Catharine’s voice was so sharp and abrupt, that it made the old lady start and drop the sewing she was engaged on into her lap.
“What is it?” she said, breathlessly; for her thoughts always turned to one object, “Elsie, is anything wrong with Elsie?”
“Mrs. Ford, there is a thing I wish to ask, a thing which I must ask or die. Who is Elsie? Is her name Ford, was she ever married, has she a child?”
Catharine spoke rapidly, almost wildly. Her eyes were keenly anxious, her manner desperate.
Mrs. Ford sat silently gazing upon the speaker. Her face, always pale, grew white and cold; her little withered hands crept together and interlocked in her lap.
“What, what is it you ask? You,”—the words dropped, half-formed, from her lips; and she gave a scared look at the door, as if preparing to escape.
“Don’t! oh, don’t refuse to speak,” pleaded Catharine. “I must know; my heart will break if I am left in this terrible darkness. What connection has your daughter with the De Marke family?”
“De Marke—De Marke—who ever mentioned the name in this house?” said old Mr. Ford, who entered at the moment.
Catharine turned to him. “It is I. Tell me, I beseech you, what have the De Markes done, that the name should drive the blood from your faces? Why did the portrait of a De Marke hang up in your library? How, and why has it disappeared? I ask these things, because it is impossible to live in such darkness. My own life, and all its hopes are at stake. What brought that wicked old woman here? I must know, or become mad by the side of our poor Elsie!”
The old people exchanged glances. Both were pale, but a look of gentle commiseration settled upon their features.