AUNTIE
AUNTIE
No one would suppose that Auntie had once been pretty. Yet Mrs. Estcourt, the Squire’s wife, said that she was so at one time, and Mrs. Estcourt had known her from a girl and ought to be an authority.
No one without a moment’s thought would suppose that she had once been young. Of course, when you considered, you knew that in the order of nature young she must have been; but her entire appearance and cut of figure and dress seemed to proclaim that she had been born old, and had remained at a standstill whilst the world moved on.
She was short, carried little curls like beer barrels arranged on each side of her forehead, had mild benevolent eyes of no particular colour, wore an old-fashioned bonnet, and gowns still older in fashion, for they were leg-of-mutton sleeved.
When tight sleeves came in, Auntie continued to wear her old-fashioned full sleeves. “My dear,” she would say to one who objected that they were antiquated, “my dear, leg-o’-muttons will come in again.”
Come in they have, but after Auntie had closed her eyes and could not see her prediction verified. Her skirts, flounced and full, saw the crinoline come in and go out, saw the tight straight skirt, and saw fulness again become fashionable.