“How long can you stay, Bid?” asked Mrs. Ruan, anxiously.
Bridget did not reply at once. Then she slowly turned her head.
“Mother,” she said, below her breath, “I came to tell you—I have left my husband.”
Mrs. Ruan pushed her chair back, and gazed incredulously at her daughter.
“Left—what did you say, Bridget?”
“I’ve left him—forever,” Bridget repeated more firmly. Mrs. Ruan looked at her a moment longer, and burst into tears.
“Was there ever such a girl!” she sobbed. “You’ve always been a trouble to me—always! and now, just when you’re settled and comfortable, and us so glad and thankful—and your beautiful house, and the carriage, and all those servants!—and the disgrace of it! What will every one say? How those Wilbys will talk, and how glad they’ll be. I can never hold up my head again—never. And your father—Bridget, you’re mad. You can’t know what you’re talking about!”
Bridget sat with lips tightly closed, and a white face.
“Not a word about me!” she broke out at last, bitterly. “Do you suppose I’m doing this without a cause? Do you think that if my life hadn’t been unendurable, I—? As it is, I’ve stayed with him and borne it for three years, for you, because I couldn’t bear to hurt you! Oh, mother! mother!” The last word was a cry of appeal.
Mrs. Ruan was not deaf to it, even in the midst of her selfish grief.