He was greatly admired for his utter impatience of commiseration, but there was no doubt that the disappointment was far greater to his mother and Ida than to himself. He cared little for what did not make any actual difference to his present life, whereas to them the glory and honour of his heirship and the future hopes were everything—and Constance’s manifest delight in the joy of her uncle and aunt, and her girlish interest in the baby, were to their eyes unfeeling folly, if not absolute unkindness to her brother.
‘Dear little baby, indeed!’ said Ida scornfully. ‘Nasty little wretch, I say. One good thing is, up in that cold place all this time he’s sure not to live.’
Herbert whistled. ‘That’s coming it rather strong.’ And Constance, with tears starting to her eyes, said, ‘For shame, Ida, how can you be so wicked! Think of Uncle Frank and Aunt Mary!’
‘I believe you care for them more than for your own flesh and blood!’ exclaimed her mother.
‘Well, and haven’t they done a sight deal more for her?’ said Herbert.
‘You turning on me too, you ungrateful boy!’ cried Mrs. Morton.
Herbert laughed.
‘If it comes to gratitude,’ he said, and looked significantly at the decorations.
‘And what is it but the due to his brother’s widow?’ said Mrs. Morton. ‘Just a pittance, and you may depend that will be cut down on some pretext now!’
‘I should think so, if they heard Ida’s tongue!’ said Herbert.