“Ah, Mary, this is what ought to have been from the very first,” she said; “this is different from Francis Ochterlony and his dreary house. The dear children will be happy here.”
“Yes, it is very different,” said Mary, returning the pressure of the soft little white hand; but her heart was full, and she could not find much more to say.
“And you, too, my dear love,” Aunt Agatha went on, who was not a wise woman, looking into the new-comer’s face—“you, too Mary, my darling—you will try to be happy in your old home? Well, dear, never mind answering me—I ought to know it is not the same for you as for us. I can’t help feeling so happy to have you and the dear children. Look at Winnie, how delighted she is—she is so fond of children, though you would not think so just at first. Doesn’t it make you feel the difference, Mary, to think you left her a baby, as one may say, and find her grown up into such a great girl?”
“I have so many things to make me feel the difference,” said Mary—for Miss Seton was not one of those people who can do without an answer; and then Aunt Agatha was very sorry, and kissed her, with tears in her eyes.
“Yes, my love—yes, my dear love;” she said, as if she were soothing a child. “It was very foolish of me to use that expression; but you must try not to mind me, Mary. Cry, my dear, or don’t answer me, or do just as you please. I never mean to say anything to recall—— Look at the dear boys, how delighted they are. I know they will be fond of Winnie—she has such a nice way with children. Don’t you think she has a very nice way?”
“She is very handsome,” said Mary, looking out wistfully upon the young imperious creature, whose stage of existence seemed the very antipodes of her own.
“My dear love, she is beautiful,” said Aunt Agatha. “Sir Edward told me he had never, even at court—and you know he was a great deal about the court in his young days—seen any one that promised to be such a beautiful woman. And to think she should just be our Winnie all the same! And so simple and sweet—such a perfect child with it all! You may wonder how I have kept her so long,” continued Winnie’s adoring guardian, “when you were married, Mary, before you were her age.”
Mrs. Ochterlony tried hard to look up with the look of inquiry and interest which was expected of her in Aunt Agatha’s face; but she could not. It was difficult enough to struggle with the recollections that hung about this place, without having them thrust continually in her face in this affectionately heartless way. Thus the wheel turned softly round again, and the reality of the situation crept out in bare outline from under the cloak of flowers and tenderness, as hard and clear as at Earlston. Mary’s grief was her own concern, and not of very much consequence to anybody else in the world. She had no right to forget that fact, and yet she did forget it, not being used yet to stand alone. While Aunt Agatha, on her side, could not but think it was rather hard-hearted of Mary to show so little interest in her own sister, and such a sister as Winnie.
“It is not because she is not appreciated,” Miss Seton went on, feeling all the more bound to celebrate her favourite’s praises, “but I am so anxious she should make a good choice. She is not a girl that could marry anybody, you know. She has her own little ways, and such a great deal of character. I cannot tell you what a comfort it is to me, Mary, my dear love, to think that now we shall have your experience to guide us,” Aunt Agatha added, melting into tenderness again.
“I am afraid experience is good for very little in such cases,” said Mary, “but I hope there will be no guidance needed—she seems very happy now.”