“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.”