“I am not precisely offended, Mr. Hatfield,” said the old woman, assuming a more conciliatory manner: “but certain explanations are necessary between us;—and indeed, it depends entirely on yourself whether you ever behold Perdita again.”
“Then I shall behold her again, madam,” returned Charles, emphatically. “And now I can really listen to you with attention——”
“And perhaps with patience,” added Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her rigid features at length relaxing into a faint smile. “But I will not tax that patience longer than I can help. Firstly, then, we are to speak of the matters which concern yourself. And now—will you not be surprised when I assure you that I am acquainted with many strange and marvellous secrets connected with your family?”
“Ah!” ejaculated Charles, starting.
“But perhaps I even know more than you yourself are acquainted with?” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“No, madam—no: that is impossible!” he cried, emphatically.
“Do any of those secrets give you pain to contemplate?” she asked, fixing her eyes searchingly upon him. “Pardon me for thus questioning you——”
“And why, madam, do you so question me?” he demanded, almost angrily.
“Because I am as yet ignorant to what extent your knowledge may go in certain respects,” she replied.
“Then believe me, madam—believe me,” cried Charles Hatfield, bitterly, “when I assure you that I know much more than you can possibly have an idea of!”