But the reassuring thrill lasted barely a moment. Suddenly, as Imogen
walked on, feeling that every step was bringing the meeting nearer, a
terrible, agonising rush of shyness and shame overwhelmed her. For the
first time she realised that she was going, unbidden, uninvited, to seek
an interview with this man whose position to herself was still so
undefined, whose conduct had been so inexplicable! She, who had so
proudly declared to her mother that not one finger would she move to
influence him, were it the case that he had acted upon an impulse which
he had afterwards regretted! It was all Trixie's doing, she said to
herself. Not that Trixie had suggested her taking Florence's place, but
she had alluded to the thing so simply, as if it were the most natural
idea in the world to go to meet Rex on his way up.
"Florence would have given anything to go; she likes to get Rex to
herself for a good talk. I wish he didn't hate _me_ so, for I'd like a
good talk with him myself. I'm getting rather sick of his seeing
everything through Florrie's eyes." And the chance had seemed so
opportune that Imogen had seized it--in her eagerness to get the meeting
over, to come to an explanation before her mother could complicate
things by any interference--without realising the difference between
_her_ position and Florence's.
She was well punished in these few seconds for her thoughtlessness.
Unmaidenly and bold were among the mildest epithets she applied to
herself, while her imagination sought in vain for some pretext or excuse
in which she could find shelter. "But I can't pretend I came by
accident," she thought; "he knows me too well, even if I could be so
deceitful."
So it was in utter indecision as to how she meant to bear herself that
she at last met Major Winchester.
He was smiling; he looked well and cheerful. And he was feeling as he
looked. He was relieved from anxiety about his sister, and there was a
gleam of brightness in the clouds surrounding his engagement. And even
though the smile was broken by a start, unperceived by Imogen, as he
came near enough to recognise her, it soon appeared again.
"I thought you were Florence, do you know?" were almost his first words.
They acted as a cold shower-bath on Imogen; nothing could have so helped
her to regain her self-possession. She stiffened at once.
"I am very sorry I cannot turn myself into Florence," she said, though
the tears were, all the same, not far from her eyes. "But I needn't
keep you; I am going on a little farther."
"I hope not," he said kindly; "as I am so lucky as to have met you,
can't you turn and walk a bit of the way back with me?" ("It will be a
splendid opportunity for following Robin's advice and telling her all
about Eva," he suddenly thought.) "You know we were going to have a good
talk the day I was called away." He walked on slowly as he spoke, and
Imogen could scarcely avoid accompanying him. "By the bye," he added,
"you got my note that morning?"
Imogen's breath came fast and chokingly.
"Ye-es," she said, and he saw that she was growing very pale, "I--I got
it. That was why--I wanted to see you first alone." Poor child! even
as she uttered the words she felt what she was doing. Where were all
her hoped-for evasions? she was no diplomatist indeed.
"Then you knew I was coming?" he exclaimed, thoughtlessly. But, almost
in the same breath, his perfect though simple chivalry came to his aid.
"I am so glad you came," he went on, "if I can be of any use. I have
been anxious about you; I had wanted to warn you even more definitely
about some of our friends at The Fells. Florence promised to do what
she could, but you have not got to know her as I hoped. By the bye, did
she tell you I was coming? I asked her not; but still--if _she_ told
you--"
He was getting a little bewildered himself, now. For, of course,
Florence would never have counselled or sanctioned the poor child
exposing herself to such gossip as might result from her present step.
"No," Imogen replied. "Trixie told me, not Florence. I suppose coming
to meet you was a dreadful thing to do, Major Winchester, but I didn't
think of that at the time. I--"
She seemed unable to say another word.
Rex felt relieved. He thought he had got at it all now.
"Don't take it to heart so," he said, encouragingly. "It was a very
natural thing to do. You know I asked you to trust me. It is only--
people gossip so. But I'll tell you what, we will walk up and down in
this wood for a little, while you tell me all your troubles, and I--if I
have time--will tell you some of mine: then I will hurry on, and you can
finish your walk and come home at leisure. Not even Miss Mabella
Forsyth can make mischief out of that." He laughed a little as he
spoke.
Neither he nor Imogen heard a faint rustle a few yards off, on one side
where the brushwood was thick, and where there still stood the ruins of
a summer-house or hut, which the Helmont boys had constructed years and
years ago. But there was no response to his laughing tone, and glancing
down he saw that the girl's very lips were pale. He grew frightened
again; what _could_ be the matter? That it had anything to do with
Robin's warnings--which, after all, had not impressed him deeply--never
occurred to him.
"My dear child--Imogen!" he said, impulsively, "what _has_ happened?
What _is_ the matter? Do tell me, whatever it is," and he tried to take
her hand, but she tore it away.
"What do you mean?" she exclaimed half wildly. "If there is anything
the matter, you must know it. Why have you made me think--made
everybody, almost, think Oh, I don't know what I am saying, and I don't
know what to do. You said the evening before you went away that you had
something to say to me, and then you wrote. What was it, then, that you
were going to say to me?"
"I wanted to warn you again, more definitely, about being on your guard
in some ways, and I was sorry to see you and Beatrix Helmont so much
together," Major Winchester replied very quietly. He was growing very
nervous himself; terrible misgivings that Robin's discernment had not
been at fault began to make themselves heard. He felt that everything
depended on his own perfect self-possession and presence of mind, if
this girl, so strangely thrown on his mercy, was to be saved, spared
from what might cast a miserable shadow of mortification and loss of
self-respect over the rest of her young life. So he allowed himself to
show no pity; no impulse of sympathy must tempt him to go a
hair's-breadth beyond what he felt intuitively was the safe limit.
"I must try to be matter-of-fact and commonplace," his instinct told
him, "so that afterwards, when she thinks over it coolly, she will be
able to believe I had imagined nothing else."
"I am afraid you have had annoyances and difficulties I would have saved
you from if I could. But don't tell me anything you would rather not,"
he went on, hesitating a little, half because he really did not know
what to say, half to give her time.
But Imogen scarcely heard his words. It was growing too much for her;
every sense seemed absorbed by an overmastering irritation and
impatience.
"Are you purposely trying to mislead me? Are you making fun of me?
Or," as a new idea, like a flash of lurid lightning, crossed her mind,
"has some one else been doing so? Yet--you spoke of a note? You sent
me a note? See here--this is it--that is your writing, is it not?"
"Certainly," Major Winchester replied, trying his best to speak lightly,
though a strange vague fear was upon him. "That is the little note I
left for you the morning I was called away." And he looked down at her,
smiling as if amused. "You don't mean to say my poor little note has
made any mischief?" he added.
"Read it," said Imogen, hoarsely.
He did so, drawing the letter calmly out of the envelope, the slight
smile still on his lips. But if his unconcern had hitherto added to the
girl's irritation, she had her revenge now. For the change which came
over Rex's face was almost appalling. A sort of grey pallor seemed to
spread itself above and through the healthy ruddy bronze; he looked for
the moment an elderly man.
"What can I have done?" he exclaimed involuntarily.
And Imogen, watching him breathlessly, gave a shivering gasp.
"What is it?" she said. "Is it some wicked trick? Oh, if only I had
not told!"
The last word was almost inaudible; it was not till afterwards that
Major Winchester recalled it. By a strong effort he had already
mastered himself and recovered his self-possession. He looked almost as
usual, as he turned to Imogen.
"I cannot understand how I could be so terribly, so inexcusably
careless, Miss Wentworth," he said. "I am not usually careless. It is
only lucky for me--I should indeed be _very_ thankful," he went on
speaking with intentional, deliberate impressiveness, "that my
ridiculous mistake occurred between two people I can trust so perfectly
and who will be as ready to forgive me as yourself and--and--the person
this letter was intended for. I was going to ask your permission to
tell you about her, if--"
But the last sentence was lost upon Imogen. She was staring up at him
with the strangest expression in her eyes. "Then this letter was not
meant for me at all?" she said.
An instant later, and she saw what she had done. The burning crimson
rushed over her face like a scorching blast. She glanced round her
desperately, as if in vain search of shelter.
But Rex's voice recalled her to herself. In the intense strain, the
fatal yet so commonplace words almost made him laugh. There was only
one thought which gave him any relief. How young, how almost absurdly
childish she was! So, though he had now no longer any self-deception in
the matter, though he could scarcely trust that in any sense Robin's
warning had been uncalled for, he began to hope that out of the very
inexperience which had caused the mischief might come in time the cure.
For a moment or two he did not look at her. Then he said quietly--and
from the tone of his voice no one could have suspected the almost
passion of pity he was feeling--
"Of course I intended _a_ letter for you. That is the envelope,
properly addressed, you see. I--I blame myself more than I can ever
express."
His words meant far more than met the ears, but this, in her confusion
of mind, Imogen did not take in.
"Then it wasn't a trick?" she said in an odd, dull voice. "I think I
would rather it had been a trick."
"What put that into your mind?" he said, half sharply. "Supposing it
had been a trick, what then?"
"I--I don't know. I don't think, if it had been a trick, I could have
felt quite so--so degraded," she said.
The word was almost more than he could bear. How he longed to comfort
her, as a brother might have done!
"Miss Wentworth--Imogen," he said, "do, for mercy's sake, spare _me_ a
little. You cannot--you cannot possibly say or feel half so bitterly
and severely to me as I do to myself. But if you cannot now, some day
you will forgive me, won't you? It will all seem so different, you will
wonder you cared. I can promise you it will be so, and I am nearly old
enough to be your father, you know; and, at worst, no one need ever know
except ourselves; for she, Eva," and he lightly touched the letter, "is
like myself to me. She is absolutely sweet and trustworthy."
"Is her name Eva?" asked Imogen, in a dazed sort of way.
"Yes. How is it you have never heard them mention her? My cousins are
not generally so reticent," and again the idea struck him, _could_ there
have been malice at work in all this?
"She has been very ill: that was what I was going to ask leave to tell
you about."
"I think I heard Florence speak about her. But I thought it was your
sister. Her name is Evangeline, and some one said she was sometimes
called Eva, and they said it troubled you to have it mentioned; so, even
though you had told me about your sister, I scarcely liked to ask how
she was."
She put great control on herself to speak thus; but as she went on, Rex
was relieved to see that she was rewarded for the effort by her calmness
increasing. He had been dreading tears. Once let them begin, and he
scarcely knew what could be done.
"I see," he said; "but still, some day perhaps I may be able to tell you
our melancholy little romance. We have been engaged five years, Miss
Wentworth!" with a smile that was sad enough. "But who told you that
Eva was my sister? Who warned you not to speak of her?" he added, with
another flash of the strange, on the surface unreasonable, suspicion he
had already felt more than once.
Imogen tried to collect her bewildered faculties.
"Trixie, I think," she said; "and--and--I am not sure, but I think Miss
Forsyth said something of the same to mamma."
The lines on Major Winchester's face hardened.
"They are both so likely to consider my feelings tenderly!" he said
sarcastically.
"No," said Imogen, bluntly, not detecting the satire. "I think they
both almost hate you."
The quiet, matter-of-fact tone in which she spoke startled him. "Hate,"
uttered in cold blood, is an ugly word. But a new misgiving was now
making its way to his mind, and for the moment, in his intense anxiety
to save Imogen further suffering, he put aside the question of the
present terrible complication being more than accident.
"Your mother?" he said, with quick inquiry.
"Do you mean--" He hesitated. It was _so_ difficult to express what he
wanted to know. "She--she has not seen this?" and again he touched the
fatal letter.
"Yes," said Imogen, simply. "She was with me when I got it. Indeed,
she gave it me," and as the remembrance of that morning--when she had
wakened so happily--came back to her, it was very, very hard work to
force down her tears; "and so, naturally, I showed it her, before I
noticed the postscript. And she has thought--oh!"
"Never mind what she has thought," he said hastily. "If only--you don't
think she has told any one else?"
"I don't know; not exactly. She promised she wouldn't; but Miss Forsyth
is so cunning, and mamsey is so--so simple," said the girl. Major
Winchester pulled himself together. "Miss Wentworth," he said, "I must
stop farther mischief, at once: they must not and shall not torture you.
But will you trust me still? I shall hurry on, and take measures to
put your mother on her guard."
"You--you won't tell any one--not Florence, about me--about this
morning?" said Imogen, piteously.
"No, no, of course not. Come on quietly to the house in half an hour or
so, and I think I shall be able to manage it. Now, my poor dear child--
don't be angry with me for calling you so this once--good-bye in the
meantime."
"Good-bye," she said. "If you don't mind, I wish you would count it
good-bye for always."
He glanced at her; she did not mean it, but in these few words was the
bitterest reproach she could have expressed. Again the dull pallor
crept over his face for an instant.
"Perhaps you are right. God bless you!" and he hurried away.
Imogen retraced her steps again to the outer margin of the wood. Then
she turned, and walking slowly, found herself in twenty minutes or so at
the gates of the inner drive. She looked at her watch mechanically: no,
she must not go in yet, it was too soon. It was a winter day, but she
did not feel cold, only very, very tired. She looked about for a seat.
There were several, she knew, in among the shrubberies, which were here
very thick. She turned down a little path, bordering, though she did
not know it, a side entrance to the stables; there was a rustic seat
there, almost an arbour, for it was shaded by the trunks and branches of
a group of old elms. There she sat down, and for the first time the
pent-up misery burst out. She could keep it in no longer, but broke
into a passion of convulsive sobs.
She did not cry loudly. She was too worn out and spent to do so, even
though for the first few moments her abandonment was so great that she
gave not a thought to the possibility of attracting attention. But it
was a very still day; sounds carried clearly. Beatrix, on the lookout
for a scene of some kind as she came hurrying down the drive, caught the
faint gasping sobs not many yards off, and stood, still to listen.
She had been forced to make one of the luncheon party in the coverts,
sorely against her will; for Mabella, on pretext of a headache, had
skilfully backed out of it, and Trixie more than suspected her motive.
Florence was not to be back from Catborough till too late, and Alicia
flatly refused to undertake the management of the party without one or
other of her sisters. But Trixie succeeded in escaping in time to get
back to the house not very much later than the hour at which Rex was
expected. She wasted some minutes, however, in looking for Mabella, and
hearing from a servant that Miss Forsyth had gone out some time before
by herself, her suspicions redoubled, and she set off, racing along in
her usual reckless harum-scarum fashion. Major Winchester, so far as
she could discover, had not arrived (nor had the dogcart sent for his
luggage); the truth being that Rex, by good-fortune having met Florence
at the side entrance, was at that moment in close confabulation with her
in the library.
But the strange sounds which reached her made Trixie slacken her pace.
What could it be? At first she was by no means sure that they were not
those of some animal in distress, in which case, to do her justice, the
wild girl would not have been without some feeling of pity.
"Can it be one of the dogs?" she thought, as she pushed aside the
thick-growing shrubs and made her way "cross country," as she would have
described it, in the direction of the gasping sounds. But she was
quickly undeceived. On the rough bench lay or crouched Imogen, her face
hidden, her whole figure shaken by sobs, now and then broken by low
moans, equally piteous to hear. The Helmonts were not given to vehement
grief or vehement feeling of any kind, except when Beatrix, the only
really hot-tempered one, got into a passion, and the display of it was
almost like an unknown language to them. In Trixie it seldom roused
anything but a sort of contempt. But if this was her first sensation on
seeing Imogen's prostration of suffering, it was soon mingled with other
emotions. Pity of a kind, and quickly succeeding to it remorse--of a
kind also--and speedily overmastering both, extreme and unreasoning
fear.
"Imogen," she called out, though not very loudly, and instantly
concealing herself again.
"Imogen, what is the matter?"
But there was no reply. Trixie's terror increased.
"Can she be having some sort of a fit?" she said to herself; and as
there was a good deal of cowardice, moral and otherwise, mixed up with
the rough animal courage of the girl, no sooner had the idea struck her,
than she turned and fled, rushing off, heedless of aught else, in search
of some one or something, she scarce knew what.
At the turn of the path--the same path down which Imogen had wandered,
and which, it will be remembered, led into a side road to the stables--
Beatrix ran full tilt against a man, walking quickly towards the house.
It was the younger of her cousins, by good-luck; for, in her state of
excitement, she would scarcely have cared who it was--silly Percy
Calthorp, or Newnham, the stately butler, would have suited her equally
well.
"Robin, oh, Robin!" she screamed, "do come! I believe Imogen Wentworth
has gone out of her mind, or else she's dying in a fit."