“And I too, Miss Mansfield,” Carey said quickly.
She flashed a grateful glance at him.
“I am glad,” she said. “Bridget will want all her friends.”
There was a short silence. Helen sat with clasped hands resting on her lap, looking musingly into the fire.
“You don’t know Mr. Travers, I think?” she asked at last.
“Fortunately—no.”
“Oh, I am glad—I am glad Bridget is free!” Helen broke out all at once. Her quiet voice was broken and agitated. She rose hurriedly, and stood leaning against the mantel-piece, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. “I distrusted him always—always!” she went on; “yet I don’t wonder that she married him. People have wondered; but I knew—I understood. No one knows Bridget as I do; no one understands all the circumstances—” She stopped abruptly.
“I haven’t known you very long,” she began, with a little deprecatory smile. “I can’t think why I am telling you this; but I feel that though you know so little of her, you are a good friend of Bridget’s; besides, her life has been influenced through you—through the stories you helped her to publish.”
“I am proud to hear anything you choose to tell me,” Carey said gravely. “I—Mrs. Travers has always interested me greatly. I foretold for her a brilliant future.”
“Yes, yes—and now perhaps she will have her opportunity,” Helen broke in eagerly. “We have been friends since we were children at school. Bridget used to write then—school-girl writing, you know; but oh! alive and clever and vivid, even then—like herself! Her home life was terrible—unendurable almost. You know she became a teacher? Father and I were away about the time she first came to town. We left London before it was settled she was to live here. We did what we could about asking people to look after her, but we haven’t many acquaintances—and you know how careless people are; so she had no friends, and was terribly lonely.”