“Not to me! The wretch! The deceitful, deluding—deluding—de—de—deceitful thing. Yes, thing. I’d like to make him pay, with his whole life, for the insults he has heaped on me to-night.” Even as she wished, the way to realize her desire suggested itself to her. “Ah! I can do it! Certainly I can. And you shall help me. He and your aunt are so nice and smug and busy over my affairs—eh? I’ll give them a bit of scandal of their own to take care of. I’ll make her writhe. I’ll avenge myself. I’ll make him pay—all his life long. I’ll show them all who’s who in Roseborough. Let them see if the butter-maker’s daughter isn’t a match for them!” She marched—sailed is perhaps the better word—to the door, threw it open and called with a great authority to the tea-drinking conspirators in the dining room:
“Mrs. Witherby, kindly put my cups down on my table and come out of my dining room.”
She walked swiftly to the stand by the settee and picked up the Digest. She stood there holding the paper, waiting. Mrs. Witherby looked flustered but belligerent. Howard was patently apprehensive. Corinne, who had received a terrible scolding, was excited and scared, but not too much so, for she clung to one of Jemima’s fresh cookies and occasionally nibbled at it.
CHAPTER XXVII
Mrs. Witherby stared the hostess of Villa Rose up and down; but the latter did not quail. She pointed toward a chair with the folded Digest.
Now, many a time, while flattering and “my-dearing” the lady of the villa, Mrs. Witherby—secretly chafing because she dared not call her by her Christian name, and patronize her—had wished that an opportunity might arise to enable her to “put the farmer’s daughter in her place.” In a pitched battle, Mrs. Witherby always won, no matter who her opponent might be, because her tongue and spite were tireless.
“Well! I wondered when you were going to greet me,” she began. Her top-knot waved and her silks rustled as she plumed and girded herself for the fray. But the Digest, gracefully manipulated, waved her to silence.
“I do not wish to hear you talk. I am mistress here, and I shall do the talking.” She moved, and Mrs. Witherby caught sight of her niece. She darted at her in a fury. At the moment she was at least capable of boxing her ears, whether such was her specific intent or not.
“Mabel! how dare you disobey me?” she began.