For a moment I did not know what to answer. But when this atrocious woman walked past me into the parlour, and threw herself into my dead father’s chair, I followed her, and felt compelled to speak.
‘I do not understand what you mean by talking in this way,’ I said. ‘Mrs Vere is the only mistress in this house, and—’
‘Well, young man, and suppose I am Mrs Vere!’
‘I can suppose no such thing. You cannot know what you are talking about. My mother—’
‘Your mother! And pray, what may your name be and your age?’
‘Charles Vere; and I was eighteen last birthday,’ I said, feeling compelled, I knew not by what secret agency, to reply.
‘Just so! I thought as much! Well, I am Mrs Vere, and I am your mother!’
‘My mother! You must be mad, or drunk! How dare you insult the dead man in his coffin upstairs. My mother! Why, she died years ago, before I can remember.’
‘Did she? That’s the fine tale, Madam, who’s been taking my place here all this time, has told you, I suppose. But I’ll be even with her yet. I’m your father’s widow, and all he’s left behind him belongs to me, and she’ll be out of this house before another hour’s over her head, or my name’s not Jane Vere!’