“Then pray keep me no longer in suspense!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, Perdita’s conduct not having put her into the best of possible humours.
“Just before you knocked at the door this night——”
“Well, well?” ejaculated the impatient woman.
“A man was with me——”
“And that man?” repeated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, gasping for breath, as if she anticipated the reply.
“Was your husband!” added the miser.
A hideous expression passed over the countenance of Mrs. Fitzhardinge,—an expression of mingled hate, apprehension, and rage; and she staggered for a moment as if she were about to fall.
But subduing her emotions, she approached the miser, and said in a low, hoarse, grating tone, “Does he know that I am in London?—is he aware that I am in England—passing by the name of Fitzhardinge——”
“No—no,” replied Percival hastily: for he saw by the old woman’s manner that she would not thank him were he to inform her that he had made her husband acquainted with so many particulars concerning her.
“You are sure—you are certain?” demanded she, breathing somewhat more freely.