A telegram, the day after Bridget left her husband’s house, prepared Mrs. Ruan for her daughter’s arrival. She sat waiting for her in the drawing-room in the afternoon, in a flutter of pleasurable excitement. Bridget’s somewhat infrequent visits were the bright patches of color in her existence. To go to church with her on Sunday, to hear the excited whisperings from the Wilbys’ pew just at the back, to see all eyes fixed on them as they walked up the aisle, to know that Bridget’s picture hats, her well-cut gowns and dainty shoes were being eagerly scanned, and would serve as food for voluble, envious criticism on the homeward walk from the members of every family in Rilchester, was to her the breath of life. The greetings after church were only less pleasurable. They generally walked home with the Jenkins family; and it was with hardly concealed joy that Mrs. Ruan observed the silent awe with which Mr. Jenkins, usually jovial to the point of fatigue, from time to time regarded her child—the Bridget he used to patronize.
The drawing-room was very little changed; there were a few more terra-cotta plates on the wall; the tambourines were tied with heliotrope instead of red ribbons, and there was fresh pampas grass in the big vases on the mantel-piece—otherwise it was not materially altered in appearance in seven years. Neither was Mrs. Ruan. She was a little grayer, perhaps; there were a few more wrinkles round her eyes. She was daintily dressed, as usual, and her little tea-table was pretty and spotless as ever.
She put down her cross-stitch embroidery, and ran to the door, almost as quickly as at Bridget’s home-coming seven years ago, when at last the welcome sound of wheels reached her ears.
But Bridget did not run upstairs. She did not see her mother at first, and Mrs. Ruan was struck with the slow, tired way in which she moved.
“My dear child, are you ill?” she cried, anxiously, clasping and kissing her. “Yes, you are!” she exclaimed, drawing her into the light. “Bid, how dreadfully white and thin you’ve grown, my dear girl!”
She pushed her gently into a seat by the fire, and took off her thick gloves and cloak, with little soft flurried exclamations.
Bridget’s lips quivered. She bowed her face suddenly on her mother’s shoulder, and broke into low sobbing.
“My dear! my dear!” repeated Mrs. Ruan, in a frightened voice; then all at once her face cleared. She looked at her daughter with hopeful, questioning eyes. Bridget caught her look, and flushed, drawing herself a little away. Her tears ceased.
“Give me some tea, mother,” she begged. “We will talk afterwards.”
When the maid had taken out the tea-things Bridget drew her chair close to her mother’s. She sat stroking her hand, but looking away from her into the fire.