“It could all go on, aunt; it could indeed. The change to new scenes would revive you.”
“No. I am satisfied where I am. I am among people whom I like, and who like and respect me.”
She dwelt upon the last words with unction, as if there were tangible comfort in them.
Mildred sighed and was silent. She had felt it her duty to try and rouse her aunt from the dull apathy into which she seemed gradually sinking, and she thought that the only chance of revival was to remove her from the monotony of her present existence.
Later on in the evening the fire had been lighted in the inner drawing-room, Miss Fausset feeling chilly, in spite of the approach of summer, and aunt and niece drew near the hearth for cheerfulness and comfort. The low reading-lamp spread its light only over Miss Fausset’s book-table and the circle in which it stood. The faces of both women were in shadow, and the lofty room with its walls of books was full of shadows.
“You talk so despondently of life sometimes, aunt, as if it had been all disappointment,” said Mildred, after a long silence, in which they had both sat watching the fire, each absorbed by her own thoughts; “yet your girlhood must have been bright. I have heard my dear father say how indulgent his father was, how he gave way to his children in everything.”
“Yes, he was very indulgent; too indulgent perhaps. I had my own way in everything; only—one’s own way does not always lead to happiness. Mine did not. I might have been a happier woman if my father had been a tyrant.”
“You would have married, perhaps, in that case, to escape from an unhappy home. I wish you would tell me more about your girlish years, aunt. You must have had many admirers when you were young, and amongst them all there must have been some one for whom you cared—just a little. Would it hurt you to talk to me about that old time?”
“Yes, Mildred. There are some women who can talk about such things—women who can prose for hours to their granddaughters or their nieces—simpering over the silliness of the past—boasting of conquests which nobody believes in; for it is very difficult to realise the fact that an old woman was ever young and lovely. I am not of that temper, Mildred. The memory of my girlhood is hateful to me.”
“Ah, then there was some sad story—some unhappy attachment. I was sure it must have been so,” said Mildred, in a low voice. “But tell me of that happier time before you went into society—the time when you were in Italy with your governess, studying at the Conservatoire at Milan. I thought of you so much when I was at Milan the other day.”