THE MESSENGER OF DISGRACE.
Those words, ‘I am Mrs. Jordan,’ were not unexpected by Margaret. There was no need for her visitor to speak them or to throw back her hood; she had known her from the first. Whatever evil news there was to tell, it was made ten times worse by the messenger that brought it. She felt like Antony’s wife in the presence of Cleopatra. ‘You have been his ruin,’ were the words that trembled on her lips. But there was something in the other’s tone that prevented their utterance. That it was a beautiful face was nothing; she detested and abhorred its beauty. That it was full of sympathy and compassion was nothing; she resented its compassion as an insult. But there was also sorrow in it, genuine and unmistakable sorrow. Whatever wrong this woman had done her—so Margaret reasoned—she had repented of; perhaps had come to confess, when it was too late, but still to confess. There were tears in her eyes; she was an actress it is true, but they were real tears.
‘Well, what is it you want, madam?’
‘Nothing. I am here on your account, not on my own.’
‘And Willie sent you?’
She uttered this with great bitterness, experiencing the same sort of satisfaction in the humiliation it cost her, as some persons in physical pain derive from the self-infliction of another pain.
‘He did not send me: he does not even know that I am here.’
‘But you come from him. You have been with him after he left the theatre?’