“Mother!” cried Katharine, losing control of herself and moving a step forward.
“It’s all right, dear,” said Ralston. “Go on, cousin Emma. I’m perfectly useless—”
“I don’t mean to offend you, Jack, and we’re not strangers,” continued Mrs. Lauderdale, “and I won’t dwell on the facts. You know them as well as I do, and are probably quite as sorry that they really are facts. I will only ask one question. What chance is there that in the next four or five years you can have a house of your own, and an income of your own—just enough for two people to live on and no more—and—well—a home for Katharine? What chance is there?”
“I’ll do something before that time,” answered Ralston, with a determined look.
But Mrs. Lauderdale shook her head.
“So you said last year, Jack. I repeat—I don’t want to be unkind. How long is Katharine to wait?”
“I’ll wait all my life, mother,” said the young girl, suddenly speaking out in ringing tones. “I’ll wait till I die, if I must, and Jack knows it. And I believe in him, if you don’t—against you all, you and papa and uncle Robert and every one. Jack has never had a chance that deserves to be called a chance at all. He must succeed—he shall succeed—I know he’ll succeed. And I’ll wait till he does. I will—I will—if it’s forever, and I shan’t be tired of waiting—it will always be easy, for him. Oh, mother, mother—to think that you should have turned against us! That’s the hard thing!”
“Thank you, dear,” said Ralston, touching her hand lovingly.
Mrs. Lauderdale had turned her face quite away from him now and was looking at the clock, softly drumming with her fingers upon the mantelpiece.
“I’m sorry, Katharine,” she said. “But I think it, and I’ve said it—and I can’t unsay it. It’s far too true.”