She prayed that she might; but her body was exhausted, so that she could not overcome to her satisfaction the agitation of her mind. It did not mend the matter that she was kept waiting very long; and when Mr Ruthven came out at his own door, it was with some difficulty that Annie rose to make respectful way for him.
“Be seated,” said Mr Ruthven, in a tone of severity; “I have much to say to you.”
Both seated themselves. Mr Ruthven cleared his throat, and said—
“It is the most painful part of a pastor’s duty to administer reproof, and more especially to members of his flock whose years should have brought them wisdom and self-control.”
Annie clasped her hands on her knees, and looked meekly in his face.
“I should have hoped,” Mr Ruthven went on, “that a Christian woman of your standing, and one who is blest, as you yourself have been known to acknowledge, with a life of peace, would have had compassion on a most suffering sister, and have rather striven to alleviate her sorrows, and to soften her occasional self-reproach for what she amiably calls her infirmities of sensibility, than have wounded and upbraided her, and treacherously cut off her frail chance of release from a most unjust captivity.”
“I!—I wound and upbraid Lady Carse!”
“Now, do not compel me to remind you of what you ought to know full well—the deceitfulness of the human heart. Listen to me.”
Again Annie looked gently in his face.
“I left that poor lady, already overwhelmed with misfortune, prostrated anew by your attack of this afternoon. I left her dissolved in tears—shaken by agitation; and I resolved that my first act of duty should be to remonstrate privately—observe, I say privately—against the heartlessness which could pour in drops of bitterness to make the already brimming cup overflow. Now, what have you to say?”