Mrs. Mearely stepped in between and languidly shooed the warlike woman off with the periodical.
“Be silent, if you please. Mabel is my guest. She is under my protection.” She patted Mabel’s head. “Don’t cry, dear. Don’t be afraid. Corinne come and sit by your cousin.” She drew Corinne to the spot indicated, despite maternal hands thrust out to prevent. “You may sit there—and there.” She filliped the Digest to point out the chairs where she desired to see Mrs. Witherby and Mr. Howard deposit themselves. Howard sank into his chair quickly, making himself as small as possible to escape the high winds which he saw were about to sweep over the landscape. Mrs. Witherby, by no means subdued as yet, but temporarily nonplussed, sat down; but she watched her antagonist with baleful eye, waiting for an opening. Mrs. Mearely’s justified wrath burned high and she let the flames spread.
Since Roseborough would have it that she was not a Mearely, nor a legitimate child of Roseborough, she would let them all experience the encounter they sought with little Rosamond Cort, the farmer’s daughter, of Poplars Vale, who could fill her two hands with earth and declare “this is my earth—the earth I sprang from!” and throw both handfuls at anyone who was unnatural enough to look down upon her.
“So? You’ll come into my house—with your trunks—and take possession, eh? You’ll be busy here, will you? You’ll tell the whole of Roseborough that Rosamond Cort, whose mother made butter, has gone wrong at last! Yes; the unworthy widow of the distinguished Hibbert Mearely had a lover in her house in the middle of the night.” She even went so far as to mimic Mrs. Witherby’s unique intonations, as she quoted what that lady might be expected to say in the village.
“‘Oh, yes, my dear. Of course I did what I could to protect her. They arrested the man—but, of course,’”—with nods and shrugs—“‘Well, my dear, after all—who was she? Butter, my dear, butter!’ Butter, butter!” she hissed it, furiously.
“Oh, I know you—hypocrite! Now I shall give you a lesson. I shall give Roseborough a lesson. The joke will last this community for fifty years. And maybe it will cure you of scandal-mongering, though I doubt it. The man—is in there! As long as there was a chance of his escape, I would have protected his incognito.” She paused to let the word take effect. Then she floated to the music room door, flung it wide and said, with deliberate impressiveness,
“Will you come here, if you please—Prince?”
Corinne and Mabel turned and looked at each other. Mrs. Witherby and Howard sat up and looked at Rosamond.
“Prince!” Mrs. Witherby repeated mechanically.
“What is it, Madam Make-Believe?” the prince appeared in the doorway, with the watchful Marks a step behind.