Imogen slept late the next morning, later than she had ever done in her
life; for she was new to gay doings, and when at last she opened her
eyes, it was but to close them again with a sleepy smile as she
gradually recalled the scenes of the night before.
"How nice it was! I wonder if all girls enjoy their first real grown-up
party as much," she thought. "I wonder if Major Winchester will manage
the skating." (For a hard frost had set in somewhat prematurely.) "What
fun it would be, only I'm afraid I shall tumble about dreadfully. I
wonder," as another recollection suddenly returned to her mind, "what he
meant when he said he wanted to have a little talk with me to-day--to
tell me something; it must be something particular, for he whispered
`Remember about our talk to-morrow,' last thing. Mother noticed it, but
I wasn't going to tell her all he said; she is so--so fanciful!"
The colour deepened on the girl's cheeks, alone though she was, as she
reached this point in her cogitations. _Was_ it all "fancy" of her
mother's? Could it be that Major Winchester really _was_?--and remarks
of Trixie's as to the astonishingness of his "making such friends" with
a girl of her age, "he who never scarcely speaks to a girl," returned to
her memory in full force. Imogen's heart beat faster with a sensation
of mingled gratification and vague fear. Was "it," the great "it" of
her girl life, really coming to her already? Did all girls feel as she
did when such things drew near? It was not what she had expected,
somehow: she liked him, liked and respected and trusted him thoroughly,
but he seemed so old in comparison with her. And--oh, after all,
perhaps it was all nonsense--mamsey was silly about her; all mothers
fancy their daughters something wonderful--very likely there was nothing
in it; and with a sigh, half of relief, half of disappointment, Imogen
threw herself back on her pillows. Would she be glad or sorry if it
_were_ all nonsense? she asked herself. And it was not easy to answer.
Her meditations were interrupted by a tap, the gentlest of taps, at the
door, and in reply to her "Come in," Mrs Wentworth appeared. She was
all dressed and ready to go down-stairs. Imogen started up.
"Oh, mamsey," she exclaimed, "I am so ashamed of myself! I had no idea
it was so late. Why hasn't Colman wakened me?"
"I would not let her," her mother replied, kissing her tenderly as she
spoke. "She said you were sleeping so sweetly an hour ago. I tapped
very softly, not to wake you in case you were still asleep."
"But I must jump up now and be as quick as possible," said Imogen.
"There is really no hurry," Mrs Wentworth replied. "Indeed, Colman and
I were wondering if you would not like your breakfast brought up. I am
sure it will be a most irregular meal this morning."
"Breakfast in bed, and I quite well! Oh dear, no," said Imogen,
laughing. "I will be ready in twenty minutes, at most."
"But first," said Mrs Wentworth, "here are two letters for you; at
least, a letter and a note," and she held them out. Imogen seized the
former.
"From Dora," she said. "How nice! Now, when I answer it, I shall have
all about last night to tell her. And a note." She took it and
examined it doubtfully. "I don't know the writing--at least, I'm not
sure. I fancy I've seen it before--oh yes; I believe it's Major
Winchester's. What can he have to write to me about, when he's just
going to see me at breakfast?"
"I don't know about that," said Mrs Wentworth, who was dying of
curiosity, mingled, it must be allowed, with a worthier feeling. "I
have heard some news already this morning. Major Winchester has been
called away. He and his brother breakfasted early, and started off to
catch the ten o'clock express."
Imogen's face fell.
"Oh dear, how dreadfully vexing!" she exclaimed. "Just when we had
planned such a nice day. I'm afraid there must be something wrong; bad
news about his sister, probably. And this note will be to explain about
it."
She looked up questioningly in her mother's face, toying idly with the
letter in her fingers as she did so.
"Very likely; it is pretty sure to be so," said Mrs Wentworth. "But
why in the world don't you open it, my dear, and then you would see?"
There was a touch of impatience in her tone; but she controlled herself
and turned away, as Imogen began to tear the envelope, feeling that the
girl might prefer to read it unobserved. But scarcely a moment seemed
to have passed before she heard herself called back to Imogen's bedside.
She started as she caught the sound of her child's voice. It seemed
choked and gasping, and Imogen herself was lying back, almost as white
as the pillow.
"My darling," Mrs Wentworth exclaimed, "what is the matter? Are you
fainting?"
"No, no. Read that. Oh, mamma!" said the girl, incoherently, and she
thrust the sheet of paper into her mother's hand. These were the words
on which fell Mrs Wentworth's bewildered gaze: