‘What do you mean? Why should he despair?’ The other’s words had somewhat disarmed her, the gentleness and pity in her companion’s looks had won upon her in spite of herself. The woman was certainly not there to exult over her. It was a bitter reflection that her lover had not come straight to her; that he had sought a go-between (and such a go-between!) to speak for him. But that sad word ‘despairing’ altered matters in other respects. What Willie in his modesty and self-denunciation doubtless feared, was not only that Mr. Erin would stick to the letter of his agreement respecting his consent to his son’s marriage (which, indeed, he had just announced his intention to do), but that she herself would assent to his change of views; that the idea of waiting, probably for years, until William Henry should have made sufficient means upon which to marry, would be abhorrent to her; that, in a word, her love for him did not comprehend hope and patience. It was possible indeed that his omission to come in person arose from delicacy of mind, and the disinclination to embarrass her by a personal appeal; and as for his choice of an intermediary he had perhaps but poured out his woes into the ears of the first person who had professed to sympathise with them, and who, it must be confessed, had shown him kindness. And yet how mistaken the dear lad had been in supposing for a moment that mere misfortune—the ill success of the play—could cut the bonds that bound her heart to his! It had had an effect indeed, but it was only to strengthen them, for when the object of a woman’s love is in adversity, he becomes the more dear to her in proportion to the difficulties by which he is surrounded. Since his love was as genuine as her own, he ought indeed to have known as much. And that he should despair of her! Well, indeed, might she ask with much amazement, ‘What do you mean? Why should he despair?’ But Mrs. Jordan’s pretty face only grew more grave and sad. ‘I wish to heaven, my dear girl,’ she said, ‘that I could use another word. If you knew the pain it costs me to come here and see you face to face, and tell you what I have to tell, you would pity me—if you shall presently have any pity to spare, save for your unhappy self and your still more wretched Willie.’ The earnestness and fervour of her tone, and its solemnity, which seemed to prepare the way for the revelation of some overwhelming misfortune, made Margaret’s blood run cold. ‘You said that he was not ill,’ she murmured hoarsely, ‘and yet he has not come home. He is not dead? Oh, tell me that my Willie is not dead?’ ‘He is not dead, Margaret, but there are worse things that happen to those we love than death. Worse things than even when you thought the worst of your Willie and of me.’ ‘Great heaven, how you terrify me! Tell me what has happened in one word.’