“I am much obliged to you, Lady Sarah, but I prefer to wear my own things.”
“Oh, well, well!” sighed the other wearily; “I won’t argue with you, my dear. Do as you please. I meant to do you a kindness, but, if you choose to take it in this way, there is no use saying anything about it. Don’t let me keep you. Run away to your friends.”
She turned towards the window as she spoke, and the sun shone full on her face. It looked tired and grey, and very, very old; and the thin hands crossed on her lap, how shrivelled they were!—they trembled all the time as though they could not keep still. Mildred walked out into the garden, a pang of compunction at her heart. Dreadful to be so old!—not to be able to see without spectacles; to hear,—unless people spoke at the pitch of their voices; to walk,—unless supported by a stick; to feel cold even on the hottest day; to feel tired the first thing in the morning;—how dreadful! Lady Sarah had looked sad too—not merely cross, as usual, but really and truly sad and lonely.
Suppose she had seriously meant to be kind—to show that she regretted her interference in the past? Mildred’s face clouded over as this thought passed through her mind, but before she crossed the lawn to join her friends her lips stiffened into the old, obstinate line.
“I don’t care. She had no right to send in her scraps of finery, without even asking my permission. And after saying that Mother didn’t provide for me properly, too! No, I am not a bit sorry; I would do the same thing over again!”
Chapter Ten.
An Unexpected Departure.
The day before the eventful picnic the family were seated round the breakfast-table, when the Dean looked up from a letter which he had just been reading, and said mildly, and as if he were making the most natural request in the world: