“Well, the principal objection is that it will hamper your mother, Jack. I’d rather suffer a great deal more than I’m likely to, than thrust myself upon her. I know—you’ll tell me that she’s very fond of me and wants to see us married, and I know she’s in earnest about it and means every word she says. But I’ve lived in a rigidly economical household, as they call it. I know what it means, and it would be very difficult for any one who’s never been used to it. Don’t think about it, dear. Please don’t. You know I come to you with all my little woes—but you mustn’t take them too seriously. You’ll prevent me from speaking freely if you do, dear.”
“It’s my business to take your happiness seriously. I’m not prepared to stand the idea of having your life made miserable on my account.”
“But it isn’t about you, Jack. It’s altogether about the question of uncle Robert’s will.”
“Never mind. I won’t have you made unhappy by anybody, do you understand? I’ve got the right of loving you, and the right of being your husband, and if that isn’t enough I’ll take the right. I’m in earnest, Katharine.”
He stood still on the pavement; she stopped, also, and faced him.
“Yes, dear; I know and I thank you,” she said, gently. “But it really isn’t as bad as I made out. I’m irritated, and I want to be with you all the time, and then the least little thing seems so much bigger than it is. Please, please don’t do anything rash, Jack, or without telling me just what you’re going to do! You know you are rash, dear—I’m always a little afraid of what you may do when you’re angry.”
“I certainly shan’t be rash where you’re concerned,” answered Ralston. “You’re too much to me—we are to each other—and we mustn’t risk anything. But don’t imagine, either, that if anything goes wrong I shan’t know it, even if you won’t tell me. I can guess what you think of from your face, you know—I’ve often done it.”
“That’s true—I’m sure I couldn’t conceal anything from you for long,” answered Katharine, womanly wise.
She was concealing something from him at that very moment, something which she had meant to tell him, and would have told him, had he not spoken so decidedly of what he meant to do if her life were made unhappy. But she knew that he was quite capable of doing anything which he said he would do, no matter how rash. When she had at first spoken, she had not altogether realized how he would take up the question of her present unhappiness as a matter for immediate and decisive action. She loved him all the better for it, but she began to understand how careful she must be in future.
John paused a moment after his last speech, and looked into her grey eyes. Perhaps some little doubt assailed him as to whether, if she tried, she could not, perhaps, keep from him something he wished to know—the doubt from which men who love are very rarely quite free.