John could not leave his mill and his business, and Lord and Lady Harlow considered his resolution a wise proceeding. Jane was also praised for her ready agreement to her husband's business exigencies. But really the omission of the customary wedding-journey gave Jane no disappointment.

To take possession of her splendid home, to a.s.sume the social distinction it gave her, and to be near to the mother she idolized were three great compensations, superseding abundantly the doubtful pleasures of railway travel and sightseeing.

Jane's mother had caused a pleasant surprise at her daughter's wedding, for the past year's efforts at Harlow House had amply proved Mrs.

Harlow's executive abilities in its profitable management; and she was so sure of this future result that she did not hesitate to buy a rich and fashionable wedding-garment or to bring to the light once more the beautiful pearls she had worn at her own bridal. There were indeed few ladies at John's wedding more effectively gowned than his mother-in-law--_except his mother_.

Mrs. Hatton's splendid health set off her splendid beauty, fine carriage, and sumptuous gown of silver-gray brocaded satin, emphasized by sapphires of great l.u.s.ter and value.

"I hevn't worn them since father died, thou knowest," she had said to John the day before the wedding, as she stood before him with the gems in her hands, "but tomorrow he will expect me to wear them both for his sake and thine, thou dear, dear lad!" And she looked up at her son and down at the jewels and her eyes were dim with tears. Presently she continued, "Jane was here this afternoon. I dare say thou art going to the train with her tonight, and may be she will tell thee what she is going to wear. She didn't offer to tell me, and I wouldn't ask her--not I!"

"What for?"

"I thought she happen might be a bit superst.i.tious about talking of her wedding fineries. You can talk the luck out of anything, you know, John."

"Nay, nay, mother!"

"To be sure, you can. _Why-a!_ Your father never spoke of any business he wanted to come to a surety, and if I asked him about an offer or a contract he would answer, 'Be quiet, Martha, dost ta want to talk it to death?'"

"I will keep mind of that, mother."

"Happen it will be worth thy while to do so."

"Father was a shrewd man."

"Well, then, he left one son able to best him if so inclined."

"You will look most handsome, mother. I shall be proud of you. There will be none like you at the London house."

"I think that is likely, John. Jane's mother will look middling well, but I shall be a bit beyond her. She showed me her gown, and her pearls.

They were not bad, but they might hev been better--so they might!"

It was thus John Hatton's marriage came off. There was a dull, chill service in St. Margaret's, every word of which was sacred to John, a gay wedding-breakfast, and a laughing crowd from whom the bride and bridegroom stole away, reaching their own home late in the afternoon.

They were as quiet there as if they had gone into a wilderness. Mrs.

Hatton remained in London for two weeks, with an old school companion, and Mrs. Harlow was hospitably entertained by Lord and Lady Harlow, who thoroughly respected her successful efforts to turn Harlow House into more than a respectable living.

Perhaps she was a little proud of her work, and a little tiresome in explaining her methods, but that was a transient trial to be easily looked over, seeing that its infliction was limited to a short period.

On the whole she was praised and pleased, and she told Mrs. Hatton when they met again, that it was the first time her n.o.ble brother-in-law had ever treated her with kindness and respect.

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 pa.s.sionately 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 a.s.signed 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, n.o.body 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 G.o.d, 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."

"To see you, mother?"

"To be sure. If there's anything wrong at Hatton, he generally comes and gives me his mind on the same."

"You mean that you dream he does?"

"You may as well call it 'dreaming' as anything else. The name you give it doesn't matter, does it?"

"Not much, mother. I brought home with me two of Harry's paintings. They are fine copies of famous pictures. I gave him fifty pounds for them and thought them cheap at that."

"Well, then, if I was buying Harry's work, I would not count on its cheapness. I'll be bound that you bought them as an excuse for giving him money. I would buy or give away, one or the other. I hate make-believes--I do that!--of all kinds and for all reasons, good or bad."

"There was nothing like pretending in the transaction, mother. The pictures were good, I paid their value and no more or less, because they were only copies. Harry's technique is perfect, and his feeling about color and atmosphere wonderful, but he cannot create a picture. He has not the imagination. I am sorry for it."

"Be sorry if you like, John. I have a poor opinion of imagination, except in religious matters. However, Harry has chosen his own way: I don't approve of it. I won't praise him, and I won't quarrel with him.

You can do as you like. One thing is sure--he is more than good enough for the girl he married."

"He is very fond of her and I do believe she keeps Harry straight. He does just as she thinks best about most things."

"Does he? Then he ought to be ashamed of himself to take orders from her. Many times he sneaked round my orders and even his father's, and then to humble a Hatton to obey the orders of a poor Welsh girl! It's a crying shame! It angers me, John! It would anger anyone, it would. You can't say different, John."

"Yes, I can, mother. I a.s.sure you that Lucy is just the wife Harry needs. And they have two fine little lads. I wish the eldest--called Stephen after my father--was my own son. I do that!"

"Nay, my dear. There's no need for such a wish. There are sons and daughters for Hatton, no doubt of that. Thy little Martha is very dear to my heart."

"To mine also, mother."

"Then be thankful--and patient. I'm going upstairs to get a letter I want posted. Will you take it to the mail for me?"

Then Mrs. Hatton left the room and John looked wistfully after her. "It is always so," he thought. "If I name children, she goes. What does it mean?"

He looked inquiringly into his mother's face when she returned and she smiled cheerfully back, but it was with the face of an angry woman she watched him to the gate, muttering words she would not have spoken had there been anyone to hear them nearby. And John's att.i.tude was one of uncertain trouble. He carried himself intentionally with a lofty bearing, but in spite of all his efforts to appear beyond care, he was evidently in the grip of some unknown sorrow.

That it was unknown was in a large degree the core of his anxiety. He had noticed for a long time that his mother was apparently very unsympathetic when his wife was suffering from violent attacks of sickness which made her physician tread softly and look grave, and that even Jane's mother, though she nursed her daughter carefully, was reticent and exceedingly nervous. _What could it mean?_

He had just pa.s.sed through an experience of this kind, and as he thought of Jane and her suffering the hurry of anxious love made him quicken his steps and he went rapidly home, so rapidly that he forgot the letter with which he had been intrusted. He knew by the light in Jane's room that she was awake and he hastened there. She was evidently watching and listening for his coming, for as soon as the door was partly open, she half-rose from the couch on which she was lying and stretched out her arms to him.

In an instant he was kneeling at her side. "My darling," he whispered.

"My darling! Are you better?"

"I am quite out of pain, John, only a little weak. In a few days I shall be all right." But John, looking into the white face that had once been so radiant, only faintly admitted the promise of a few days putting all right.