“Ah!” broke in Mrs. Ruan eagerly, ignoring the latter part of the speech; “but I look higher for Bid than the Wilbys or Jenkinses even. She’ll meet their friends of course, and be fit to meet them now after being at school all these years. Why, young Spiller, that young fellow in Bailey’s Bank, and Downs, he’s a clerk in Hobson’s office, and Danby, they all visit the Jenkinses. I daresay they laugh at them behind their back,” she continued, as though stating an obvious possibility, “but they go. Bid will marry one of them, I expect, and then she’ll be out of trade altogether.”
“Much better if she stopped in,” Mrs. Wainright said with a sniff. “She’d get a chance of a comfortable ’ome with a nice young publican. Don’t talk to me about yer tuppenny-’apenny clerks.”
Mrs. Ruan drew herself up. “That was always like you, Jinny, always looking out for the main chance. As for me, I’d sooner ’ave my girl married to a man with a nice genteel occupation than have so much money. Besides, all these young fellers have expectations,” she added inconsequently.
“Well, mark my words, you’ll ’ave a time with ’er,” replied Mrs. Wainright. “The child’s been away from you all these years, except fer the ’olidays; and then you’ve generally sent ’er into the country because of ’er ’ealth, or something. Why, you hardly know ’er. You don’t know what she’s like to live with.”
“Bid’s all right,” her mother said confidently. “A more affectionate child you wouldn’t meet with in a day’s march. I own she’s a bit queer sometimes,” she went on slowly, after a moment’s pause, “and she’s got a temper—that’s not to be denied. She’s got mother’s temper, as well as her looks,” she added, “and ’er sharp tongue too.”
“’Ave you got that old picture of mother as a girl?” asked Mrs. Wainright presently. “I ’aven’t seen it for years.”
“Yes, here.” Mrs. Ruan rose and went to a desk under the gilt-legged table at the other end of the room. She unlocked it, and, searching among the papers, presently took out something with which she returned to the fire. “I’ll light the gas,” she said; “it’s quite dusk—you can’t see.”
The gas-jet flared up, and Mrs. Wainright turned the sketch to the light.
It was the head of a fisher girl. A gray kerchief was tied over her curling hair, and a coarse gray peasant’s frock, open carelessly at the neck, was just indicated. The girl’s face was beautiful; there was a touch of dignity about it that was even more arresting than its beauty. On the back of the sketch was scribbled, “Bridget O’Hea,” and a few almost illegible words in French.
“What does that mean?” she asked her sister.