“That’s it—in the meantime,” said Mrs. Wingfield slowly. She seemed trying to think out some point of great difficulty which had presented itself to her mind.
“In the meantime,” she repeated. “Am I right, Priscilla, in the meantime you—you——”
“In the meantime, my dearest mother, if Jack were to die, and in his will refer to me as his wife, the judge of the Probate Court would decide that I should get whatever that will left to me. Is there anyone who will say that I am not Jack’s wife? You will not say it, and you are Jack’s mother.”
“I certainly will not say it, Priscilla; but still—there are some who would say it, and—in the meantime—oh, it is terrible! my poor child; it is no wonder that there was a shadow cast upon your life. What you must have suffered—what you must still suffer! and how bravely you bore your burden in front of me!”
Priscilla had flung herself on her knees beside the sofa, and put her face down to the cushion on which the mother’s head was resting; but her tears were not bitter, and her sobs were soft.
So she lay, her right arm about the shoulders of the other, for a long time, in complete silence.
At last she raised her head from the cushion, and then bowed it down to the pale face that was there until their tears mingled.
“I know what you are thinking, dearest,” she whispered. “You are thinking that in the meantime I should not be in this house. Is not that so? Oh, I knew that that was your thought; but it will not be your thought when I tell you that....”
Her whisper dwindled away into nothing—it was not louder than the breathing of a baby when asleep.
But the elder woman caught every word. She gave a little cry of happiness, and held Jack’s wife close to her, kissing her again and again.