It seemed to her that her own charms dwindled as her daughter grew. As the bud unfolded, the flower faded. She felt almost as if Mildred had robbed her of her beauty. She would not give up the pleasures and excitement of society. She consulted half-a-dozen fashionable physicians, and would not obey one of them. They all prescribed the same repulsive treatment—rest, early hours, country air, with gentle exercise; no parties, no excitement, no strong tea.
Mrs. Fausset disobeyed them all, and from only fancying herself ill grew to be really ill; and from chronic lassitude developed organic disease of the heart.
She lingered nearly two years, a confirmed invalid, suffering a good deal, and giving other people a great deal of trouble. She died soon after Mildred’s sixteenth birthday, and on her death-bed she confided freely in her daughter, who had attended upon her devotedly all through her illness, neglecting everything else in the world for her mother’s sake.
“You are old enough to understand things that must once have seemed very mysterious to you, Mildred,” said Mrs. Fausset, lying half-hidden in the shadow of guipure bed-curtains, with her daughter’s hand clasped in hers, perhaps forgetting how young that daughter was in her own yearning for sympathy. “You couldn’t make out why I disliked that horrid girl so much, could you?”
“No, indeed, mother.”
“I hated her because she was your father’s daughter, Mildred—his natural daughter; the child of some woman who was not his wife. You are old enough now to know what that means. You were reading The Heart of Midlothian to me last week. You know, Mildred?”
Yes, Mildred knew. She hung her head at the memory of that sad story, and at the thought that her father might have sinned like George Staunton.
“Yes, Mildred, she was the child of some woman he loved before he married me. He must have been desperately in love with the woman, or he would never have brought her daughter into my house. It was the greatest insult he could offer to me.”
“Was it, mother?”
“Was it? Why, of course it was. How stupid you are, child!” exclaimed the invalid peevishly, and the feverish hand grew hotter as she talked.