Katharine felt considerable hesitation about going to see Mrs. Ralston after John had told her that he had confided the secret of their marriage to his mother. She knew very well that they must meet before long, as they often did, and she felt that, since Mrs. Ralston knew the truth, it would be very disagreeable if the meeting took place in the presence of other persons. So far as any formality was concerned, too, it would naturally have been her duty to go and see her mother-in-law, though, in consideration of the young girl’s broken arm, any such questions of courtesy could well be overlooked.

Katharine’s sensations as she looked forward to the interview could not easily be described. She was, as usual, in a very exceptional position, for she was so placed that she should have to make something like an apology to Mrs. Ralston for having married John against his will. There was something absurd in the idea, and Katharine smiled, alone in her room, as she thought of it.

She was tired with all she had been through, and she put off the difficult moment rather weakly, telling herself that she would surely write and make an appointment on the following day, when she had collected herself and thought it all over. She was fond of Mrs. Ralston, and knew that her liking was returned. Mrs. Ralston had made her understand that well enough, and John had taken pleasure in telling her that his mother never wished him to marry any one else. Nevertheless Katharine felt shy and awkward, and was afraid of saying too much or too little.

Mrs. Ralston herself cut short all hesitation and came to see Katharine at the Brights’, and found her in her little sitting-room upstairs. The young girl was taken by surprise, as the elder woman had followed the servant and entered almost as soon as she had been announced.

“Oh—Mrs. Ralston!” she cried, sitting up on the lounge on which she had been lying after luncheon.

They exchanged greetings. Mrs. Ralston made her lie down again and sat beside her. There was a moment’s silence.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” said Katharine, breaking the ice.

“Of course I’ve come!” answered Mrs. Ralston. “If you’d not had this dreadful accident, you’d have come to me; but as it is, I’ve come to you, since we wanted to see each other.”

There was not much in what she said, but it gave Katharine courage, which was precisely what the elder woman wished to do. That was one of her few secrets. She knew how to make what was the best thing to be done seem altogether natural, and even easy, for those who had to do it, while avoiding the appearance of ever giving advice unless it were asked of her. That is the rare gift of those who really influence others in the world. Their art lies in going so straight as to make any way but their own seem crooked by comparison.

“Yes,” said Katharine, “I wanted to see you very much. The fact is—” she hesitated and she felt the colour rising in her cheeks, though Mrs. Ralston could not see it. “The truth is that I—” she broke off again. “Oh, what’s the use of making phrases, cousin Katharine?” she exclaimed. “Jack and I are married—and you know it—and you must forgive me—that’s what I want to say!”

“And that’s the best and the simplest way of saying it, my dear,” answered Mrs. Ralston, smiling—for she was happy. “And now that it’s said, let’s talk about it.”

“How good you are!” Katharine put out her left hand, and turned, bending a little, so that her face was near her companion’s shoulder.

“I don’t know whether I’m good to be glad,” said Mrs. Ralston. “As for forgiving you—that’s for your father and mother, not for me. The only thing I didn’t like was that Jack shouldn’t have told me at once. I was hurt by that. We’ve been good friends, he and I, and he ought to have known that he could trust me.”

“We were afraid to trust anybody—except uncle Robert,” answered Katharine, simply. “And we had to trust him. That was the object of our getting married as we did.”

“Of course you could trust him perfectly, my dear. But it did no good. Jack told me all about that. If he had come to me and said it all beforehand, I could have helped a good deal. But that wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” protested the young girl, anxious lest Ralston should be blamed unjustly. “It was altogether my idea from beginning to end—”

“Jack didn’t tell me that—”

“No?” Katharine’s face lightened softly. “No,” she repeated, in another tone. “He wouldn’t have told you that. He would have thought that it would be like blaming me. He left that out of the truth. But it’s true, and you ought to know it. You don’t know how hard it was for me to persuade him to marry me secretly. I used every sort of argument before he would promise. It was I who thought that if we went straight to uncle Robert with our secret, he would find it so easy to give Jack just what he wanted. But Jack was right. He knew more about it than I did. However, he yielded at last. But I want you to know how hard it was. He said it was like a begging speculation. He would rather have died than have accepted money from uncle Robert. I’d have taken it, and uncle Robert offered it to me, but Jack wouldn’t let me accept it.”

“Of course not, my dear,” answered Mrs. Ralston. “That’s exactly what it would have been—a begging speculation. There’s only one thing that can excuse a secret marriage, and that’s love.”

“Well—in that case—” Katharine did not finish her sentence, but smiled happily as she turned her face away.

“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.

“You love him very much,” said the young girl. “So do I.”

“I know you do. I don’t mean to say that in your way you may not love him as much as I do. We shan’t quarrel about that. I only want you to understand why I was hurt because he wouldn’t tell me what he’d done. Since he was a boy I’ve thought his thoughts, I’ve lived his life, I’ve done his deeds—I’ve been sorry for the foolish ones and proud of the good ones—I’ve been his other self. It was hard that I shouldn’t have a share in the happiest moment he ever had—when he married you. It hurt me. I’d give my body and my soul—if I had one—for him. He had no right to leave me out and hide what he was doing.”

“It was my fault,” said Katharine. “It was foolish of me to make him marry me at all, as things were then. I’ve thought of it since. Suppose that we had changed our minds, after it was done—we were married, you know—we couldn’t have got out of it.”

“If you changed your mind, as you call it, I wouldn’t forgive you,” said Mrs. Ralston, as sternly as a man could have spoken.

Katharine looked at her in silence for a moment.

“Yes,” she answered, gravely. “I think that if I changed my mind now, you’d try and kill me. You needn’t be afraid.”

Mrs. Ralston returned her gaze, and her features gradually relaxed into a peaceful smile.

“In old times I should,” she said. “I believe I’m that kind of woman. But we’re not going to quarrel about which loves him best, my dear—though I believe we’re both capable of committing any folly for him,” she added.

“Yes. We are,” said Katharine. “And I don’t suppose that we could say so to any one else but each other in the world.”

“I’m glad you feel that. So do I. And Jack knows it all without our telling him. At least, he should, by this time.”

“Do men ever know?” asked Katharine.

“That’s hard to say. I think there are men who know what the women who love them would do for them. I’m sure there are. But I don’t think that any man that ever lived can understand what a mother’s love can be like, when it’s strongest. It belongs to us women—and to animals. Men can only understand what they can feel themselves, and they can never feel that. They understand anything that’s founded on passion, but nothing else.”

“Isn’t a mother’s love a passion, then?” asked Katharine.

“No—it can’t be jealous.”

Katharine wondered whether the saying were true, and whether Mrs. Ralston’s own words and looks had not disproved her proposition before she had stated it.