“You are very hard upon my poor Winnie,” said Aunt Agatha, with a long-restrained sob.
“I am not hard upon her. On the contrary, I would save her if I could,” said Sir Edward, solemnly. “My dear Agatha, I am sorry for you. What with poor Francis Ochterlony’s illness, and this heavy burden——”
Miss Seton was seized with one of those passions of impatience and indignation to which a man’s heavy way of blundering over sore subjects sometimes moves a woman. “It was all Francis Ochterlony’s fault,” she said, lifting her little tremulous white hands. “It was his fault, and not mine. He might have had some one that could have taken care of him all these years, and he chose his marble images instead—and I will not take the blame; it was no fault of mine. And then my poor darling child——”
But here Miss Seton’s strength, being the strength of excitement solely, gave way, and her voice broke, and she had to take both her hands to dry her fast-coming tears.
“Well, well, well!” said Sir Edward. “Dear me, I never meant to excite you so. What I was saying was with the kindest intention. Let us hope Ochterlony is better, and that all will turn out pleasantly for Winnie. If you find yourself unequal to the emergency, you know—and want a man’s assistance——”
“Thank you,” said Aunt Agatha, with dignity; “but I do not think so much of a man’s assistance as I used to do. Mary is so very sensible, and if one does the very best one can——”
“Oh, of course I am not a person to interfere,” said Sir Edward; and he walked away with an air still more dignified than that which Aunt Agatha had put on, but very shaky, poor old gentleman, about his knees, which slightly diminished the effect. As for Aunt Agatha, she turned her back upon him steadily, and walked back to the Cottage with all the stateliness of a woman aggrieved. But nevertheless the pins and needles were in her heart, and her mind was full of anxiety and distress. She had felt very strongly the great mistake made by Francis Ochterlony, and how he had spoiled both their lives—but that was not to say that she could hear of his illness with philosophy. And then Winnie, who was not ill, but whose reputation and position might be in deadly danger for anything Miss Seton knew. Aunt Agatha knew nothing better to do than to call Mary privately out of the room and pour forth her troubles. It did no good, but it relieved her mind. Why was Sir Edward so suspicious and disagreeable—why had he ceased “to understand people;”—and why was Hugh so young and inexperienced, and incapable of judging whether his uncle was or was not seriously ill;—and why did not “they” write? Aunt Agatha did not know whom she meant by “they,” nor why she blamed poor Hugh. But it relieved her mind. And when she had pushed her burden off on to Mary’s shoulders, the weight was naturally much lightened on her own.
CHAPTER XXX.
UGH, however, it is quite true, was very inexperienced. He did not even notice that his uncle was very ill. He sat with him at dinner and saw that he did not eat anything, and yet never saw it; and he went with him sometimes when he tottered about the garden in the morning, and never found out that he tottered; and sat with him at night, and was very kind and attentive, and was very fond of his uncle, and never remarked anything the matter with his breathing. He was very young, and he knew no better, and it never seemed to him that short breathing and unequal steps and a small appetite were anything remarkable at Mr. Ochterlony’s age. If there had been a lady in the house it might have made a wonderful difference; but to be sure it was Francis Ochterlony’s own doing that there was not a lady in the house. And he was not himself so shortsighted as Hugh. His own growing weakness was something of which he was perfectly well aware, and he knew, too, how his breath caught of nights, and looking forward into the future saw the shadow drawing nearer to his door, and was not afraid of it. Probably the first thought went chill to his heart, the thought that he was mortal like other people, and might have to die. But his life had been such a life as to make him very much composed about it, and not disinclined to think that a change might be for the better. He was not very clear about the unseen world—for one thing, he had nobody there in particular belonging to him except the father and mother who were gone ages ago; and it did not seem very important to himself personally whether he was going to a long sleep, or going to another probation, or into pure blessedness, which of all the three was, possibly, the hypothesis which he understood least. Perhaps, on the whole, if he had been to come to an end altogether he would not have much minded; but his state of feeling was, that God certainly knew all about it, and that He would arrange it all right. It was a kind of pagan state of mind; and yet there was in it something of the faith of the little child which was once set up as the highest model of faith by the highest authority. No doubt Mr. Ochterlony had a great many thoughts on the subject, as he sat buried in the deep chair in his study, and gazed into the little red spark of fire which was lighted for him all that summer through, though the weather was so genial. His were not bright thoughts, but very calm ones; and perhaps his perfect composure about it all was one reason why Hugh took it as a matter of course, and went on quite cheerily and lightly, and never found out there was anything the matter with him until the very last.