“It is true,” I cried, bitterly. “I have learned enough for one afternoon—I have learned enough to make me miserable forever.”
The woman covered her face with her hands. It were as though a spasm of inward pain had distorted her features. She was suffering terribly. Yet at that time I had no thoughts of any pity. I was merciless.
“You have learned what has given you pain to hear, and what has given me much pain to confess,” she said, slowly. “Confess,” she repeated, slowly, and with unutterable bitterness. “That is a hateful word. I never foresaw the time when I should have to use it—to my own daughter! When one is young one is proud.”
“You were short-sighted,” I said, brutally.
Again she bowed her head and suffered. But what did I care? I was no heroine, and I never laid any claim to gentleness of disposition or great unselfishness. I was simply an ordinary human being, confronted with a great humiliation. My heart was closed to hers. The wrong to myself seemed to loom above everything else. The interruption that was at hand was perhaps merciful. I might have said things which afterwards I should have blushed to have remembered. But at that moment there came a sound of voices in the hall. Bruce Deville was there and Miss Berdenstein.
We both rose up. Her coming was a surprise to us. She entered by his side in some embarrassment. Mr. Deville proceeded to explain her presence.
“I met Miss Berdenstein here, and persuaded her to come in with me,” he said, in a brusque, matter of fact tone. “I took the liberty of assuring her that you would be glad to see her.”
“You did quite right,” Adelaide Fortress said, calmly. “I am very glad to see her.”
She greeted the girl kindly, but in a subdued manner. As for me, I shook hands with her coldly and under protest. I was very much surprised that she should have come here, even at the instigation of Bruce Deville.