“It is not for me to judge,” he said, still more awkwardly. “Headaches are very fair excuses; and if one be not blessed with good health––”
“My health is perfect,” she returned, interrupting him ruthlessly. “I have no such convenient plea under which to shelter 122 myself. Miss Mewlstone suffers far more from headaches than I do. Don’t you, Miss Mewlstone?”
“Just so; yes, indeed, my dear,” proceeded softly from the other end of the room.
“I am sorry to hear it,” commenced Mr. Drummond, in a sympathizing tone of voice. But his tormentor again interrupted him.
“I am a sad backslider, am I not? I wonder if you have a sermon ready for me? Do you lecture your parishioners, Mr. Drummond, rich as well as poor? What a pity it is you are so young! Lectures are more suitable with gray hair; a hoary head might have some chance against my satire. A woman’s tongue is a difficult thing to keep in order, is it not? I dare say you find that with Miss Mattie?”
Mr. Drummond was literally on thorns. He had no repartee ready. She was secretly exasperating him as usual, making his youth a reproach, and rendering it impossible for him to be his natural frank self with her. In her presence he was always at a disadvantage. She seemed to take stock of his learning and to mock at the idea of his pastoral claims. It was not the first time she had called herself a black sheep, or had spoken of her scanty attendances at church. But as yet he had not dared to rebuke her; he had a feeling that she might fling back his rebuke with a jest, and his dignity forbade this. Some day he owed it to his conscience to speak a word to her,—to tell her of the evil effects of such an example; but the convenient season had not yet arrived.
He was casting about in his own mind for some weighty sentence with which to answer her; but she again broke in upon his silence:
“It seems that I am to escape to-day. I hope you are not a lax disciplinarian; that comes of being young. Youth is more tolerant, they say, of other people’s errors: it has its own glass houses to mind.”
“You are too clever for me, Mrs. Cheyne,” returned the young man, with a deprecating smile that might have disarmed her. “No, I have not come to lecture: my mission is perfectly peaceful, as befits this lovely afternoon. I wonder what you ladies find to do all day?” he continued, abruptly changing the subject, and trying to find something that would not attract her satire.
Mrs. Cheyne seemed a little taken aback by this direct question; and then she drew up her beautiful head a little haughtily, and laughed.