Some guests had left The Fells that afternoon, but others had arrived.
There were further goings and comings during the next few days, but more
of the latter than the former. The Helmonts were in their glory, but to
Imogen and her mother, fresh from their uneventful monotonous life _a
deux_, the effect was almost as confusing as that of a kaleidoscope too
rapidly turned. It became a relief when the party settled down as it
were, for a little, into the chosen guests especially selected for the
private theatricals which had been for some time under discussion, and
at which the "assistance" of the Wentworths had _not_ been desired.
But Imogen was undoubtedly pretty; every one, even Miss Forsyth, allowed
it. And her face was a novelty. She proved to have more spirit, or
"go," as Trixie called it, in her, than had seemed probable; on the
whole, she bid fair to be a very creditable success. Her inexperience
and shyness were amusing, not tiresome. Her mother watched her with
enchantment, ready and eager to swallow any amount of even the most
thinly disguised flattery on Imogen's account from the astute Mabella.
"She is really turning everybody's head. I never saw anything like it,"
said the young lady in question over and over again, whenever she got a
chance of Mrs Wentworth to herself. "Noll is grateful for a glance;
and Fred"--Fred was Captain Helmont--"who is considered a tremendous
critic, admires her out and out, only, of course, his admiration is due
elsewhere." He was shortly to be married to a girl not at that time one
of the party at The Fells. "I don't know what Lady Lucy would say to it
if she were here."
Mrs Wentworth smiled. Captain Helmont had been one of her dreams for
Imogen before they came.
"Lady Lucy is very pretty herself, some one said," she remarked
politely.
"Not a patch on Imogen, if I may call her so," Miss Forsyth continued.
"But _the_ marvel," and here she dropped her voice discreetly, "is Major
Winchester! A man who never knows if a woman has a nose on her face or
not--who stalks about the world like the great Mogul. Of course, we all
admire him and respect him--oh, immensely!--but we look upon him as a
being quite apart. And there he is--perfectly devoted--taking the
greatest interest in these theatricals, which as a rule he would have
thought beneath contempt, and all, I am sure, for your daughter's sake.
Trixie and I can't get over it."
Mrs Wentworth's smile was positively beaming.
"My dear Miss Forsyth, you are too kind, too partial," she said. "I
quite appreciate all you say, but--I must not have Imogen spoilt. She
is so young. Major Winchester, for instance--I am sure he considers her
a perfect child."
"But she is not--not in _some_ ways," Mabella went on, insidiously.
"She has been so well brought up,"--and here she sighed deeply--"so well
educated. I heard Rex saying to some one that he could see she had
excellent abilities. It will be such a good thing for my poor Trixie if
a girl like that takes to her--her influence would be everything. Much
better than mine," here she sighed again. "I can do my friends no good,
I can only love them. _I_ was not well brought up--far from it, as I
daresay you can see for yourself."
"Poor dear!" said Mrs Wentworth, too ingenuous herself to doubt
another, and too candid to express any civil disagreement. She gently
stroked Mabella's hand, while the ready tears rose to her eyes. "You
had no mother, perhaps?"
"Yes, my mother is still living, but--she never understood me," said
Miss Forsyth, vaguely. And Mrs Wentworth, suspecting some painful
family history behind the words, forbore to question further. She would
have been not a little amazed had she heard the true side of the story.
A father and mother, simple-minded and devoted to their daughter, erring
only in their too great unselfishness, to be repaid by contempt and
scorn, when, by dint of a certain unscrupulous cleverness, Mabella made
her way into a higher social sphere. She and Trixie had met
accidentally, and the elder girl at once laid herself out to obtain an
ascendency over the spoilt Helmont "baby," in which she succeeded only
too well.
"No," Mabella repeated. "I was never understood, and--I was not
naturally patient and docile, I fear; and now, though I see it all, I am
too old to change, I suppose."
"Too old!" repeated Imogen's mother. "Nonsense, dear Miss Forsyth. You
can't be more than seven or eight and twenty?"
"I am three-and-twenty," said the girl, which was true. She was
furious, but she hid it. "Will you take me in hand, dear Mrs
Wentworth," she went on, "if you don't think me too old! You can't be
many years older yourself," she added, sweetly.
"I shall be thirty-eight next month," Imogen's mother replied. "That is
dreadfully old, is it not?"
"I shall count you my elder sister then, and you must tell me when you
see me doing anything you don't like, and dear Imogen will look after
Trixie. Shall that be a compact? Who knows how much good you may not
do me in a fortnight! Even Major Winchester himself would not give me
up as incorrigible, if he heard of it."
And under Mabella's direction, hints, though less broad, were not
wanting on Trixie's part to Imogen herself. They were seed for which
circumstances, including her own inexperience and vanity, her mother's
blind devotion and Rex Winchester's well-intended kindness, were
steadily preparing a congenial soil.
Everybody knows the atmosphere of excitement, general fuss, anxiety, and
eager anticipation which seizes upon a house--a country-house
especially--where "private theatricals" are in question. And to those
fortunate people who have never themselves had personal experience of
it, it has been too often described to need more than an allusion. It
is a grand test--almost as good as a sea voyage--of temper and
unselfishness. So far, perhaps, we may consider it salutary. But no
doubt such a state of things has its undesirable side. To the
inexperienced, especially, it brings with it a curious sense of
unreality, a throwing off of one's actual self and responsibilities
which call for peculiar good-sense and self-control.
"I don't feel as if I knew who I was," said Imogen, looking up at Major
Winchester somewhat wistfully one day, about ten days after her arrival
at The Fells, when a long rehearsal had tried everybody's patience and
good-humour to the utmost. "I don't think I am the least good at
acting, and yet I feel as if I weren't myself. I seem more than half
`Valesca.' Yet I shall _never_ be able to do it the way Mr Villars
tells me."
"He is rather inexorable, certainly," Rex agreed; "but then he wouldn't
be fit to be stage-manager if he were not. I think you will do very
well, quite well enough."
He did not add the truth--that though she was quite without dramatic
power of the mildest kind, she _looked_ the part so charmingly that no
one would be inclined to be critical.
"That is faint praise," said Imogen with one of her little pouts. "Of
course I know it is a most unimportant character; still I would like to
manage it decently well. How capitally Trixie and Miss Forsyth act,
Major Winchester!"
He glanced at her sharply.
"Then I hope no one I care for will ever act capitally," he said.
Imogen reddened.
"You are very severe on them," she said. "I don't mind what you think
of Miss Forsyth, for I don't like her; but I am, sometimes, at least"--
and here, for some unexplained reason, she grew still redder--"very fond
of Trixie. She is very kind to me generally;" for candour compelled her
to qualify the statement. Trixie not being so case-hardened in
diplomacy as her ally, was not always able to keep her temper or to hide
her growing jealousy of Imogen's universally acknowledged beauty. "And
I think she would like to be more--more like what your sister must have
been. I think you can scarcely judge of Trixie, Major Winchester. She
shows to disadvantage to you because she is so frightened of you."
Rex laughed; he could not help it.
"My dear child, you really must not be so desperately confiding," he
said. "Trixie is frightened of no one--man or woman."
But Imogen's advocacy touched him and increased his favourable opinion
of her character. An opinion to a great extent deserved, for below some
superficial selfishness and vanity, there was in her real sweetness and
generosity--material, in wise hands, for much good. The generosity in
this instance was conspicuous, for Rex had himself been witness to some
far from amiable conduct on Beatrix's part towards the young guest.
"How is it," he went on, "that you seem to see so little of Florence?"
"I don't know," Imogen replied. "I have tried to make friends with her,
because I knew you wished it," she added naively. "But I'm afraid she
does not care for me. And she is always so busy. I think she does a
great deal to help her mother."
"Yes, Florrie's a good girl," said he approvingly. "I wish you could
know her better."
It was as Imogen said. Florence did not care for her. Yet, when taxed
by her cousin with her disregard of his _protegee_, it was difficult to
prove her to blame.
"I really did what I could," she assured him. "But she threw herself
into Trixie's arms from the very first, and unless I actually speak
against my own sister, I cannot help it."
"No `speaking against' any one would have the desired effect with Miss
Wentworth; rather the other way," said Major Winchester. "There is a
strong strain of chivalry in her composition."
"What a high opinion you seem to have of her!" said Florence, half
pettishly. "To me she is just a pretty, shallow child--with something
ingenuous and sweet about her--yes, that I must allow. But really, I
know little more of her than on the day she came. I have had to give up
taking any part in the theatricals, you know, Rex, and it is the one
thing I could have thrown myself into, and--forgotten myself a little.
But Alicia took it into her head to act, and mother would have been left
all to herself really. Besides which I _couldn't_ have kept my temper
with Trixie and that Mab of hers," she concluded, honestly.
"I am sorry you had to give it up. But I am sure you did it for the
best. It makes me still more anxious about that child, however," said
Rex. "And I am afraid her mother is--well, very silly."
"You will have to look after her doubly," said Florence. "She couldn't
have a better guardian. It may distract your thoughts a little--poor
Rex. What is your last news, by the bye?"
"No better, except that she has stood the journey so far pretty well,"
he replied.
The same question was asked him again that afternoon in the interval of
one of the daily or twice-a-day rehearsals. Imogen, blushing as she did
so, asked gently what news he had.
"No better, thank you," he said half absently, "except that the crossing
has been accomplished pretty successfully."
"The crossing?" Imogen repeated. "Then is she--is your sister to
undergo the operation abroad? Or is it over?"
Rex recollected himself.
"Oh no," he said quickly. "I was confusing--no, no--Angey, my sister,
is pretty well in herself. Nothing can be done about her eyes for some
time yet." He gave a half sigh and hesitated. "I was thinking of--"
But Imogen would not let him finish.
"I am so sorry," she said, "for speaking of it. It was very thoughtless
of me, for I know it must be very painful to you."
She really felt guilty, for only the day before Mrs Wentworth had told
her that Miss Forsyth had warned her never to allude to Major
Winchester's anxieties; he "could not bear them spoken of to him."
"All the kinder of him," Imogen had said to herself with a little thrill
of pride, "to have confided in me about them," though she had not
expressed this to her mother.
There were times when Imogen's confidence in Beatrix received a shake.
Trixie was too unused to self-control of any kind to keep it up for
long, even in a bad cause. And Miss Wentworth's acting often gave
opportunity for ridicule, it must be allowed. Then Mr Villars was
severe and enthusiastic, and Imogen's perfect fitness in _appearance_
for the part assigned to her made him doubly provoked at her absolute
incapacity to carry out his directions. More than once the close of a
rehearsal found the poor girl all but in tears, and the sympathy she met
with was often but scant.
"You do look so absurd when Mr Villars scolds you," said Trixie, one
day after one of these scenes. "If you talk in that brokenhearted voice
I shall not be able to keep from laughing, I warn you, on the grand
night itself."
"You are very unkind," said Imogen, flashing out. "I never wanted to
act, and I never said I could. I have a good mind to--" But here her
voice failed her. She turned away abruptly and left the room.
"She has gone to complain to her mother. You are a fool, Trixie," said
Miss Forsyth, elegantly.
"Not a bit of it. Her mother would put a stop to it, and Miss Imogen
doesn't in her heart wish that, by any means," said Trixie.
"What a pity Rex isn't here; it would be a part of the play for him to
go to comfort her."
"_Hush_!" said Mabella hastily, as Florence at that moment came in.
"What is the matter with that child?" Florence asked sternly. "I was
writing in the library just now, and she came rushing in. She pretended
she was looking for a book when she saw me, but I am almost sure she was
crying."
"She is such an idiot--" began Trixie, but a warning glance from Mab
stopped her.
"Do you wish Florence to take her up and spoil all?" she said
afterwards.
"I mean," Beatrix went on, "she takes things up so. I couldn't help
laughing at the way Mr Villars scolded her."
"You don't want to frighten her out of it now at the last?" said
Florence. "It would be very awkward, and might get you into hot water,
I warn you."
She had an additional motive for not desiring such a catastrophe. No
one, she knew, failing Miss Wentworth, could take the "Valesca" but
herself, and this, Florence was by no means inclined to do. It was the
part which faintly shadowed her own story--the devotion of a girl to an
unworthy object. So with these words of remonstrance to Trixie,
Florence went her way.
Her way was to seek for Rex, and enlist his help. She found him writing
in her brother's smoking-room.
"Rex," she said abruptly, "I'm afraid you are not looking after your
Miss Wentworth after all. She's in a sea of troubles about her acting,
and I cannot meddle. For one thing I can't and won't take `Valesca,' if
she throws it up," and she crimsoned as she said it.
"Nobody could propose such a thing," he said.
"_Wouldn't_ they? I would rather not risk it. But you know something
about acting; quite as much as Mr Villars, I believe, only you are not
so exaggerated and affected; couldn't you coach Miss Wentworth a little?
You see I don't hide that my motives in seeking you are half, or more
than half, selfish ones."
"They are very natural," he replied kindly. "And, of course, though I
am interested in this little girl--she is very sweet--I can't but be far
_more_ interested in you, dear Florrie, and I believe you are more
unselfish than you allow."
Florence looked and felt pleased. A little praise from Rex went a long
way with her.
"Then you'll see what you can do," she said, persuasively. "You would
find her in the library at the present moment; better catch her
red-handed, or red-eyed rather, and then she cannot deny her troubles."
Poor Major Winchester! He had been promising himself a peaceful
half-hour to finish his letter to Eva; but after all it was too late for
to-day's post. "It wouldn't really go any sooner," he reflected, "so I
suppose I may as well."
Still, it was not without an effort that he went off to the library on
his benevolent quest.
Yes; Imogen was there, busily reading or making believe to do so, in a
corner. The Fells library was a large and imposing room, filled with
books, the most valuable of which seldom left their shelves except to be
dusted. But everything about the house was well kept and well managed.
Not being of a literary turn himself, nor possessing children with
strongly developed intellectual tastes, was no reason, said the Squire,
why there should not be a good library. And he had engaged the services
of a properly qualified person to look after it, so that the volumes
were clean and well arranged, and from time to time added to.
This, however, was not one of the librarian's days, so Imogen had it all
to herself. A gallery ran all round, to which there were two means of
access--a stair at one end of the room itself, and a door from an upper
passage in the house; for originally the library had been a ballroom,
with a musicians' balcony, since discarded. Rex glanced round once or
twice before he discovered Miss Wentworth, half-hidden in a big leather
arm-chair by the fire. He smiled as he saw her.
"She is not so very upset after all," he thought. "Ten to one she is
very happy over a novel, and won't thank me for disturbing her."
But it was not so. Imogen _was_ both angry and unhappy, and she was
only pretending to read. She glanced up quickly at the sound of Major
Winchester's approaching footsteps, and a gleam of pleasure came over
her face, to be, however, almost instantly replaced by a flush of shame
and mortification as she became conscious of her swollen eyes and
tear-stained face.
"What are you studying?" said Rex, as he sat down beside her. "Oh,
_Great Expectations_. Why, you must have read that long ago!"
"No, I haven't," said Imogen, "but I don't think I care for it."
"Not just now, I daresay," he said kindly, "for you are vexed and upset,
I know."
"How do you know?" she asked, some laggard tears rising slowly as she
spoke.
"Never mind. I was told I should find you here, and so I have. I know
what it's about too," for Major Winchester was great at going to the
point. "It isn't a _very_ big trouble after all, but then at
seventeen--"
"I'm eighteen--eighteen _past_," interrupted Imogen, so indignantly that
the tears hid themselves in a fright, which her friend was not sorry to
see. He smiled.
"Well--even at eighteen. I was once eighteen myself," (Imogen could not
help smiling a little); "and I can understand that, as you have to do
this thing, you would rather do it well than badly. I can understand,
too, that Trixie is probably not the most delicate and tactful person to
have to do with in the circumstances."
"I _hate_ being laughed at," said Imogen frankly.
"Naturally. Villars is really not a bad fellow, but he thinks he's
bound to keep his hobby always at full-speed. Now--have you got your
part?"
"Yes," she replied, extracting some rather dilapidated-looking pages
from her pocket, "here it is. This is the worst bit," she went on, "the
little dialogue with Hubert. `Oh, to think how I trusted you,' it
begins."