“And oh, my dear, how can you hesitate?” said Mrs. Shanks, taking her hand.
“It is quite easy to know why she hesitates. When a girl marries at twenty, as you did, Jane Shanks, it’s plain sailing—two young fools together and not a thought between them. But I know Katherine’s mind. I’ve known James Stanford, man and boy, the last twenty years. He’s not a Solomon, but as men go he’s a good sort of man.”
“Oh, Ruth Mildmay, that’s poor praise! You should see him with that poor little boy of his. It’s beautiful!” cried Mrs. Shanks with tears in her eyes.
“You’ve spoilt it all, you——” Miss Mildmay said in a fierce whisper in her friend’s ear.
“Why should I have spoilt it all? Katherine has excellent sense, we all know; the poor man married—men always do: how can they help it, poor creatures?—but as little harm was done as could be done, for she died so very soon, poor young thing.”
Katherine by this time was perfectly serene and smiling—too smiling and too serene.
“Katherine,” said Miss Mildmay, “if you hear the one side you should hear the other. This poor fellow, James Stanford, came to Jane Shanks and me before he went back to India the last time. He had met you on the train or somewhere. He said he must see you whatever happened. I told Jane Shanks at the time she was meddling with other people’s happiness.”
“You were as bad as me, Ruth Mildmay,” murmured the other abashed.
“Well, perhaps I was as bad. It was the time when—when Dr. Burnet was so much about, and we hoped that perhaps—— And when he asked and pressed and insisted to see you, that were bound hand and foot with your poor father’s illness——”
“We told him—we told the poor fellow—the poor victim. Oh, Ruth Mildmay, I don’t think that I ever approved.”