“I mention it because I am determined to bring Sir Percival Glyde to account for the wickedness he has committed.”
“What have I to do with your determination?”
“You shall hear. There are certain events in Sir Percival’s past life which it is necessary for my purpose to be fully acquainted with. You know them—and for that reason I come to you .”
“What events do you mean?”
“Events that occurred at Old Welmingham when your husband was parish-clerk at that place, and before the time when your daughter was born.”
I had reached the woman at last through the barrier of impenetrable reserve that she had tried to set up between us. I saw her temper smouldering in her eyes—as plainly as I saw her hands grow restless, then unclasp themselves, and begin mechanically smoothing her dress over her knees.
“What do you know of those events?” she asked.
“All that Mrs. Clements could tell me,” I answered.
There was a momentary flush on her firm square face, a momentary stillness in her restless hands, which seemed to betoken a coming outburst of anger that might throw her off her guard. But no—she mastered the rising irritation, leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms on her broad bosom, and with a smile of grim sarcasm on her thick lips, looked at me as steadily as ever.
“Ah! I begin to understand it all now,” she said, her tamed and disciplined anger only expressing itself in the elaborate mockery of her tone and manner. “You have got a grudge of your own against Sir