"THE GIRL" AND HER MOTHER.
November outside--a less attractive November than even up in the north
among the Fells. For there, at least, though chilly and raw, it was
clear and _clean_. Here, in a London lodging, very unexceptionable as
to respectability and practical cleanliness, but not much above the
average of London lodgings as regards attractiveness, it--whatever "it"
means, the day, the weather, the general atmosphere--was assuredly not
the former, and did not _look_ the latter. For it was a morning of
incipient fog; a state of things even less endurable--like an ailment
before it has thoroughly declared itself--than full-fledged fog at its
worst. Naturally so, for mature fog cannot last more than a day or two
after all, whereas indefinite fog may be indefinite as to duration as
well as quality. And besides this, thorough fog has its compensations;
you draw down the blinds and light the lamps, and leave off pretending
it is a normal day; you feel a certain thrill of not unpleasing
excitement; "it is surely _the_ worst that has yet been known"--what may
not be _going_ to happen next; the end of the world, or a German
invasion?
Hoarse cries from the streets, rendered still more unearthly by the
false sound of distance that comes with the thickened air, garbled tales
of adventure filtering up through the basement from the baker's boy,
who, through incredible perils, has somehow made his way to the area
gate; the children's shouts of gleeful excitement at escaping lessons,
seeing that the daily governess "can't possibly be coming now, mamma;"
all and everything adds to the general queerness and vague expectancy,
in itself a not unexhilarating sensation.
But things were only at the dull unromantic stage of fog this morning at
Number 33 Bouverie Terrace, where two ladies were seated at breakfast.
It was not a bad little breakfast in its way. There were temptingly
fried bacon and London muffins, and the coffee looked and scented good.
But the room was foggy, and the silver was electroplate of the
regulation lodging-house kind, and there was nothing extraordinarily
cheering in the surroundings in general, nothing to call up or explain
the beaming pleasure, the indescribable sunshininess, pervading the
whole person of the younger of the two companions; brightness and
pleasure reflected scarce undiminished on the older face of her mother
as she sat behind the breakfast tray.
"It is just too beautiful, too lovely, mamsey dear. And oh, how clever
it was of you to think of it! We might have been years and years
without ever coming across these old friends, mightn't we?" she
exclaimed.
"We might never have come across them; probably we never should, if I
had left it to chance," said Mrs Wentworth, with a little tone of
complacency. "But that I would scarcely have thought it right to do,
considering the old friendship and the kindness Mrs Helmont when a girl
received from my people. Not that I can remember it clearly, of course;
she is ever so much older than I,"--and here the complacency became a
little more evident. "Why, her eldest daughter, Mrs Poland, can't be
much under thirty-five."
"_Almost_ as old as you, mamsey," said Imogen.
"For you know you're not forty yet, and I don't think I'm _ever_ going
to allow you to be forty."
"You silly child," said her mother, smiling. "Why, you may be married
before we know where we are, and it would not do at all to be a
grandmother--fancy me a grandmother!--and not forty. I should have to
pretend I was."
"Wait till the time comes," said Imogen, sagely. "I'm not at all sure
that I ever _shall_ marry. I should be so terribly afraid of finding
out he had a bad temper, or was horribly extravagant, or--or--"
"You absurd child, who ever put such ideas into your mind?" said her
mother, looking at her with fond pride.
"Oh, I don't know," Imogen replied, with a little coquettish toss of her
head; "I _think_ a lot of things, and then you know, in books mamsey,
too often men who seem very nice are really dreadful tyrants or
something horrid after they're married."
"Well, darling, there shall be choice care taken as to whom we give
_you_ to," said her mother. "I daresay it won't be the first comer, nor
the second, nor third whom I shall think worthy of my Imogen."
"I wonder when he will come," thought the girl to herself, but she did
not express the thought. She only smiled and blushed a little at her
mother's words.
"Tell me more about the Helmonts, mamsey," she said. "You have been
there once, didn't you say?"
"Yes, but only for a day or two, not long before your dear father and I
went out to India," said Mrs Wentworth with a little sigh. "I don't
remember it very distinctly--it was a great big house, an ideal
country-house for a large merry party. Of course, a good many of the
young people were not grown up then--there was a baby if I remember
rightly. Oh yes, the youngest daughter Beatrix, so she must be only a
year or so older than you, darling. How very odd that Mrs Helmont and
I have children so nearly of an age, when _she_ might really be my
mother!" and Mrs Wentworth gave the little self-complacent laugh she
often indulged in when her comparative youth, or youthful appearance,
was alluded to.
"How delightful!" exclaimed Imogen, ignoring entirely, though with no
intention of disrespect, her mothers last sentence. "How delightful
that there should be one daughter, anyway, of my age. There are lots
older, I suppose?"
"Two, if not three, married, and three at home," Mrs Helmont said. "In
her letter this morning you see she speaks of Florence as hoping to do
all she can to make your visit pleasant. Florence--can that be the
youngest daughter? I have such a remembrance of the baby being Beatrix,
because I thought it such a pretty name; and when you were born I wanted
to call you by it, but your dear father would have Imogen. I've always
thought it rather an eccentric name, but some people like it. I always
forget who Imogen was exactly, and it looks so foolish. I must read up
about it, or her, again."
"Oh, bother, never mind about my name, mamsey. Go on about the
Helmonts. I daresay Florence is the youngest. You often muddle about
people's names, you know, mamsey dear. And there are lots of sons, too,
I suppose?"
"Oh dear, yes; but remember, dear, I don't _think_ I want you to fall in
love with any of them. They won't be particularly well off, except the
eldest one, and he, of course, not till his father's death."
"How horrid!" said Imogen. "I can't bear counting on people's fathers
and mothers dying. But I don't care about being rich a bit, mamsey.
You have such funny ideas sometimes. We're not rich, and we're very
happy--now especially that I've left school, and we're not obliged to
live all the year round at that stupid old Eastbourne, but can go
visits--lovely, delightful visits! And oh, mamsey, _do_ you think
you'll let Thorn Bush and take a dear little house in London, anyway for
a year or two?"
"We must see. I think very likely the Helmonts will be able to give me
some practical advice, as they are so cordial and friendly. Nothing
could be kinder than her letter, and you see she says a fortnight _at
least_, Imogen; though she adds that the house is full already, and will
be overflowing by next week."
"How lovely!" said Imogen again. She was at a loss for adjectives this
morning. "Just fancy, mother, how the girls at Miss Cotton's will envy
me. I must write to one or two of them from `The Fells' to tell them of
my adventures."
"Ye-es, perhaps," said her mother. "But you are not obliged to keep up
those schoolgirl friendships _too_ closely, darling. You may find
yourself in such a different sphere before long, and then it becomes
just a little embarrassing sometimes."
"Not with Dora Barry," said Imogen. "I don't care _awfully_ for any one
else, but I have perfectly _promised_ Dora that she is to be my
bridesmaid--" She stopped suddenly, blushing as she did so.
"Ah, Imogen," said her mother, "I have caught you. I thought you were
never going to marry! But seriously, dear, you should be a little
careful now; even Dora, though she is a nice girl, she is not--not
exactly in the same position. I should have much _preferred_ your never
going to school at all, you know; only everybody said it would have been
so very lonely for you;" and Mrs Wentworth sighed--a simple and
unaffected sigh.
"Of course it was good for me to go to school," said Imogen. "I was as
happy as possible there. And, mother, I'm _not_ going to give up all my
friends there, whatever you say," she maintained stoutly, with the
slight want of deference in her tone which sometimes bordered rather
nearly on disrespect in her way of speaking to her mother. "Above all,
not Dora; she's every bit as much a lady as I am, every bit, even though
her father's only a country doctor."
She glanced up with a touch of half-saucy defiance in her merry eyes.
"_How_ pretty she looks!" thought Mrs Wentworth; and in her
gratification she forgot to feel any annoyance at Imogen's persistency.
Then a good deal of talk and consultation on the absorbing and
inexhaustible subject of "clothes" ensued--talk which demonstrated the
absolute necessity of an immediate shopping expedition. Indeed, in
shopping expeditions, and instructions endless, minute, and
contradictory to the somewhat tried, but patient Colman, promoted _pro
tem_, from the post of house-and-parlour-maid to that of the Wentworth
ladies' personal attendant, passed the next few days, till the eventful
Thursday which was to see the little party _en route_ for Grey Fells
Hall.
Other visitors were expected to arrive there that day--visitors more
welcome and more congenial--yet on the Wentworths an unusual amount of
anticipatory attention had been bestowed, attention which, had they
known of it, they would certainly not have coveted. Not that it was all
unfriendly; Mrs Helmont, and the Squire himself, so far as he ever
interfered in the details of such matters, were anxious that the
strangers, rather specially thrown on their hospitality, should be happy
and at home under their roof. But the precautions they took to this end
were not of the most judicious.
"It is Trixie I am uneasy about," said Mrs Helmont to her husband.
"She, and indeed the others too--though Alicia never worries, and
Florence, I must say, is good about it--are annoyed at having any
`outsiders,' as they call the Wentworths. I almost think, Ronald, you
had better say a word to Trixie yourself. It comes with better effect
from you, as you seldom do find fault with her."
"Certainly, my dear, certainly," said Mr Helmont, whose strongest
instincts, as I have said, were those of hospitality. "Nothing would
vex me more than for any guests of ours not to receive proper
attention."
"It is rather _too much_ attention I dread for them, for the girl at
least, at Trixie's hands," said Mrs Helmont, rather mysteriously. But
the Squire was a little deaf, and did not catch the words.
"I will speak to Beatrix this very morning," he repeated reassuringly.
And speak, unfortunately, he did. He had better have left it alone.
Trixie had had the bit between her teeth for too long to be pulled up
all at once, even by the most skilful hands. And the Squire had no
thought of skill or tact; his only notion of "speaking" was to come down
upon the girl with heavy, rather clumsy authority. It was with flashing
eyes and compressed lips that Beatrix Helmont left her father's
so-called study that day, as she flew to confide her grievances to her
second and not _better_ self, Mab Forsyth.
"I'll pay them out; see if I won't," she muttered. "It's Rex who's at
the bottom of it, I could swear. He and his saintly Eva."
"Let us put our heads together, Mab," she wound up, when the whole had
been related. "You and I should be a match for the rest of them.
Florence has gone over to the enemy, it appears, but I can manage her;
she's not in such a very Christian frame of spirit. It's Rex I'm
furious at; he's been setting dad against me."
"But the worst of it is, we shall be spotted at once if we plan
anything," said Mab. "You're so stupid, Trixie, flying into a temper
and showing your colours."
"Don't talk nonsense. Did _I_ show any colours? Had I any to show?
Till this very moment did I care one farthing what became of the little
fool of a girl? Even now it's not to spite her--it's that prig of a
Rex. Didn't you hear him yesterday, Mab; his stilted, preachy tone: `Is
that exactly a young lady's place, Beatrix?' when I was doing nothing at
all? I hate him, and so would you if--"
"I do," said Miss Forsyth, calmly; "but if what?"
"If you knew how he speaks of us behind our backs," said Beatrix,
mysteriously. "I've promised not to tell; but Jim let out something the
other day that he'd heard in the smoking-room."
"I wonder what it was," said Mab. "You might as well tell me. You're
so absurd about promises like that; they're never meant to be kept
between friends like us. However, it doesn't matter. I hate Major
Winchester about as much as I _can_ hate, and that's pretty bad."
"And I'm not going to tell you; there are some things we should never
agree about, you see," said Trixie. "But what was I going to say. Oh!
about showing my colours; no, indeed, I hid them pretty completely. I
opened my eyes and stared at papa, and asked him what _could_ make him
think so poorly of me; it really distressed me. I knew I had high
spirits, but that was a Helmont peculiarity, and would probably cure
with time; but as for disregarding the duties of hospitality, etc, etc,
when had I ever done so? I didn't know I could have spoken so well, and
I looked so innocent--poor old dad, it ended in making him feel rather
foolish, I do believe. But he said some nasty things--things I shan't
forget in a hurry;" and the girl clenched her hands.
"Don't be theatrical," said Mab, scornfully. "Keep to the point. Tell
me about this girl, and why you're so excited about her."
"I'm not excited about her, I tell you. She's a fool. I would probably
never have noticed her if they had let me alone; it's Rex I'm boiling
at."
"Ah yes, I see, and there I sympathise," said Mabella. "And I have a
good fund of dislike to silly little bread-and-butter misses at all
times which may come in handy. So the plot thickens, Trixie; it's quite
exciting, upon my word. We must be cautious and watchful; first get to
know our materials thoroughly. They are arriving to-day, you say, about
the usual time?"
"Yes, the four o'clock train; that gets them here for tea in the
drawing-room. There are several people coming. The young Girards,
newly married, you know; but no nonsense about them, and up to any fun.
They were both engaged to other people, you remember, and threw them
over in the neatest way. And Gerty Custance and her brother, etc, etc."
"When is Gerty going to retire; she must be nine-and-twenty?" said Miss
Forsyth. But Trixie took no notice beyond an interjected "She's
Alicia's friend, not mine," and went on with her list. "So that you
see, among so many, it will not be difficult to feel our way. The girl
will be frightened out of her wits, and ready to cling to the first that
offers. She's never been anywhere, and thinks herself a peerless
beauty; and they're not rich, or clever, or anything. _Fancy_ mamma
asking such sticks of people!"
"And does Major Rex know anything of them? Why is he taking them up in
this way?" asked Miss Forsyth.
"For no reason in the world except spite--spite at me, and
priggishness," said Trixie.
Mabella smiled. Her smile was not a pleasant one, and did not, as some
smiles do, lighten up or soften her undeniably plain face.
"Spite at _you_, Trixie," she said. "Excuse me; you like
straightforward speaking, you always say. I scarcely think Major
Winchester would give himself the trouble of going out of his way to
spite _you_; he doesn't think you worth it."
"Thank you," said Beatrix.
"It's more likely priggishness, as you say, or contradiction," pursued
Miss Forsyth. "I wouldn't even flatter him by calling it quixotry.
It's all conceit and love of meddling and thinking himself a saint. Oh,
I do detest him, cordially!"
"After all, he's my cousin," said Trixie; "you might as well be civil
when you speak of him, and if you know so much about his motives, why do
you ask me what they are?"
Her tone was snappish, but her friend did not seem to notice what she
said. Her eyes--Mabella had rather good dark eyes, they were her one
"feature"--were fixed on vacancy, but her lips moved, though no words
were audible. Suddenly she moved to Beatrix.
"I have it!" she exclaimed; "or I'm beginning to have it. No! I'm not
going to tell you yet. I must know my ground and my puppets better
first. But something I must say to you, my dear; you're too clumsy for
anything; you'll be overdoing your part, I'm certain. Now, oblige me by
telling me how you are intending to receive Miss Wentworth and her
adoring mamma."
"Oh, of course, very nicely," said Beatrix, opening her eyes. "I shall
be particular how I speak, and I shall try to seem--well, rather more of
an _ingenue_ than _you_ consider me. And I'll trouble _you_, to keep
out of my way, if you please, Mab, and not come out with any of your
agreeable, ladylike, little remarks or reminiscences."
Miss Forsyth looked at her calmly.
"I always knew you were a goose," she said, "but I never thought you
quite _such_ a goose. Don't you see that if you take up that _role_,
your people--Florence for certain, and even the others; one wouldn't
need to be very sharp in such a case--would see there was mischief
brewing, _especially_ if you kept _me_ at a distance, and the whole
thing would collapse."
"I don't know, in the first place, what `the whole thing' is," said
Trixie, sulkily. "But if I'm not to do as I propose, what am I to do?
Remember, I _must_ behave decently, or father will be down on me in hot
earnest. There's a limit to his patience, especially if he began to
think I had been humbugging him this morning."
"Of course you must behave decently, and more than decently," said
Mabella. "You must look rather _snubbed_, if you can manage it; and if
I tease you a little, you must bear it in a good-girl sort of way, as if
you were turning over a new leaf, and it was too bad of me to make it
harder for you. Oh, I could do it to perfection! I only wish I could
be you and myself too."
"But I don't see that that style of thing will attract Miss
What's-her-name to me," objected Trixie.
"Oh, you can come round her if you try. Confide in her that you've been
very self-willed, and wild, and rackety, but that you see the error of
your ways, and would like to make a friend of her. I'll give you a
helping hand when I can. I'll hint that Florence is rather down on
you--that you're not a bad sort after all. You can take them all in if
you like. Major Winchester will be quite hoodwinked--it will be
delicious."
Trixie's face cleared.
"I must say you're not a bad ally, Mab, when you give your mind to it,"
she said. "But I wish I knew what it is you're planning."
"Wait a bit," said Miss Forsyth. "It's first-rate--I can tell you that
much."