So the days grew to months, and the months to more than four years, and the world believed that all was prosperous with the Hattons.  Perhaps in Harry Hatton’s case expectations had been a little bettered by realities.  At least in a great measure he had realized the things he had so passionately desired when he resigned his share in the mill and gave life up to love, music, and painting.  He certainly possessed one of those wonderful West Riding voices, whose power and sweetness leaves an abiding echo in memory.  And in London he had found such good teachers and good opportunities that John was now constantly receiving programs of musical entertainments in which Harry Hatton had a prominent part.  Indeed, John had gone specially to the last Leeds musical event, and had been greatly delighted with the part assigned Harry and the way in which he rendered it.

Afterwards he described to Harry’s mother the popularity of her son.  “Why, mother,” he said, “the big audience were most enthusiastic when Harry stepped forward.  He looked so handsome and his smile and bearing were so charming, that you could not wonder the people broke into cheers and bravos.  I was as enthusiastic as anyone present.  And he sang, yes, he sang like an angel.  Upon my word, mother, one could not expect a soul who had such music in it to be silent.”

“I’m sure I don’t know where he got the music.  His father never sang a note that I know of, and though I could sing a cradle song when a crying child needed it, nobody ever offered me money to do it; and your father has said more than often when so singing, ‘Be quiet, Martha!’ So his father and mother did not give Harry Hatton any such foolish notions and ways.”

“Every good gift is from God, mother, and we ought not to belittle them, ought we, now?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, John.  I’ve been brought up with cotton-spinners, and it is little they praise, if it be not good yarns and warps and wefts and big factories with high, high chimneys.”

“Well, then, cotton-spinners are mostly very fine singers.  You know that, mother.”

“To be sure, but they don’t make a business of singing, not they, indeed!  They work while they sing.  But to see a strapping young man in evening dress or in some other queer make of clothes, step forward before a crowd and throw about his arms and throw up his eyes and sing like nothing that was ever heard in church or chapel is a stunningly silly sight, John.  I saw and heard a lot of such rubbishy singing and dressing when I was in London.”

“Still, I think we ought to be proud of Harry.”

“Such nonsense!  I’m more than a bit ashamed of him.  I am that!  You can’t respect people who amuse you, like you do men who put their hands to the world’s daily work.  No, you can not, John.  I would have been better suited if Harry had stuck to his painting business.  He could have done that in his own house, shut up and quiet like; but when I was in London I saw pictures of Henry Hatton, of our Harry, mind ye, singing in all makes and manners of fool dresses.  I hope to goodness his father does not know a Hatton man is exhibiting himself to gentle and simple in such disreputable clothes.  I have been wondering your father hasn’t been to see me about it.”