“You would?” interrupted Lady Carse. “Then take care I do not point at her next sabbath as the only friend I have on this island.”
“My dear creature!” said Mrs Ruthven, “pray do not say such severe things: you will break my heart. You do the greatest injustice to our affection. Only let me show you! If this wicked steward prevents your escape now, I will get away somehow, and tell your story to all the world; and they shall send another vessel for you; and I will come with it, and take you away. I will indeed.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Lady Carse.
“Nonsense, my dear,” said the pastor.
Lady Carse laughed at this accord. Mrs Ruthven cried.
“If you get away,” said Lady Carse, more gently, “you may be sure you will not leave me behind.”
“It is all nonsense, the whole of it, about this vessel and the steward,” Mr Ruthven pronounced. “The steward comes, as usual, for the feather-rent.”
“It is not the season for the feather-rent,” declared Lady Carse.
“The steward comes when it suits his convenience,” decided the pastor; “the season is a matter of but secondary regard.”
“You are mistaken,” said the lady. “I have lived here longer than you; and I know that he comes at the regular seasons, and at no other time.”