There was no keeping back the question.
“What was in it?” I cried. “What was written there?”
I saw her old mouth shut as if she meant to show me that I need expect no disclosure from her.
“I don’t know, Mr. Estabrook,” said she.
In her eyes, perhaps distorted by the strong lenses of her glasses, I saw the challenge of stubbornness. I felt myself growing wild with a desire to break through the unwholesome mystery which had entangled me, and overcome by any means the silence of this woman. She had arisen. She was within my reach. And I believe that I put my hands upon her, catching her two round and fleshy shoulders under my curved palms, shaking her to and fro with the excess of my excitement. In that moment before I spoke to her, she looked up at me, surprise and terror written on her face.
“Tell me!” I roared. “You know this horrible, hidden thing. Confound you, tell me!”
Her expression changed. I saw surprise become craftiness and fear, distrust. I saw in her eyes the beginning of that hate which I believe has never, since that irresponsible moment, diminished.
“You had best leave go of me, Mr. Estabrook,” she said calmly. “You would not act so if the old Judge was alive and here. Nor his daughter, sir!”
The rebuke, you may believe, was enough.
“I’m sorry,” I said.