Katharine went back to the library mechanically, because Mrs. Lauderdale called her and because she heard the latter’s step upon the floor, but not exactly in mere blind submission and obedience. She was, indeed, so much surprised by what had taken place that she was not altogether her usual self, and she was conscious that events moved more quickly just then than her own power of decision. She was observant and perceptive, but her reason had always worked slowly. Ralston, at least, was out of the way, and she was glad that she had made him go. It had been unbearable to hear her mother attacking him as she had done.
She believed that Mrs. Lauderdale was about to be seriously ill. No other theory could account for her extraordinary behaviour. It was therefore wisest to take away what irritated her and to be as patient as possible. There was no excuse for her sudden change of opinion, and as soon as she was quite well she would be sorry for what she had said. Katharine was not more patient than most people, but she did her best.
“Is anything the matter, mother? You called so loud.” She spoke almost before she had shut the door behind her.
“No. Did I? I wanted him to go away, that was all. Why should he stand there talking to you in whispers?”
Katharine did not answer at once, but her broad eyebrows drew slowly together and her eyelids contracted. She sat down and clasped her hands together upon her knee.
“Because he had something to say to me which he did not wish you to hear, mother,” she answered at last.
“Ah—I thought so.” Mrs. Lauderdale relapsed into silence, and from time to time her mouth twitched nervously.
She glanced at her daughter once or twice. The young girl’s straight features could look almost stolid at times. Her patience had given way once, but she got hold of it again and tried to set it on her face like a mask. She was thinking now and wondering whether this strange mood were a mere caprice of her mother’s, though Mrs. Lauderdale had never been capricious before, or whether something had happened to change her opinion of Ralston suddenly but permanently. In the one case it would be best to bear it as quietly as possible, in the other to declare war at once. But that seemed impossible, when she tried to realize it. She was deeply, sincerely devoted to her mother. Hitherto they had each understood the other’s thoughts and feelings almost without words, and in all the many little domestic difficulties they had been firm allies. It was not possible that they were to quarrel now. The gap in life would be too deep and broad. Katharine suddenly rose and came and sat beside her mother and drew the fair, tired face to her own, very tenderly.
“Mother dear,” she said, “look at me! What is the matter? Have I done anything to hurt you—to displease you? We’ve always loved each other, you and I—and we can’t really quarrel, can we? What is it, dearest? Tell me everything—I can’t understand it at all—I know—you’re tired and ill, and Jack irritated you. Men will, sometimes, even the very nicest men, you know. It was only that, wasn’t it? Yes—I knew it was—poor, dear, darling, sweet, tired little mother, just let your dear head rest—so, against me—yes, dear, I know—it was nothing—”
It was as though they had changed places, the mother and the daughter. The older woman’s lip quivered, as her cheek rested on Katharine’s breast. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, two tears gathered just within the shadowed lids, and grew and overflowed and trembled and fell—two crystal drops. She saw them fall upon the rough grey stuff of her daughter’s frock, and as she lay there upon the girl’s bosom with downcast eyes, she watched her own tears, in momentary apathy, and noticed how they ran, then crawled along, then stopped, caught as it seemed in the stiff little hairs of the coarse material—and she noticed that there were a few black hairs mixed with the grey, which she had not known before.