For so young a man, Robin Winchester was possessed of a remarkable
amount of presence of mind. Added to which, he was not, as will be
seen, wholly unprepared for a _denouement_, probably stormy, and very
certainly painful, of the complicated state of affairs as to which,
Cassandra-like, he had lifted up his voice. At Trixie's appeal he
turned and walked rapidly back in the direction whence she had come,
without speaking; he had no idea of wasting his breath in words, and for
another reason. So strongly was he imbued with the suspicion that the
girl beside him had been "at it again with one of her odious practical
jokes," that he doubted his own self-control should he once allow his
indignation to find words. He had no cause to ask her for direction.
Two or three moments brought them to a spot whence the pitiful, and, it
must be allowed, almost alarming sounds were clearly audible.
"She is there," whispered Beatrix, "on the bench behind those trees."
"Go on first and show me," he said, sternly.
But to his amazement his guide rebelled.
"I won't," she said. "I'll stay here. She's given me such a fright
already, and I don't want her to see me. You speak to her and I'll
wait."
Robin was not given to strong language, especially to a woman; he opened
his mouth and shut it again without speaking. Then a second thought
struck him. Perhaps it was better so, though no thanks to Trixie. He
caught her by the arm and held her, not too gently.
"You'll give me your word of honour, Beatrix Helmont," he said, "that
you will stay here, on this spot, till I come back and say you may go?"
"Yes; if I must stay, I will. But you are very rough and unkind, Robin.
Why are you angry with me?"
He gave her no answer, but hurried on to the bench. Some instinct had
warned Imogen that she was no longer alone. She had sat up, and was
trying to look about her composedly. The effort only made her seem the
more piteous. Robin's heart positively swelled as he looked at her,
recalling the last, the only time indeed he had ever seen her, and her
glad girlish beauty.
She did not start as he came near; she sat still as if stupefied.
"Miss Wentworth," he said most gently and respectfully, "I am afraid you
have had a start or a fright, or--or that you have had bad news. Can I
do anything?"
She looked at him and smiled, the strangest smile he had ever seen, and
with a thrill of horror he remembered Trixie's words, "Gone out of her
mind." But in a moment he was relieved of this worst of terrors.
"You are Mr Robin Winchester," she said. "Yes, thank you. I have had
bad news, and I am so dreadfully tired. I want to go home--to go in, I
mean; but I am afraid of meeting any one, because, you see--though it is
very silly of me--I have been crying. How can I get in without meeting
any one?"
"Do you know the way in by the fernery, and the little back-stair up
from what used to be the schoolroom?" he asked.
She shook her head. Then he considered for a moment in silence.
"Miss Wentworth," he said, "Trixie is there, behind the trees. It was
she that saw you and called me. If you could agree to it, the very best
thing would be to let her take you in. You need not speak to her, and
she will do what I tell her."
She gave a little shiver, but did not object.
"Very well," she said, "if she has seen me already. You will make her
promise not to tell? There is something else--you are very kind--could
you do it?"
"_Anything_," he said, fervently.
"My head is getting so bad, and I don't want to be ill _here_," she
said. "I do so want to get away. And mamma would want to know; there
would be so many explanations. It has all got quite clear while I have
been crying. Could you get a telegram sent for me, without _anybody_
knowing?"
"Certainly; at once," he replied. "I have a pencil and paper."
She pressed her hand to her forehead. Then she quietly dictated an
address and a message, which he wrote down without comment.
"You should have the reply this evening," he said. Then, "Wait here one
moment," he added, and he retraced his steps to Trixie.
"You will do as I tell you, exactly," he said, "and without a word now
or ever to _any one_? You hear me?"
"I'll do it," she said, sulkily, "because it suits me to. All the same,
I'd like to know what business it is of yours?"
"It's this much my business, that if you break your promise I will tell
your father all I know; and if you want proof that I _do_ know, well I
have in my pocket a letter I got from Eva Lesley last night,
enclosing--_another letter_. Eva wrote to me in preference to Rex, not
wanting to worry him, and--well, for other reasons."
Trixie had grown pale, but she stood her ground. "_I_ never touched
anybody's letters," she said. "And how can you say any one did?
People--accidents happen about letters sometimes."
"Yes, they do; but there is such a thing as circumstantial evidence; and
what is more, _I_, with my own hands, put the right note into the
envelope addressed to Miss Wentworth that morning, as Rex was so
hurried, and I laid it with the other one, stamped and directed to Miss
Lesley, on the hall table."
She grew paler and paler.
"_I_ didn't touch them," she repeated.
"We have only your own word for it," he said, scornfully; "and supposing
Mabella Forsyth says you did? But I am wasting time upon you. I have
warned you. Take your own way."
"I won't tell anything about this morning. I swear I won't," she said,
in terror.
Five minutes later saw Imogen safe in her own room, thither escorted by
Trixie, silent and panic-stricken. And an hour or so later, when Mrs
Wentworth returned from a drive in the pony carriage, to which she had
been invited by Florence, she was met by Colman with the news that Miss
Imogen was in bed and asleep, her head was so bad. It was only to be
hoped, added the maid, after the manner of her kind, that the young lady
had not got a bad chill, and was not going to have a regular illness.
Mrs Wentworth spent the rest of the afternoon in her own room, which
opened into Imogen's, watching for her to awake. The anxiety almost
absorbed all other feelings.
"How can I tell her?" she kept saying to herself. "And why, oh why did
Florence not tell me before? And to think that _he_ is actually back,
and that she must meet him after, and I that have encouraged it. There
is no one--no, not one creature--I can confide in. For Florence meant
something when she begged me not to trust Miss Forsyth. But--oh dear,
and how my darling Imogen warned me too!--but how could Major Winchester
have been so careless, if the letter he is so annoyed about really was
the one sent to Imogen; and _how_ am I to tell her, and she perhaps
sickening for brain fever or typhoid fever, or something?" The poor
woman's brain was in a whirl, for Florence had not dared to do more than
warn her vaguely. It was a relief when, about six o'clock, an
orange-coloured envelope was brought in by Colman.
"Can you both spend a week with me on your way home?" it said. "Welcome
any day; the sooner the better."
It came from an old friend, Imogen's godmother, and as there had been
vague talk of the visit it was not altogether unexpected; not at least
too surprising that Mrs Hume should have telegraphed.
"Can I send an answer back?" asked Imogen's mother.
"Yes, ma'am. I was to say the messenger is waiting. There are
telegraph forms in the envelope case on the writing-table," was the
maid's reply.
And in another moment the answer was forthcoming--a warmly-worded
acceptance, announcing the Wentworths' arrival some time the following
afternoon.
This settled, Mrs Wentworth, who did not often act with such
promptitude and decision, relapsed into nervousness and depression. She
established herself on a chair beside the door of communication with
Imogen's room, longing for and yet dreading her awaking.
For, strange as it may seem, the girl was really asleep, and soundly so.
It was her first experience of violent emotion, and, coming on the top
of the past days of tension and excitement, it had completely exhausted
her. At first she had meant to lie still, and, if need were, feign
sleep till time sufficient for Mrs Hume's telegram should have elapsed,
but real slumber had come, saving her, not improbably, from the illness
that would not have been an abnormal result of all she had gone through.
But at last, half an hour or so before the dressing-gong sounded, she
awoke. For a moment or two she was in a chaos of bewilderment; then by
degrees, as this cleared a little, she became conscious of one
overmastering impression; the latest and strongest on her brain before
she fell asleep. They--she and her mother--must leave, must seek
shelter somewhere, anywhere, at once. Then the remembrance of the
commission she had, in her desperation, entrusted to Robin Winchester
returned.
"Has it--has the?" she began to say, raising herself to look about her.
But her full senses revived before she said more. The room was quite in
darkness, except for the faint red glow of the slumbering fire. It
might have been the middle of the night; nay more, days might have
passed, for all she knew, since that terrible afternoon.
"Perhaps I have been very ill, and am only now beginning to get better,"
she thought. But no, though her head was dizzy and ached a good deal,
she did not feel weak or exhausted. Then she had on her usual dress,
the same dress she had worn all day. With a sigh almost of regret
Imogen had to decide that nothing very remarkable had happened. She was
still in the world of ordinary doings, and she must face what lay before
her.
A dark figure, aroused by even the half-audible words she had begun to
utter, crossed the room to the bedside.
"Mamma?" said Imogen.
"Yes, darling. I have been watching for you to awake. Is your head
better, sweetest?"
"I think so," the girl, now fully on the alert, replied. "What time is
it? The middle of the night?"
"Oh no, dear, the dressing-gong has not sounded yet."
"Has it not?" in a tone of disappointment.
"I won't come down to dinner; you will tell them about my headache. But
you must _go_ down, mamsey," with unconscious selfishness, "and--it
would not do to seem to make a fuss."
"No dear," very submissively. "But first, Imogen, I have to tell you
what I have done. I don't know _what_ you'll say. I have had a
telegram from Mrs Hume, begging us so to go to her at once. I fancy
she has some party she wants you for; and so, as it was so near our time
for leaving, and you not seeming very well, and--"
"You have said we would go? Oh, I do hope you did," said Imogen, with
feverish eagerness.
"Oh, why didn't you wake me?--if only we could go to-night."
"Not to-night, dearest; that couldn't be; but to-morrow. I have
telegraphed that we will be with her to-morrow."
"Oh, thank you! I am _so_ glad," said Imogen. Then after a moment's
pause, "Mamma," she went on, "you have heard something, and you see that
_I_ have. It has all been a terrible mistake. But do not ask me to
speak about it yet. Afterwards, when we are away from here, I will tell
you all. I cannot _yet_. Only one thing, you must understand that
Major Winchester has not been to blame. So, if you see him to-night,
you will be nice to him; promise me you will."
"I will do my best," said poor Mrs Wentworth.
"For every sake," Imogen went on. She frowned as if thinking deeply.
"I am not sure yet that there has not been some trick in it. Mamma, do
not say one word you can help to Miss Forsyth or Trixie, and try not to
let them think there is anything the matter."
"Yes," her mother agreed. "I will tell Mrs Helmont of the telegram--
that it has hastened our going a little. They won't be surprised; they
are so accustomed to comings and goings. It really is most fortunate,
_most_ fortunate, that Mrs Hume should have thought of telegraphing.
Lucky coincidences _do_ happen sometimes, you see."
She was trying to speak cheerfully. Trouble affecting Imogen brought
out the real unselfishness underlying the superficial frivolity.
"Yes, they do," said Imogen, smiling in spite of herself.
There was more truth in Mrs Wentworth's remark than Imogen was aware
of. Coincidences do occur in real life more strangely, more
fortunately, sometimes, than even in fiction. It had been specially
fortunate for all concerned that it was Robin and no one else whom
Beatrix ran up against in her fright, and Robin's being there at that
moment was only thanks to his having driven round by Wood Court, where
he had left some of his belongings, before his brother's hasty summons
to London. Fortunate, too, had been Major Winchester's meeting with
Florence on her return from Catborough, so that the two were able to lay
their heads together as to warnings and explanations to Mrs Wentworth.
And the kindliness and sympathy Florence extended to the mother as well
as to the daughter met with its reward. Never before had Florence been
able to feel to her so warmly as by the close of that--to some at least
of the party--terribly trying evening.
"There is real heroism in her," Florence could not help saying to Rex.
"No one would have suspected what she must be feeling, to see her so
cheerful and composed."
The climax had come when Mrs Wentworth was bidding Major Winchester
good-night; "and good-bye, probably," she added, "for we are leaving so
early in the morning. But I must not forget to ask how Mrs Bertrand
is," she went on. "Imogen called me back as I was coming down to dinner
to remind me to ask you."
"She is going on wonderfully well; there is every hope of a perfect
cure," he replied. "Thank you and Miss Wentworth a thousand times.
Yes, I think it is good-bye, not on account of your early start, but I
am off before breakfast to-morrow for a shoot at Gorsage."
"I shall be here, however," Robin had put in softly, "if I can be of the
least use."
"It is far more than I deserve. They are good, truly good women," said
Rex, in reply to Florence's remark. And this, in her heart, his cousin
endorsed. "Rex has been foolish--very foolish," she said to herself.
"But he has done his best to put things straight. After all, poor
child, she will outlive it. It seems to have left a mark on him,
however. He looks ten years older than when he went away."
Some one else was remarking this with satisfaction.
"It has hit him in a tender point, I delighted to see," Miss Forsyth was
saying to herself. "Major Reginald Winchester, the mirror of chivalry
and honour, to have flirted so egregiously with an inexperienced little
fool, as to have brought her to the brink of a brain fever and goodness
knows what not: it would be a nice story to tell, if I _could_ tell it,
which, alas! I fear I can't. But, after all, it is not the publishing
it I care about; it is the delight of knowing I have scored one
_against_ him."
He caught her eye fixed upon him with something almost diabolical in its
malice, and his strange suspicions redoubled. Then came his talk with
Robin.
"Why did Eva not write to me direct--telegraph--anything?" he said at
first, with a touch of impatience, when he had heard what his brother
had to tell.
"_Telegraphing_ would have done no good. Then she wanted to save you
annoyance, to spare your ever hearing of the--mistake--at all, if
possible," was the reasonable reply. "Don't you see, if the Miss
Wentworth whose note _she_ received had been an elderly spinster, no
harm would have been done; at least so Eva thought, though I am not sure
that I agree with her," with a touch of grim humour.
"I have told her about Imogen," said Rex. "Not by her surname. Eva
specially says she had never heard of a Miss Wentworth. That postscript
was so extraordinarily unlucky too," he added reflectively.
"Angey particularly wanted no one to know the exact date of the
operation."
"And the confusion between the names--Evangeline and Eveleen," Robin
went on.
"Upon my word, I never knew anything like it. It is as if malicious
imps had been told off to play into that--into Miss Forsyth's hands. If
_she_--if Miss Wentworth gets ill, and anything happens to her, I, for
one, shall feel as if she had been murdered."
Rex could bear no more.
"Robin," he exclaimed, "do you want to send _me_ out of my mind? In
your--only natural, I allow"--and he threw a quick and searching glance
at his brother--"feeling for her, you seem to think _I_ have no feeling
at all. Keep to the point. What motive had that woman in doing as she
did? and how can she be shown up and punished?"
"Spite," answered Robin. "Spite, at _her_, Imogen, or _you_; that is my
answer to the first question. And--"
"She has no special motive for malevolence at me," interrupted Rex, "and
her jealousy of Imogen can scarcely be so deep-seated. Beatrix hates
me, in her mad, reckless way, for getting her a scolding, as she would
express it; but even she, wild as she is--"
"Would have hesitated to open two envelopes, read their contents, and
fasten them up again, after changing the letters," said Robin. "Well,
yes, it is to be hoped so; at least, I can't help hoping so, considering
she's our cousin."
"And you are certain, entirely _certain_, that the letters were rightly
put in at first?" repeated his brother.
"Absolutely, entirely certain that the one I shut into the envelope
addressed to Miss Wentworth was _for_ Miss Wentworth. Yes, as certain
as that I'm sitting on this chair. And I am also absolutely certain
that as I was crossing the outer hall to look if the dogcart had come, I
saw Miss Forsyth come down-stairs and stop at the table where notes and
letters for the post always lie, and stand there looking at the letters.
There was no one about; everybody was late that morning except
ourselves, and Florence, and that woman. But that is all I can vouch
for, though Trixie's terror made me surer than ever."
"Do you think she knew?"
Robin shook his head.
"I can't say. Perhaps not all the details; but she tacitly owned to a
plot of some kind."
"If I can frighten Miss Forsyth into silence, that is the best we can
hope for, I suppose," said Rex.
"The best one _should_ hope for, I should say," Robin replied. "Of
course one yearns to expose that woman, but the real concern is to
shield Miss Wentworth. Miss Forsyth has put herself beneath contempt.
I care nothing about her, provided we can stop her making a good story
of it and--and getting Imogen laughed at; and you, too, for that
matter."
"Don't take _me_ into consideration," said his brother.
"Not for Eva's sake?" suggested Robin, gently.
"Eva would only feel as I do," said Major Winchester. "Her whole
sympathies will be with Miss Wentworth."
"She _is_ an angel, I know," said Robin. "Well, keep cool about it,
Rex, and be prepared for Miss Forsyth if you see your chance."
Major Winchester had not to wait for it, nor did it come in any way such
as could have been predicted. He was off the next morning, almost as
soon as it was light, and did not return till about three in the
afternoon. As he came up the drive, tired and depressed, with every
step the painful scenes of the day before seemed to be re-enacted. He
could not forgive himself, even though it was difficult to define
precisely where and how he had been to blame. But he found no
difficulty in defining and concentrating his overwhelming indignation.
Instead of at all softening it, the last few hours had increased it
tenfold. And now that, to a certain extent, Imogen was beyond the reach
of Miss Forsyth's malevolence, Rex almost felt as if silence were
becoming impossible to him.
"She _must_ be exposed," he muttered to himself, "so that every
honourable door may be closed to her. At all costs I cannot see that
she should be allowed to get off scot-free."
So thinking, he did not at once notice steps coming quickly behind him,
nor till he heard his own name pronounced, in a mocking tone, did he
realise that some one was overtaking him.
"It is you, Major Winchester, is it? This is your first appearance here
to-day. You were off betimes this morning; early starts seem to be the
order of the day with you."
The effrontery of this greeting--for the voice was Mabella's--almost
took away Rex's presence of mind and power of speech. He soon recovered
them, however, and turning sharply, faced her.
"Yes, Miss Forsyth," he said, quickly, "it is I. If you have anything
to say to me, say it; if not, be so good as to walk on. Unfortunately,
there are not two roads to the house from here."
She laughed; there was not a trace of nervousness in her laugh.
"You are no diplomatist, Major Winchester. Here you are showing your
colours to the enemy at once, before you have really any to show."
"I have not the slightest objection to your knowing what I was thinking
about," he said. "I am only considering whether I shall expose you, or
whether, for the sake of others, I must leave you to the punishment
which is sure to come sooner or later, even if I have no hand in
bringing it upon you."
"Goody-goody talk runs off me like water off a duck's back, I warn you,"
she said. "Keep to common-sense, if you please. I shall not pretend I
don't know what you mean; I do perfectly, and I intend to treat you with
entire candour. What I would ask you is this: _how_ can you `expose
me'--to use your courteous phrase--without proof, reliable and certain,
that I am guilty? Such proof you know you have not got. All you can
say is that your brother saw me standing at the table whereon lay the
two letters in question. Is it _likely_ that people would believe that
I, a lady born and bred, would have done such an unheard-of thing as to
open them, read them, and change their envelopes? And when the
circumstances are explained further, of your agitation and hurry that
morning, _do_ you think you would gain much by your attempt at showing
me up?" He was silent for a moment. Then, "Yes," he said, "I believe
my story would be accepted. There is not only this last distinct act;
there is the whole string of misleading remarks and suggestions on your
part, and,"--he hesitated to name her--"Trixie's, which show the plot
into which, Heaven knows why, you inveigled that misguided girl as a
fellow-conspirator."
"Ah, Trixie," she said. "I will revert to her in a moment, though, _en
passant_, I may tell you there was not much `inveigling' required on my
part. Your cousin Beatrix _hates_ you, Major Winchester, with a very
pretty hatred;" and she laughed gently, delighted to see that he started
a little. If "hate" was not a pleasant word on Imogen's childish lips,
it did not gain when pronounced by Mabella.
"Yes," she went on, "she hates you, though not as--But that will keep.
But what I am going to say will indeed surprise you. I am going to
treat you with unheard-of generosity--to furnish you myself with the
necessary weapons. Here they are. You are perfectly correct in your
surmises. I _did_ open the envelopes and change their contents, not out
of mischief, but from a far deeper motive; and I did, and have done, and
meant to do all I possibly could to mislead that silly woman and her
daughter into believing you were in love with the girl, and on the point
of proposing to her; in which scheme I persuaded Trixie to join me, even
as far as I remember, before they came. There, now, what do you say to
that?"
"Why do you tell it me?" he asked. "If it is with any idea that your
confession may force me to be silent, I--"
"Nonsense," she said. "It is not a confession; that word is associated
with penitence and coming for forgiveness. _I_ am not penitent. I
glory in what I have done. I triumph in it. And you will be silent.
You cannot tell the story without making that girl a laughing-stock,
even if people believed you--which I doubt--for you would scarcely like
to say you were publishing what you call my `confession.' And nothing,
no word or sentence I have said to Mrs Wentworth, but could be
naturally and innocently explained, and every one can see what a fool
she is. And still more, you cannot tell the story without incriminating
Trixie. Indeed, the moment I find you telling it, _I_ shall tell her
part of it. That would be very nice; your own cousin, the daughter, of
the relatives you owe so much kindness to. For you know the Squire
would be capable of turning her out-of-doors for such dishonourable
breach of hospitality to guests."
It was all quite true.
"Why have you told me, then?" he asked.
"Because I wanted to come to an understanding; to show you that you had
better decide not to tell I shall not tell, for the story is nothing to
me. I am leaving Grey Fells at once, and I don't think I care to
return. I am sick of Trixie's atrocious temper, and I have got what I
stayed for."
"What was that?" he added. There was a curious fascination about the
girl, with her entire absence of principle and absolute indifference to
his opinion.
"My revenge," she said quietly. "Not as much as I could have wished. I
should not be easily satisfied; but it is better than nothing. I have
made you suffer. I have lowered you in your own estimation. I have
touched you in a tender part, for you _know_ that Imogen Wentworth's
sunny girlhood is gone--gone for ever; she will never be the same again,
and all through _you_?"
He winced, and she saw it.
"And why, may I ask, mystery of mysteries, have you condescended to this
flattering interest in me? When and how did I incur the honour of
offending you?"
His sarcasm made her for the first time lose a little of her
self-control. Her black eyes positively glared as she went a step or
two nearer him.
"The day you warned Harry Curzon against marrying me," she replied. "Do
you remember? You are good at that sort of dirty work; insolent
meddling is rather a _speciality_ of yours. Still, I think you cannot
have forgotten this particular case."
Rex grew visibly paler. Yes, he remembered. But without waiting for
his reply, Mabella turned and fled swiftly up the avenue to the house.
And she left The Fells the next day.
It had been several years ago--five or six. Harry Curzon was a
subaltern in his own regiment--handsome, attractive, weak, and easily
influenced; and Rex _had_ warned him against the, even then, fast and
noisy and unscrupulous girl. He had thought it his duty, and he thought
it might save Harry. It had not done so. The young man had gone from
bad to worse, and the watching his downward career had been one of the
saddest pages in Rex Winchester's life. But as he glanced up the
darkening road after Mabella's retreating figure, a strange pity
thrilled him.
"They say no one is _all_ bad," he thought to himself. "I suppose it is
possible she really loved that poor, foolish fellow."