books txt) 📕

had heard was still clear and positive in his mind; consequently he went as soon as possible to Dr. Sewell's office.

The Doctor met him as if he was an expected client. "You are come at last, Hatton," he said. "I have been expecting you for a long time."

"Then you know what instruction I have come for?"

"I should say I do."

"What is the matter with my wife's health?"

"I ought to send you to her for that information. She can tell you better than I can."

"Sewell, what do you mean? Speak straight."

"Hatton, there are some women who love children and who will even risk social honor for maternity. There are other women who hate motherhood and who will constantly risk suicide rather than permit it. Mrs. Hatton belongs to the latter class."

John was stupefied at these words. He could only look into the Doctor's face and try to assimilate their meaning. For they fell upon his ears as if each syllable was a blow and he could not gather them together.

"My wife! Jane--do you mean?" and he looked helplessly at Sewell and it was some minutes before John could continue the conversation or rather listen to Sewell who then sat down beside him and taking his hand in his own said,

"Do not speak, Hatton. I will talk for you. I should have spoken long ago, but I knew not whether you--you--forgive me, Hatton, but there are such men. If I have slandered you in my thought, if I have done you this great wrong----"

"Oh Doctor, the hope and despair of my married life has been--the longing for my sons and daughters."

"Poor lad! And thee so good and kind to every little one, that comes in thy way. It is too bad, it is that. By heaven, I am thankful to be an old bachelor! Thou must try and understand, John, that women are never the same, and yet that in some great matters, what creation saw them, they are today. Their endless variety and their eternal similarity are what charm men. In the days of the patriarchs there were women who would not have children, and there were women also who longed and prayed for them, even as Hannah did. It is just that way today. Their reasons then and their reasons now may be different but both are equally powerful."

"I never heard tell of such women! Never!"

"They were not likely to come thy road. Thou wert long in taking a wife, and when thou did so it was unfortunate thou took one bred up in the way she should _not_ go. I know women who are slowly killing themselves by inducing unnatural diseases through the denial and crucifixion of Nature. Thy own wife is one of them. That she hes not managed the business is solely because she has a superabundance of vitality and a perfect constitution. Physically, Nature intended her for a perfect mother, but--but she cannot go on as she is doing. I have told her so--as plainly as I knew how. Now I tell thee. Such ways cannot go on."

"They will be stopped--at once--this day--this hour."

"Nay, nay. She is still very weak and nervous."

"She wants to go to London."

"Let her go."

"But I must speak to her before she goes."

"In a few days."

"Sewell, I thank you. I know now what I have to meet. It is the grief _not sure_ that slays hope in a man."

"To be sure. Does Mrs. Stephen Hatton know of your wife's practices?"

"No. I will stake my honor on that. She may suspect her, but if she was certain she would have spoken to me."

"Then it is her own mother, and most likely to be so."

It was noon before John reached Hatton mill. He had received a shock which left him far below his usual condition, and yet feeling so cruelly hurt and injured that it was difficult to obey the physician's request to keep his trouble to himself for a few days.


CHAPTER VIII


THE GODDESS OF THE TENDER FEET

The goddess Calamity is delicate ...her feet are tender. Her feet
are soft, for she treads not upon the ground, she makes her path
upon the hearts of men.--PINDAR.

Animosities perish, the humanities are eternal.

One morning, nearly a week after his interview with Dr. Sewell, John found Jane in her room surrounded by fine clothing and trunks and evidently well enough to consider what he had to say to her.

"What are you doing, Jane?" he asked.

"Why, John, I am sorting out the dresses that are nice enough for London. I think I shall be well enough to go to Aunt Harlow next week."

"I wish you would come to my room. I want to speak to you."

"Your room is such a bare, chilly place, John."

"It is secluded and we must have no listener to what I am going to say to you."

Jane looked up quickly and anxiously, asking, "Are you in trouble, John?"

"Yes, in great trouble."

"About money?"

"Worse than that."

"Then it is that tiresome creature, Harry."

"No. It is yourself."

"Oh, indeed; I think you had better look for someone else to quarrel with."

"I have no quarrel with anyone; I have something to say to you, and to you, only; but there are always servants in and out of your rooms."

She rose reluctantly, saying as she did so, "If I get cold, it makes no matter, I suppose."

"Everything about you is of the greatest importance to me, I suppose you know that."

"It may be so or it may not be so. You have scarcely noticed me for nearly a week. I am going to London. There, I hope, I shall receive a little more love and attention."

"But you are not going to London."

"I am going to London. I have written to Lady Harlow saying I would be with her on next Monday evening."

"Write to Lady Harlow at once and tell her you will not be able to leave home."

"That is no excuse for breaking my word."

"Tell her I, your husband, need you here. No other excuse is necessary."

Jane laughed as if she was highly amused. "Does 'I, my husband,' expect Lady Harlow and Jane Hatton to change their plans for his whim?"

"Not for any whim of mine, Jane, would I ask you to change your plans. I have heard something which will compel me to pay more attention to you."

"Goodness knows, I am thankful for that! During my late illness, I think you were exceedingly negligent."

"Why did you make yourself so ill? Tell me that."

"Such a preposterous question!" she replied, but she was startled and frightened by it and more so by the anger in John's face and voice. In a moment the truth flashed upon her consciousness and it roused just as quickly an intense contradiction and a willful determination not only to stand her ground but to justify her position.

"If this is your catechism, John, I have not yet learned it."

"Sit down, Jane. You must tell me the truth if it takes all the day. You had better sit down."

Then she threw herself into the large easy chair he pushed towards her; for she felt strangely weak and trembling and John's sorrowful, angry manner terrified her.

"Jane," he said, "I have heard to my great grief and shame that it is your fault we have no more children."

"I think Martha is one too many." At the moment she uttered these words she was sorry. She did not mean them. She had only intended to annoy John.

And John cried out, "Good God, Jane. Do you know what you are saying? Suppose God should take the dear one from us this night."

"I do not suppose things about God. I do not think it is right to inquire as to what He may do."

"Jane, it is useless to twist my question into another meaning. Suppose you had not destroyed our other children before they saw the light?"

"John," she cried, "how dare you say such dreadful things to me? I will not listen to you. Open the door. You might well put the key in your pocket--and I have been so ill. I have suffered so much--it is dreadful"--and she fell into a fit of hysterical weeping.

John waited patiently until she had sobbed herself quiet, then he continued, "When I think of my sons or daughters, _written down in God's Book_ and blotted out by _you_."

"I will not listen. You are mad. Your 'sons or daughters' could not be hurt by anyone before they had life."

"They always had life. Before the sea was made or the mountains were brought forth,


'Ere suns and moons could wax and wane,
God thought on _me_ his child,'


and on _you_ and on _every soul_ made for immortality by the growth that fresh birth gives it. He loves us with an everlasting love. No false mother can destroy a child's soul, but she can destroy its flesh and so retard and interfere with its eternal growth. This is the great sin--the sin of blood-guiltiness--any woman may commit it."

"You talk sheer nonsense, John. I do not believe anything you say."

Then John went to a large Bible lying open on a table. "Listen, then," he said, "to the Word of God"; and with intense solemnity he read aloud to her the wonderful verses in the one-hundred-and-thirty-ninth Psalm, between the twelfth and seventeenth, laying particular stress on the sixteenth verse, "'Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being imperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them.' So then Jane, dear Jane, you see from the very, very first, when as yet no member of the child had been formed it was _written down in God's Book_ as a man or a woman yet to be. All souls so written down, are the children of the Most High. It was not only yourself and me you were wronging, Jane, you were sinning against the Father and lover of souls, for we are all 'the children of the most High.'"

But Jane was apparently unmoved. "I am tired," she said wearily. "I want to go to my room."

"I have other things to say to you, most important things. Will you come here this evening after dinner?"

"No, I will not. I am going to see mother."

"Call at Hatton House as you come back, and I will meet you there."

"I shall not come back today. I feel ill--and no wonder."

"When will you return?"

"I don't know. I tell you I feel ill."

"Then you had better not go to Harlow House."

"Where else should a woman go in trouble but to her mother? When her heart is breaking, then she knows that the nest of all nests is her mother's breast."

John wanted to tell her that God and a loving husband might and surely would help her, but when she raised her lovely, sad eyes brimming with tears and he saw how white and full of suffering her face was, he could not find in his heart