“Yes—exactly!” And Mrs. Ralston laughed softly. “That’s the reason why I say that I’ve nothing to forgive you,” she continued, after a little pause. “You see, you’ve loved each other a long time—”
“Ages!” exclaimed Katharine, energetically.
“And your father objected. Of course he had a right to object, if he saw fit. And you couldn’t have told him what you had done unless you were prepared to leave him and come to me—which you wouldn’t do—no! I know what you’re going to say—that it would have been putting a burden upon me—and all that. But it wouldn’t. That’s what hurt me, that taking it for granted that I should not be ready—much more than ready—to make a sacrifice for Jack’s sake. Do you know what he is to me—that boy—your husband?”
Her face changed suddenly, and the even lips set themselves in a look that was almost fierce, as she asked the question.
“I can imagine,” said Katharine, in a low voice. “I know what he is to me.”
“Yes. I know you love him. But it’s not the same thing. You’ll know some day. I hope you may. There’s another kind of love besides that of men and women.”
She spoke with a suppressed energy that Katharine hardly understood. The young girl mentally compared this woman’s love for her son with Alexander Junior’s parental affection for his daughter. It seemed to be a very different thing.
“No,” continued Mrs. Ralston. “You can’t guess what Jack is to me, and always has been. I don’t think he knows it himself. If he did, he’d have trusted me more when he was in trouble. I’d do a good deal to make him happy.”
As usual with her, there were no big words nor harmonious phrases. What she said was very simple. But at that moment she looked as though Katharine Ralston would have trampled on Katharine Lauderdale’s body, if it could have contributed to Jack’s happiness.