I am just off--and Robin, too--summoned to poor Angey by this
morning's letters. The operation is to take place at once. God grant
it may be successful. You will feel for us, I know. Though I have
scarcely a moment, I could not go without one word to you to explain
my movements, though I hope to be back at The Fells in a day or two.
I have so much to tell you, and to lay before you all that I have been
thinking of, and I had planned for an uninterrupted hour or two
to-day. I know you will not have misunderstood my recent silence, and
when we meet, a few minutes will be better than pages of writing.
Ever yours,--
Rex.
_P.S._--Say nothing of this at present to _any one_.
Imogen's mother read and re-read. Gradually her bewilderment gave place
to delight--though delight strongly mixed with astonishment. She looked
up at last. A little colour had by this time returned to the girl's
cheeks.
"Mamsey," she said, anxiously, "what does it mean?"
"Darling," Mrs Wentworth replied, "it is rather for you to tell me; I
had no idea, my pet, that things had gone _so_ far."
But though her tone was playful, it failed to raise any smile on
Imogen's face.
"I don't know how you mean. _I_ had no idea that--" But here she
stopped short.
Imogen was really truthful, and the remembrance of her morning's
cogitations just then returned inconveniently to her mind. Mrs
Wentworth smiled.
"I see," she said; "you do well to stop short, my pet. Well, well, poor
old mothers must expect to be treated with reserve at such times, I
suppose."
Imogen raised herself on her elbow.
"Mamma," she said, very gravely, "I am telling you the literal truth
when I say that I did not in the least expect anything like this.
Nothing that Major Winchester has said or done has led me to think
that--that it was anything more than that he just liked me, and, in
time, possibly--when I was older--"
"You have been too unconscious, too simple and ingenuous to see it, my
sweet. Thank God we have had to do with a good and honourable man, who
has not taken advantage of your innocence," said Mrs Wentworth with a
burst of real feeling. "But others have seen it, if you have not."
"Have they?" said Imogen, opening her eyes. Then some of Trixie's
remarks recurred to her, and she blushed a little. "Do you mean,
mamsey," she went on, "that this," and she touched the letter, "is what
one would call a proposal? It isn't like what they are in books."
"It is almost _more_ than a proposal," her mother replied. "It is as if
he was quite sure of you--as if you quite understood each other. Have
you not given him more encouragement than you quite realise, my pet?"
Imogen reflected.
"He did say something last night about hoping for a good talk to-day--
something he wanted to say to me," she said, hesitatingly.
"Ah, I thought so; he has in a sense taken the definite understanding
for granted, as it were," said Mrs Wentworth. "And you know, dearie,
he is much older than you--about my own age, in fact," with a touch of
her little bridling of self-satisfaction, "and you must let him, as it
were, do things in his own way."
"Yes, I know he is much older than I. You do not need to remind me of
that," said Imogen, in a melancholy tone. And a vision passed before
her of the ideal husband--rather, perhaps, the lover--she had pictured
in her girlish dreams, eager, devoted, ardent; it was not the staid,
almost paternal Major Winchester!
Mrs Wentworth's face clouded. "But, my darling," she said, "you don't
mean--"
"Oh, I don't know what I mean. I am not good enough or clever enough
for him; but I daresay it will be all right. I will tell him so; and he
is very kind and patient. He will teach me, I daresay, and--I know it
will be a comfort to you to--to feel--and--" Here a smile for the first
time broke through her troubled expression: "Just fancy, mamsey, how
astonished every one will be! It _will_ be fun to write to Dora; and,
mamsey, I must have her for one of my bridesmaids."
"We shall see, dearie; we shall see. Yes, indeed, every one _will_ be
astonished," and visions of the delightful letters of _faire-part_ of
the exciting news to her special cronies that would fall to her own
share floated before Mrs Wentworth's dazzled eyes. "Not but that
Imogen might have made a more _brilliant_ marriage," she imagined
herself saying; "but Major Winchester is a man one can so thoroughly
_trust_, and--" Here her daughter's voice interrupted her. She was
pointing to the postscript and looking rather dismayed.
"Mamma," she said, "did you notice this? I don't think I did; at least,
I was so startled I don't know if I noticed it or not. But I shouldn't
have told _even you_."
"Oh, nonsense, darling! He could not have meant to exclude _me_," said
Mrs Wentworth. "However--"
"You will be very, _very_ careful, won't you, mamsey?" urged, the girl,
who was not without experience of her mother's impulsiveness.
"_Of course_, dear, in any case; about such a thing you don't think I
need warning?" said Mrs Wentworth, in a slightly aggrieved tone.
"But--that Miss Forsyth," said Imogen; "she is so wheedling, and you
know you _are_ rather easily taken in, mamsey, dear."
The adjective and the caressing tone--for Imogen was not given to gush--
smoothed down Mrs Wentworth's ruffled feathers.
"I'll be _very_ careful, dearest," she said; and then, at last, she tore
herself away, Imogen promising to follow her down-stairs with the utmost
possible speed.
It was with a sense of delightful, though almost bewildering, elation
that Mrs Wentworth entered the dining-room, where various members of
the party staying in the house were lounging over the irregular
breakfast. No member of the family was present except Alicia, who half
rose to greet her in her usual good-natured, apathetic way.
"Am I not praiseworthy, Mrs Wentworth, for being down so early?" she
said.
"Is no one else down?" asked the new-comer, somewhat surprised; for the
Helmont energy extended to early rising. "I mean to say, none of
yourselves?"
"Oh dear, yes. Father and mother are off on their usual behests, and
Florence was down at nine to give our worthy cousin his breakfast.
Major Winchester was obliged to go up to town this morning."
"I know--at least I heard so," Mrs Wentworth could not resist saying.
"Really!" said Alicia with a glance of surprise. And as Miss Forsyth at
that moment came in--"Did _you_ know, Mab, that Rex and Robin went off
first thing this morning? Oh yes, by the bye, I believe you and Trixie
didn't go to bed at all, did you?"
"It was much jollier sitting up in our armchairs over the fire," said
Mabella, carelessly. She did not look the least tired or fagged.
"Give me a cup of coffee, won't you, Alicia? It's such a time since I
had breakfast, I feel ready to begin again.--And how is the fair Imogen,
Mrs Wentworth? You yourself look brilliant," she added.
Mrs Wentworth smiled graciously.
"Thank you," she said; "Imogen is very well, very well indeed. She will
be down directly. She would have been down already, but she had--we had
some rather important letters this morning."
Miss Forsyth drew her chair a little closer to her dear Mrs
Wentworth's.
"Nothing wrong, I trust?" she said in a low voice. "No, you could not
look as you do if it were. Really, dear, there are times, and this is
one of them, when, I _cannot_ take in that you are Imogen's mother--you
do look so ridiculously young. If there is anything--any business
matter--I can be of use about, you _will_ tell me, won't you?"
"You are so kind, dear Mabella," murmured Mrs Wentworth vaguely.
"Let us take our work and go and sit in the large conservatory after
breakfast, and have a good cosy talk," the girl went on. "Imogen is
sure to be--oh no, I forgot; Major Rex is off there will be no one
especially to claim her this morning."
Mrs Wentworth closed her lips in a peculiar way but did not reply.
Just then Trixie came in, like a whirlwind, as usual, but looking very
handsome.
"Where's Imogen?" she exclaimed. "We're going to skate--Noll and I and
one or two others--and she said she wanted to learn. Is she still
asleep?"
"Oh no, she will be down directly, and--if it's not too cold, and--" she
hesitated, for her faith was small in Trixie. "Would you like to go,
dear?" she went on to Imogen, as she made her appearance.
"I have just told Florence I would go," Imogen answered quietly. "I met
her in the hall. She said she had undertaken to look after me. You
know I can't skate a bit, Trixie."
"Promised Major Winchester to take care of her, you see," whispered
Mabella to Mrs Wentworth, with a smile. And for the life of her, Mrs
Wentworth could not repress a certain self-consciousness in her "Perhaps
so," in reply.
How sardonic were Mabella's inward chuckles of satisfaction!
"It is too good to be true almost, Trixie," she told her semi-confidante
that morning. "Revenged! I should think so, indeed--never was anything
so neat in this world."
But beyond this, not one word would she say.
And in spite of Imogen's warnings and expressed misgivings, ere the day
was many hours older, Miss Forsyth was pretty fairly in possession of
all she wanted to know.
"She is so sympathising, and interested in Imogen," thought Mrs
Wentworth, "and I cannot tell what is absolutely untrue."
But when after events had caused her to qualify Miss Forsyth's character
with very different adjectives, she found it impossible to recall any
words of that astute young woman's which, when repeated, could be fairly
said to endorse or strengthen her own belief as to Major Winchester's
attitude towards Imogen. On the contrary, little phrases literally
expressive of doubt or perplexity, though contradicted even while
uttered by her tone and smile, returned to her memory.
"Of course, _I_ cannot give an opinion, whatever I may _think_."
"No, Major Winchester cannot be called a flirt, and every one speaks of
him as a most honourable man; but _I_ am not in his confidence, and one
can only judge by what one sees."
"I have been _told_ of some attachment or engagement of old standing,
but then one knows how such things often end,"--and so on, all providing
a more or less safe shelter for Mabella should she ever be brought to
book for her treachery.
And the next two or three days passed like a confused dream to Imogen
herself. There were times when she felt girlishly exultant and elated;
times when she was half inclined to entreat her mother to keep to their
programme (for the original term of their visit expired two days after
the theatricals) and leave The Fells before Major Winchester's return;
times when she longed to see him and test her own feelings; times when
she dreaded meeting him again more than she could express. But with the
obstinacy which I have before alluded to, on one point Mrs Wentworth
was immovable. Leave The Fells before his return she absolutely would
not. In vain Imogen pleaded that if he "really meant it," he could
follow them, and that it would be both more dignified and "much more
comfortable," to meet again elsewhere.
"It would be the most distinct refusal you could give him under the
circumstances," Mrs Wentworth maintained. "And a man of his age and
position must be allowed to take his own way to some extent, even if it
be a little eccentric;" adding, in her own mind, "And just _supposing_
he wrote that odd letter impulsively, not being really quite sure of his
own mind," (which was, to do her justice, Mrs Wentworth's only
misgiving), "if he came back and found us gone, and Florence, who I
_know_, does not like us, got hold of him and talked him round, where
would we be? We might never hear of or see him again--quite as
honourable men as he have backed out of things of the kind before now--
and Imogen's whole career might be spoilt, for of course he would not
suppose she had shown me the letter, considering the postscript, and
knowing what a punctilious darling she is."
But these reflections she kept to herself--the effect of revealing them
to Imogen would, she felt instinctively, have been disastrous, for the
slight strain of coarseness, undeniable in the mother's nature, despite
her real gentleness and unselfishness, would have found no response in
the perfect delicacy of the high-minded though undisciplined daughter.
A hint or two to the effect that another week at The Fells would be a
convenience as well as a pleasure was cordially responded to by the
Wentworths' hostess. Truth to tell, the seed fell on ground already
carefully prepared by Mabella, through Trixie, bribed by the promise of
a speedy _denouement_ of their cherished scheme of revenge.
"I am really pleased to see that Trixie has made such friends with
Imogen Wentworth," said honest Mrs Helmont to her husband. "She is a
thoroughly sweet, refined girl. And even Mab seems quieter lately."
"Trixie was none the worse for her bit of plain-speaking, you see," said
the Squire with satisfaction. "I think I know how to manage that sort
of thing when it is really called for, though I have no idea of nagging
at the children as some do. I wish poor Florry could pick up her
spirits a bit."
"She misses Rex; he has such a good influence on her," said Mrs
Helmont, "though he has troubles enough of his own, poor fellow. I
daresay she is anxious about his troubles too."
For Florence, of all the party, had perhaps the most perturbed aspect
just then. She was both distressed and bewildered--vaguely conscious
that mischief was brewing, though unable to define how or where. And
her anxiety was not lessened by the perception that Imogen was avoiding
her.
"I wish Rex were back," she said to herself. "And still more I wish he
had not left that child in my charge, as he said. What can I do? She
gives me no confidence, and she is always with Trixie, just as her silly
mother is with Mabella."
It was true, though the further truth that in those days it was not
Imogen seeking Beatrix, but Beatrix Imogen, Beatrix was clever enough to
conceal from her elder sister.
"Keep her always in view; for Heaven's sake don't let her get
confidential with any one else, or it will all be spoilt!" were Mab's
instructions to Trixie.
"She's not confidential with _me_; she's as dull as ditch-water. I'm
getting sick of your secret plots and plans that come to nothing,"
grumbled Beatrix.
There came a morning, however, when Mabella altered her commands for the
day.
"Trixie," she said, in a low voice, "_he_--your cousin--is returning
this afternoon. His luggage is to be fetched, and he himself is going
to walk up from the station. He comes by the 2:15 express. No one is
to be told; but I trust to you to let it out to Imogen."
Beatrix faced round upon her.
"How do _you_ know, if no one is to be told?" she asked sharply.
Mabella smiled, a peculiar smile.
"I have ways and means," she said. "He wrote it to Florence, and I was
sitting beside her at breakfast. I knew he _would_ be writing to her
when he fixed his return."
Trixie flamed up; her patience had been over-taxed.
"You mean, despicable--I don't know what to call you," she said. "I've
a great mind to throw it all up, and tell what you're capable of."
"As you please," returned Mabella, coolly. "I'm getting rather sick of
it myself. But remember, you can't tell on me without telling on
yourself. It wouldn't, after all, matter so very much to me, only a
house the less to visit at; but it would be uncommonly unpleasant for
_you_. Your father would _never_ forgive you for playing tricks on his
guests, and you couldn't pack up and go off comfortably enough, as I
could."
Trixie looked blacker and blacker; there was truth in Mabella's words.
"I _haven't_ played tricks, if it comes to that," she said. "I've only
connived, to a certain extent, at what you're doing; and what you're
after just now I don't understand in the least."
"Wait a bit and you'll see," said Miss Forsyth. "We may as well have
_some_ fun for our pains. Be sensible, Trixie. After all, no one will
be any the worse for it in the end, and it will be very wholesome for
some people to be brought down a peg or two."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Trixie, sulkily.
"Find ways and means to confide to Imogen that Rex Winchester is coming
to-day, and that he will be walking up alone from the station at a
certain hour. He wanted Florence to meet him, but she can't. She had
promised to go to Catborough to luncheon. You might insinuate that
Florence wants to keep him all to herself, which is true. She never
tells any one anything. I often wonder you and Alicia stand it. Ten to
one Imogen will jump at the chance of meeting him unobserved. She hates
her mother's silly meddling, I can see."
"And what will happen then?" demanded Trixie.
"Not much to hurt Imogen--I don't believe she really cares for him, it's
only gratified vanity--but I hope and believe Major Rex will have a more
thoroughly uncomfortable _quart d'heure_ than he has ever experienced,"
said Mabella, smacking her lips, so to say, in anticipation. "And you
will be revenged, Trix, gloriously revenged on him, for his priggish
meddling. And it will be all his own fault! That's _the_ beauty of it;
he won't be able to blame any one else--not a shadow of suspicion will
fall on you or me, if only you are sensible."
"And," she added, to herself, in a lower tone, "_I_ shall be revenged.
What are Trixie's babyish wrongs compared to _mine_?"
Thus worked upon and primed, Beatrix, as usual, agreed to carry out Miss
Forsyth's very precise and exact instructions. But Mabella's
dictatorial and scornful tyranny had overshot the mark.
"I know what she's after," thought Trixie. "_She's_ to have all the
fun, to be in at the death; but _I'm_ not. And then she'll make some
flimsy excuse afterwards! I know you, Miss Mabella Forsyth, and I can
plot and plan too--ah, well, we shall see."
It was a bright, clear, slightly frosty day. "The perfection of a day
for a quick, brisk walk," thought Imogen, as in ample time to meet a
passenger by the train in question, walking up from the station, she let
herself out by a side door which opened on an unobserved path joining
the long winding avenue at some distance from the house. It had not
been without difficulty that she had escaped from her mother, or avoided
telling her of Major Winchester's return. The girl's head and heart
were in a state of ferment, and to her overstrained nerves Mrs
Wentworth's fidgety excitement and anxiety was becoming almost
unendurable. Added to this was a considerable element of perplexity and
sore indignation--by every post she had looked for another and more
coherent letter.
"After writing like _that_" she thought, and not unreasonably, "he had
no right to leave me all these days in this way." And now, Trixie's
communications had still farther increased her mental distress by the
jealousy of Florence they had skilfully suggested.
"I believe he meant to consult her before he said anything more to me,"
thought Imogen, though the next moment her loyal trust in Rex's perfect
honour caused her to discard the notion with disgust at herself for
having entertained it. "No, not after going so _far_," she reflected.
"Yet, but for Trixie, I could never have known he was coming. Poor
Trixie! she is far truer after all, than Florence. I wonder if a letter
can have miscarried," was her next idea, and one which so plausibly
explained things, that she could not help turning it over and over in
her mind. It had already occurred to Mrs Wentworth, and she had not
failed to suggest it to Imogen.
"If we knew his address, I almost think you might write to him," she had
said. But Imogen turned upon her sharply.
"If I did, it would only be to enclose his letter in an envelope and
send it back to him," she said. "If--if it is possible that he wrote it
impulsively, and is regretting it, do you think I would move one little
finger to recall him?"
And on the whole Mrs Wentworth saw that it was best for her to keep
_her_ fingers, for the present anyway, out of the pie.
The road--the latter part of it at least--from Cobbolds to The Fells,
was straight and direct. There was no possibility of missing any one on
his way to the house within a mile. The first gates opened on to a sort
of continuation of the drive--less carefully kept than the part within
them, but still a private road. And before emerging on to the highway
it led through a little fir-wood, where, as somewhat screened from the
observation of any curious passers-by--not that many such were probable,
for the men were shooting in a different direction that day, and a large
party had started to join them at luncheon--Imogen had determined to try
to meet Major Winchester.
She walked quietly, half unconsciously hoping by so doing to calm her
momentarily-increasing agitation. The first time she emerged from among
the firs there was no one to be seen in the stretch, of open road before
her. So she retraced her steps, and it was not till she had traversed
the little wood two or three times that she descried a tall, familiar
figure moving quickly towards her. And in another moment, considerably
to her surprise, she saw that she was herself--as she supposed--
recognised. For Major Winchester took off his cap and waved it towards
her.
"How could he know I was coming?" she thought, with a thrill of
gratification nevertheless. "A letter must have miscarried. He _must_
have written to me as well as to Florence."