It is sometimes almost worse to arrive too soon than too late. In the
latter case you have at least the certainty of being expected, and even
if people are cross and irritated at having been kept waiting, still
your place is there for you; there is no question about it. Above all,
if the case be that of arriving on a first visit, I for one should
prefer the risk of the disagreeables attending a tardy appearance to the
far from improbable humiliations consequent upon turning up prematurely.
Not to speak of the positive inconveniences of no carriage at the
station, or no room for you in the one that may have come to fetch some
other guest by the previous train to your orthodox one, there is the
blank look on your hostess's face--"more for luncheon" it seems to say;
and the extraordinarily uncomfortable announcement that your room is not
_quite ready_--will be so directly, but "the So-and-so's only left this
morning, and the house has been so full;" and a sense of outraged and
scurrying housemaids when it is suggested that you should just "leave
your wraps in the dressing-room till after luncheon." The visit must
develop into something extraordinarily agreeable which succeeds in
entirely living down the annoying contrariety of such a debut.
It was unfortunate, most unfortunate, that the Wentworths' visit to Grey
Fells Hall should have been inaugurated in this uncomfortable way. They
were not expected at Cobbolds, the small station five miles off, but the
nearest, nevertheless, till four in the afternoon, whereas it was barely
twelve o'clock when they found themselves, their boxes and their
bewildered attendant stranded on the platform in a drizzling rain and
biting north-country wind, absolutely at a loss what to do and whither
to betake themselves. How had they managed it? you may well ask, for
the journey from London to Cloughshire is a matter of some six or seven
hours even by express train, and the travellers had not started in the
middle of the night. This was what had happened. In an evil moment
some mischievous imp had suggested to Mrs Wentworth the expediency of
"breaking the journey" seven-eighths of the way, or thereabouts, at a
country town where a cousin of hers was the wife of the vicar.
"They will be so delighted to see us," she said to Imogen, when Imogen,
not unnaturally, demurred.
"But I don't want to see them; not the very least bit in the world,
mamma," she said. "It will be such a nuisance to undo our things for
one night when they're all nicely packed, and my new frocks will be _so_
crushed--two days instead of one. And very likely we'll get into the
wrong train or something, the next morning, just when Mrs Helmont has
told us exactly what time to leave London, and all about it."
But in Mrs Wentworth, for all her gentleness--and it was genuine, not
superficial--there was a curious touch of obstinacy; obstinacy in this
instance grounded on a strong motive which her daughter did not suspect.
The truth was she was dying to show off Imogen--Imogen in the freshness
of her beauty and her new clothes--to the old school-friend, whose small
means and large family prevented from often enjoying such sights. And
Mrs Wentworth pleased herself by taking credit for the pleasure she
believed she was unselfish in giving; "it will brighten up poor dear
Henrietta to hear of all we are doing, as well as to see Imogen," she
thought; not reflecting that the advent of a party of three in an
already overcrowded parsonage would entail considerable trouble and,
indeed, expense to their entertainers.
_She_ enjoyed it however, whether "Henrietta" and her husband did or
not. And Imogen made herself very happy with the children, especially
the big boys; though she disappointed her mother by not in the least
posing as a "come-out" fashionable young woman, and gave Colman an hour
or two's unnecessary stitching by tearing the skirt of her pretty new
travelling dress.
So far, however, no great harm was done. That was reserved for the next
morning, when, on consulting the time-table at the early breakfast for
his guests' benefit, worthy Mr Stainer made the appalling discovery
that the train by which they were expected at Cobbolds did not stop at
Maxton, their present quarters!
What was to be done?
"No matter--stay till the next. It gets to--stay, let us see--yes, it
gets there at six. Plenty of time to dress for dinner. I suppose these
smart friends of yours don't dine at soonest till half-past seven," said
the vicar.
"Oh, not till eight, _certainly_," said Mrs Wentworth with a faint
touch of reproach. "But I don't know--the evenings are drawing in so,
and it is so cold. No, I think we had better go by the _earlier_ train
you mentioned, reaching Cobbolds at--when did you say?"
"Somewhere between eleven and twelve," Mr Stainer replied. "Well, as
you like," for a glance from behind the tea-urn had warned him not to
press the guests to stay over another luncheon; "of course you know
best. But you will have to hurry. Shall I telegraph them?"
"You are very kind--yes please, at once. It is some miles from the
post-office I fancy, but that won't signify; I can settle about the
porterage when I get there," said Mrs Wentworth airily, though not
without some internal tremors. "Mrs Helmont will be all the more
pleased to have us sooner than she expects." Blissful ignorance! The
Fells was a good seven miles from the telegraph office, and there was a
standing order that unless telegrams were doubly dubbed "immediate,"
they were to be confided to the groom who rode over to fetch the
afternoon letters--an arrangement known of course to the _habitues_
among the Helmont guests, as belonging to which Mrs Wentworth gave
herself out.
Thus and thus did it come to pass that, as already described, a forlorn
group of three shivering women was to be seen on the uncovered platform
of the little wayside station that dreary, drizzling November morning.
"There _must_ be a carriage for us," said Mrs Wentworth; "there has
been heaps of time for the telegram to reach them. You may be sure they
would send a man on horseback with it."
"All the same there just _isn't_ a carriage nor the ghost of one. I
told you how it would be, mamma," said Imogen, unsympathisingly.
Mrs Wentworth felt too guilty to resent the reproach. Suddenly came
the sound of wheels. "There now!" she exclaimed, "I believe it's
coming. Can you see," she went on anxiously, peering out from the very
inefficient shed-like roof, which was the only shelter at that side of
the station; "can you see," to the station-master, or porter, or
station-master and porter mixed together, who was the only visible
functionary, and whose good offices and opinion she had already sought,
"if that is the carriage for us?"
"It's from The Fells, sure enough, but it's naught but a dogcart," he
replied, disappearing as he spoke to reconnoitre the dogcart and inquire
its errand.
"A dogcart!" ejaculated Mrs Wentworth aghast. Imogen could scarcely
help laughing at her horrified expression.
"Well, mamma," she was beginning, "you know you--" But she was
interrupted. The station-master returned, followed by a tall, a very
tall man--a gentleman; of that there was no doubt, notwithstanding the
coarseness and muddiness of his huge ulster and his generally
bespattered appearance. Who could he be? Mrs Wentworth jumped to one
of her hasty conclusions; he must be the agent or bailiff. She was
profoundly ignorant of English country life, and was not without a
strain of the Anglo-Indian arrogance so quickly caught by the
small-minded of our country-folk in the great Eastern Empire--yes, that
was it. They had doubtless sent him on quickly to say that the
brougham, or omnibus, was on its way.
"Are you," she was commencing; but the new-comer had begun to speak
before he heard her.
"I'm very sorry," he said, lifting his rough cap as he spoke, "I'm
afraid there's some mistake--that is, if I am speaking to Mrs
Wentworth?"
"Yes, of course I am Mrs Wentworth. Is the carriage not coming? I
thought they--Mrs Helmont, I mean--had sent you to say it was coming.
I telegraphed quite early this morning from Maxton. It's really too--"
"Mamma," whispered Imogen. Her young eyes had detected a slight, though
not unkindly, smile stealing over the stranger's face at her mother's
tone. "Mamma, I--"
"No," he replied, interrupting again, though so gently, that one could
scarcely have applied to the action so harsh a word. "No, I was not
sent, indeed I could not even have volunteered the office, for I happen
to know no telegram had reached the Fells this morning. I came out on
my own account to have a battle with a young horse." He glanced in the
direction of his dogcart and groom. "It's all right now, he is
thoroughly mastered; and, as far as _safety_ is concerned, you would
both be quite safe if you would let me drive you to the Fells. Upon my
word, I think it would be the best thing to do." Imogen all but clapped
her hands.
"Oh yes, it would be delightful," she said.
"How good of you! Do say you will, mamma." Mrs Wentworth looked both
frightened and undecided.
"Are you sure it would be safe?" she said. "And, may I ask who you
are?" she added with some hesitation, for that she had been on the verge
of some rather tremendous mistake was beginning to be clear to her, "and
it is so raining."
The stranger glanced upwards.
"Not quite so heavily now," he said. "I think we shall have a fine
afternoon. And, after all, shall you not be better off under
mackintoshes and umbrellas for half an hour or so, and then safe and
warm in the house up there, than shivering down here in that wretched
little waiting-room for two or three hours?"
"But, if they knew, would they not send down to fetch us at once?" said
Mrs Wentworth feebly.
Major Winchester considered.
"Not _within_ two hours," he said. "The stable arrangements at my
uncle's are, to say the least, complicated. I _think_ the wagonette
that was to fetch you was bringing some `parting guest' to the station
to go on by the two o'clock train and then wait for you, so you see--"
"Of course," cried Imogen. "Mamsey, you _must_; only--there's the
luggage, and--your groom?"
"He can come up on the wagonette, and see that the luggage comes too.
The more important question," he went on, smiling again, "is your maid.
But Smith can look after her: he's a very decent fellow, and I daresay
he knows the station-master's wife."
"Oh, Colman will be all right," said Imogen. "She's not at all
stuck-up, and very good-natured." Colman had very discreetly retired a
few paces. "Mamma, you must see it's by far the best thing to do, as
Mr--" She stopped short.
"Of course, I have not introduced myself; my name is Winchester," said
their new friend. "I call Mr Helmont my uncle, or rather, I should
say, _Mrs_ Helmont is my aunt _a la mode de Bretagne_."
Mrs Wentworth's face cleared.
"I must have heard of you," she said. "You are really very kind, and,
perhaps--"
Imogen had run off; in an instant she reappeared.
"The back seat of your dogcart, or whatever it is--it's larger than a
dogcart, isn't it?"--she said, "is a very good size, larger than usual.
You would be quite comfortable in it, mamma, and then," she went on,
turning confidingly to Major Rex, "she wouldn't _see_ the horse whatever
he did. Then you'd be all right, wouldn't you, dear? You know we
should be really safe."
And so it was arranged. Imogen's first care, it must be owned, was for
her mother; to Mrs Wentworth were appropriated the best of the wraps
and rugs and mackintoshes disinterred from their own travelling gear, or
extricated from some mysterious inner receptacle of the "trap," by the
obliging Smith. And as the rain was evidently clearing, the prospects
in every sense grew brighter, as Imogen stepped back a pace or two to
contemplate admiringly the result of their joint efforts in the person
of Mrs Wentworth, so swathed and packed that really, as her daughter
said, she "couldn't get wet if she tried, and _certainly_ couldn't fall
out."
"And what about yourself, Miss Wentworth?" said Major Winchester kindly,
as he seconded Smith in his efforts to tuck up the young lady, if not so
completely as her mother, yet sufficiently to keep her dry. "Have you
no objection to watching Paddy's antics?" for a dance or two and a
playful plunge showed that the "old man" was not as yet entirely
exorcised from the young horse. But he was well under control. No
sooner had they started than it became evident that Paddy knew who held
the reins. They went fast but steadily; notwithstanding the cold, and
the rain, and the mist--now slowly rising on all sides, for the
freshening breeze to chase it away--the sensation was exhilarating and
exciting.
"I," replied the girl, after a moment's silence, given to watching Paddy
gradually settling to work like a child after a feint of resistance; "I!
no, of course I'm not frightened--It's delightful," and her glowing
cheeks and sparkling eyes showed that she meant what she said. She did
look exceedingly pretty just then.
"What a charming child!" thought Rex. "Quite as plucky as even bold
Trixie herself, and so simple and unspoilt and refined. I only hope
that two or three weeks hence, if they stay as long, I may be able to
say as much of her." He glanced at her involuntarily, with a certain
look of anxiety in his kind eyes.
"I'm all right, thank you," said Imogen, detecting the glance. "I'm not
getting a bit wet."
"It wasn't--" he began, then stammered, and broke off, for he felt
himself colouring a little. Imogen's face expressed some surprise. "It
would almost be better for those girls to be uncivil and unkind to her,
to the verge of endurance, than for them to `take her up,' and make her
like themselves," had been the parent thought of the misgiving in his
face. He turned round to Mrs Wentworth. "I do hope you are not _too_
uncomfortable?" he said. "That back seat, as Miss Wentworth discovered,
is a degree better than is often the case, but still it must be rather
wretched."
"No, truly; I am very fairly comfortable," she replied, "and I almost
think you are right, and that the rain is going off."
Mrs Wentworth had a sweet voice, suggesting the possession of a sweet
temper. Major Winchester began to like her better than he had done
hitherto. "I should not think her the wisest of women, but a good
creature all the same, though the daughter strikes me as having the more
character of the two. Poor souls, I do trust they will never have cause
to repent their expedition to The Fells. I will do what I can to make
their visit pleasant," he said to himself, with short-sighted chivalry.
And he outdid himself in little kindlinesses of talk and manner during
the remainder of the drive, pointing out any objects of interest which
they passed, amusing them with little descriptions of the guests and the
family at The Fells, into which he endeavoured, so far as loyalty to his
hosts permitted, to infuse some slight touches of warning.
"Yes, Beatrix Helmont, my youngest cousin, is the baby--at least, the
youngest sister--and as is often the case, I suppose, very fairly
spoilt. I don't fancy you will take to her as much as to Florence, Miss
Wentworth. There is a great deal of good in Florence, though she
requires knowing."
"But she is twenty-three or twenty-four--ever so old, isn't she?" said
Imogen, in a disappointed tone.
"Ye-es, quite that; but still, that is not very old, is it?" and he
looked round to Mrs Wentworth to have his opinion endorsed.
Mrs Wentworth, however, had not caught his last remarks.
"Are we close to The Fells now?" she asked, eagerly. "I fancy I
remember this part of the way. Don't we come to the lodge at a turn up
that hilly road?"
"Yes," Major Winchester replied. "What a good memory you have! We are
regularly on the Fells now. Take care your wraps don't blow off."
They were just turning as he spoke. The road came right out on the
moorland, and the wind met them straight in the face--the two in the
front, that is to say--Mrs Wentworth was protected.
"Oh, how splendid!" said Imogen. "What delicious air! And what a great
stretch of country, and those grim rocks. Are those what you call the
Fells, Mr--are you Mr--Winchester?"
"Major," Rex corrected, smiling. "Yes, Grey Fells Hall is just in front
of those rocks, but on the other side. You will see in a minute. The
gardens and lawn are over there."
"Oh, I think it's delightful! Mamma, you didn't tell me it was half so
nice," the girl exclaimed.
And as they passed through the lodge gates and up the long and rather
steep drive, her face grew increasingly radiant.
"What a dear old house! I should love to explore it from top to
bottom," she said. "I do hope the girls won't be out. I am longing so
to see them. Of course, they can't be looking out for us, as we have
come so much too early."