"Ralph was very thoughtful for a little while, and then with a burning flush on his face he said, 'I don't think father has led a noble life since, do you, mother?'"
"Perhaps I did the worst possible thing when I answered, 'Your father has always told me he was sorry for the past. He never brought any of the old visitors to the Hall, whom you used to dislike at Monk's How.' I wanted to make the best of my husband in the eyes of his son."
"Ralph asked another question. 'Did father promise that he really would keep away from those men?'"
"Fancy how hard it was to say 'Yes,' and then to hear Ralph reply, indignantly, 'My father has not kept his word to you. He has acted dishonourably, I know.'"
"I tried to speak hopefully, but Ralph was not to be easily cheered. He is close upon eighteen now, thoughtful and manly. I am very anxious about his future. He used to say he would be a soldier, as his father had been, but after that miserable tale came to his ears he gave up the idea. He thought that, no matter what his life might be, some one would identify him as the son of that Captain Torrance who had perforce to leave the service for dishonourable conduct. What to do for Ralph I know not. I have spoken earnestly to John more than once, and the last time—he was not quite himself, though that is a pitiful excuse to make for him—he laughed in my face, and said, 'You forget that Ralph will be master of the Hall.'"
The reminiscence was too much for Kathleen, and her tears could not be restrained. Her aunt and Geraldine were most indignant at this insult. They had not thought John Torrance could be so cowardly a tyrant. All that love could suggest they said to comfort Kathleen, yet felt that the task was an impossible one.
"I have one other trouble—a great one, I mean—the state of John's health," said Kathleen. "He is far from well, though he looks strong, and ridicules my anxiety. Some, perhaps, who bore such a burden as I do, might be indifferent, or think it would be no misfortune were he to die."
Kathleen shrank from uttering the last word, and it was followed by a burst of passionate weeping, during which she sobbed out—
"I have loved him truly—my husband, the father of my little child. I cannot bear to think of it, after all that I have had to endure at his hands. Besides and above all comes the thought, John is living without God and without hope in this world, and what is there beyond?"
Thus Kathleen ended her pitiful story, and left it with her aunt and cousin to repeat to Aylmer. "Remember," she added, "whatever John says, 'I will not give in with regard to the little sum saved for Kenneth. I must go back now; my child will want his mother.'"