“What!” almost screamed Mrs. Layton.
“Rachel,” said the squire in grave reproof, “is this a way in which to speak of a most painful affair? If John Temple did induce this young lady to leave her home, as you say he did, he is bound in honor to make her his wife.”
“To make Margaret Churchill his wife!” screamed Mrs. Layton. “Why, squire, you must be mad to dream of such a thing!”
The squire gave a contemptuous bow.
“You may have your ideas, madam,” he said, “and I have mine. I have told you what mine are, and in my own house. I’ll see they are respected.”
Mrs. Layton’s face fell; the squire might be mad, was mad to talk thus, but still he was the master of the house from which so many good things went to the vicarage, and she could not afford to quarrel with him.
“Of course, I did not mean that,” she began, but with another bow Mr. Temple left the room, and Mrs. Layton was alone with her daughter, except for the presence of the doctor and the unconscious Henderson, who were quite at the other end of it.
“Did I not tell you long ago,” hissed Mrs. Layton in her daughter’s ear, “what this John Temple was? A viper, a scorpion, and now he’s turned and stung you! Oh! that I should ever live to see that upstart here! Margaret Churchill indeed!”
“She’s not here yet,” answered Mrs. Temple, bitterly; “ten to one John Temple will never marry her—why should he?”