“’Tis weakness, I suppose,” said Lady Louvaine, in a questioning tone.
“Ay, we are all weak some whither,” replied Aunt Joyce; “and Faith’s weakness is a sort to show. She is somewhat too ready to nurse her weaknesses, and make pets of them. ’Tis bad enough for a woman to pet her own virtues; but when she pets her vices, ’tis a hard thing to better her. But, Lettice, there is a strong soul among you—a rare soul, in good sooth; and there is one other, of whose weakness, and what are like to be its consequences, I am far more in fear than of Faith’s.”
“Nay, who mean you?” asked Lady Louvaine in a perplexed voice.
“I mean the two lads—Hans and Aubrey.”
“Hans is a good lad, truly.”
“Hans has more goodness in him than you have seen the end of, by many a mile. But Aubrey!”
“You reckon not Aubrey an ill one, I hope?”
“By which you mean, one that purposes ill? Oh no, by no means. He is a far commoner character—one that hath no purpose, and so being, doth more real ill than he that sets forth to do it of malicious intent.”
“Are you assured you wrong not the lad, Joyce, in so saying?”
“If I do, you shall full shortly know it. I trust it may be so. But he seems to me to have a deal more of Walter in him than Ned, and to be right the opposite of our Aubrey in all main conditions.”