“Aunt Mary! if you only knew what a good-for-nothing fellow I have been! I am sure I cannot see why my father should have confidence in me.”
“In whom should he have confidence, if not in you?” said Mrs Inglis, smiling.
Philip had nothing to answer. A feeling of shame, painful but wholesome, kept him silent. Even according to his own idea of right, he had been undutiful in his conduct to his father. He had accepted all from him, he had exacted much, and he had given little in return, except the careless respect to his wishes in little things, which he could not have refused to any one in whose house he was a guest. They had been on friendly terms enough, as a general thing, but there had been some passages between them which he did not like to remember. That his father should have had any satisfaction in him or his doings, except indeed in the case of the transaction of the timber at Q—, was not a very likely thing. The very supposition went deeper than any reproaches could have gone and filled him with pain and regret.
“Frank is a good fellow, but he does not know everything,” said he, dolefully.
“I think he must know about your father, however, he is with him so constantly, and he says he is better. It will be some time before he is able for business again, I am afraid. In the meantime he has perfect confidence in Mr Caldwell and in you, which must be a comfort to him.”
Philip shook his head.
“Aunt Mary, the business is no longer his, and what we are doing is for the benefit of others. He has lost everything.”
“He has not lost everything, I think,” said Mrs Inglis, smiling, “while he has you and Frank and your sisters. He would not say so.”
Philip rose and came and stood before her.
“Mrs Inglis, I cannot bear that you should think of me as you do. It makes me feel like a deceiver. I have not been a good son to my father. I am not like your Davie.”