“Mother, how is it you never think of God except to allude to Him as a sort of fetish to be dreaded when one wants to do what is morally right?” Bridget exclaimed, in her old, passionate way.
“And now,” cried her mother, “I’m told by my own child that I never think of God!—when I say my prayers night after night, and always ’ave done since I was a girl. And if you’d said more, Bid, perhaps—”
“Oh, mother!” Bridget interrupted, in a tired, broken voice, “don’t let us argue; what is the use of it? Won’t you be a little sorry for me? If I only cared for him ever so little, or he for me, I could forgive many things. I would stay, and try to make things right; but as it is—if you knew how I feel—how I hate and loathe my life—myself—everything. And—I’m so tired,” she added, pitifully.
The look of suffering in the girl’s face softened the elder woman, in spite of herself. She smoothed back her hair, crying all the time, and Bridget clung to her in passionate gratitude.
“And I, hoping—” began her mother, presently. But a sudden movement from Bridget made her leave the sentence unfinished.
“Thank God, no!” she exclaimed. “If so, I should be a wretched woman, indeed! As it is, I feel too dazed, too sorry for hurting you, to take pleasure in my freedom yet. But some day, perhaps, I may be happy again, when I can be myself once more.”
Mrs. Ruan sighed. “Are you going to get a divorce?” she asked, anxiously, after a moment.
“No. It’s not a question of divorce at all. I only want to live alone. There is to be a separation. That will be arranged, I suppose.”
“’Ow I’m to tell your father, and what he’ll say, I don’t know,” her mother continued, sobbing.
“I’ll tell him—but to-morrow. May I go to bed soon, mother dear? You can tell him I’m not well,” Bridget said, rising. “Let us talk to-morrow. I—I can’t to-night.”