“Well, go away for the present, at any rate.”
“Oh, yes, just like you! Wait till young Temple arrives; wait until it is too late, and then you will be satisfied!”
Having thus reproved her husband at the vicarage, Mrs. Layton crossed over to the hall for the purpose of reproving her daughter. And as she entered the wide domains, and looked around at the luxuries and beauties of the place, she naturally felt anxious to keep them in the family.
“Rachel must rouse herself,” she mentally reflected, as she ascended the broad staircase. “Now the poor boy is gone, she has lost a bond between herself and the old man, and therefore she must exert herself to keep up her influence.”
She thought this again as she walked along the wide, softly-carpeted corridor that led to her daughter’s room.
“What a nice house!” she reflected. “No one must come here. No interloper; no new squire and his wife!”
She knew that Mrs. Temple’s marriage settlement was everything that was satisfactory. She had seen to that herself when the gray-haired man had gone courting her dark-haired girl. She had taken full advantage of an old wooer’s folly, and seen that he paid a heavy price for his bargain. But nothing had been said about the Hall. Then, when the boy was born nothing naturally was said of it. His mother would live, of course, with the young heir. But now the young heir was dead, and some new arrangement must be made.
Mrs. Layton knew she had no easy task before her, when she rapped at the door of her daughter’s bedroom. Rachel Layton had been difficult to manage, but Rachel Temple had developed into a very wayward woman. As a rule, she was on fairly good terms with her mother, but she brooked no interference. Mrs. Layton derived many benefits from her connection with the Hall. Her mutton, her butter, her eggs, her vegetables, all came from the same source. The remembrance of this inspirited her. The Hall must remain Rachel’s, she told herself, cost her what it would.
It was the day before the poor boy’s funeral, and John Temple was expected at Woodlea early on the following morning. There was, therefore, no time to lose. So Mrs. Layton plucked up her courage and entered her daughter’s apartment, determined to speak her mind.
Mrs. Temple was standing at one of the windows gazing listlessly out. She could not rest, and her handsome face was lined and drawn with her mental sufferings. She looked years older since her boy’s death, and she glanced round as her mother entered the room without speaking.