Sir John, severely tried by rheumatism and advancing years, had, so to speak, given up his sword.
His wife's magnanimity had provided him with what she considered suitable amusements and occupations.

He was told that he took an interest in breeding pigs, and he, who had once ruled a province rather larger than England, might now be seen on fine mornings tottering out, tilted forward on his stick, making the tour of the farmyard, and hanging over the low wall of his model pigstyes.
In Magdalen's recollections, Aunt Mary had always looked exactly the same, the same strong, tall, robust, large-featured, handsome woman, with black hair, and round, black, unwinking eyes, who invariably dressed in black and wore a bonnet.

Even under the cedar at The Towers Aunt Mary wore a bonnet.

When she employed herself in a majestic gardening the sun was shaded from her Roman nose by a black satin parasol.
There are some men and women whom it is monstrous to suppose ever were children, ever young, ever different from what they are now.

Whatever laws of human nature may rule the birth of others, they, at any rate, like the phoenix, sprang full grown, middle aged, in a frock coat, or a bugled silk gown, from some charred heap of unconsenting parental ashes.
Aunt Mary was no doubt one of these.
Near her, on the edge of her chair, perhaps not so entirely on the edge of it as at first appeared, sat Aunt Aggie.