Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

The girl gave her head the very slightest possible toss, as she replied:

“Mamma trusts me to look after myself. Indeed, she asks my advice more often than I do hers. Mamma hasn’t a very decided character, and I’m afraid I have.”

Rex was silent.

“Are you shocked?” said Imogen with a touch of apology, or at least timidity. And she glanced up at him from under her long eyelashes, like a naughty but repentant child.

”‘Shocked?’ no. That tone about one’s elders is too common nowadays to shock,” he said quietly. “But I own it would disappoint me in you if I thought you really meant it. It was your tenderness to your mother that – that first” – “made me feel an interest in you,” he was going to have said, but the words struck him as priggish and patronising. Imogen blushed, but he did not see her blush, and he went on speaking:

“It reminded me a little of my own sister,” he said. “She was my elder sister, and my mother was an invalid for many years. One of my clearest remembrances since early boyhood is of Angey’s unfailing care and tenderness about our mother.”

He seemed to be “thinking back,” as I have heard a child express it. Imogen, glancing up again, caught the look in his face and respected it.

“You say ‘was.’ But your sister is not dead?” she hazarded after a little.

“Oh no,” he replied, recollecting himself with a little start, “she is living. But I am in great anxiety about her just now. She is soon to undergo a very serious – very, very serious operation on her eyes. And we shall not know for months if it is successful. I am very foolish, I daresay, but I can scarcely bear to speak of it. I had a letter this morning – my poor Angey.”

“I am so sorry,” said Imogen softly. “What is her name?” she added. “I should like to think of her by it. Is it Angela?”

“Not quite. It is even more fantastic. It is Evangeline. Eva some people call her, but her home name has always been Angey. Evangeline is too much of a good thing in the way of names.”

“It is very pretty. And ‘Eva’ is very pretty,” said Imogen, simply.

Major Winchester smiled.

“Yes, ‘Eva’ is very nice,” he said. “Of course, it is the diminutive of other names as well as my sister’s.” Then he seemed to wish to change the subject. “Don’t think me impertinent, Miss Wentworth, apropos of what you were saying about having a ‘decided character.’ Young people —very young people especially,” and here he gave a slightly deprecating smile – “often make a mistake between impulsiveness and self-will and decision of character, much in the same way that obstinacy and firmness are often confused.”

“I am not so very young, Major Winchester,” Imogen returned, much more irate, evidently, at the reflection on her youth than at the other suggestion. “I am eighteen past, and I don’t think I am particularly self-willed; at least, I don’t mean to be. Mamma and I generally wish the same things. And when you live with a person who can’t make up their mind, and you have to decide, that isn’t being impulsive.”

“No, certainly not,” he agreed.

“Besides,” she went on, “sometimes I have to give in very much against my own will. As about coming here,” and she related the history of the “breaking the journey,” which had led to such uncomfortable results.

Rex listened with considerable amusement.

“But after all,” he said, “it’s an ill wind, you know. But for the little episode in question, I might never have had the pleasure of getting to know you so well.”

“No,” said Imogen, with the sort of bluntness of manner which was, somehow, one of her charms, “that’s true.” Then there fell a little silence.

“Major Winchester,” said Imogen after a moment or two.

“Miss Wentworth?” he replied.

“You mustn’t mind my saying so,” she began, “but do you know I can’t help thinking you are all a little hard upon Trixie.”

His face darkened at once.

“How so?” he said.

Imogen hesitated.

“It’s very difficult to answer when you’re asked like that,” she said, pouting a little. But her companion seemed to have lost his playfulness. He did not speak.

“I mean – I mean,” she went on, “that because she’s spoilt, perhaps, and rather noisy, and – and what you call loud or fast sometimes, you all, you and her sister, and even her brother,” – with a glance round to make sure that Florence was not within earshot – “seem to think there’s no good in her.”

“Heaven forbid!” Major Winchester ejaculated; “Heaven forbid that I should say such a thing of anybody!”

“Well, well, you know what I mean,” Imogen went on; “you don’t think there’s much, anyway. Now she was really very kind to me when we arrived, much kinder than anybody; except you, of course,” she added naïvely.

Rex’s tone softened.

“I am far from saying there is no good in Trixie,” he repeated. “If we could get her away from other influences, if she could really be made to feel, if – if – But it’s no use discussing her. And, excuse me, my dear child,” – he was scarcely aware that he used the expression – “but can you judge in so very short a time as to whether we are hard on her or not?”

“N-no,” said Imogen, consideringly. “Only sometimes one seems to see thing’s at first better than afterwards.”

“Or one fancies so,” he remarked. “But don’t begin thinking Trixie a martyr. She is nothing of the kind, I assure you. I am glad – if she has been really kind to you, I should be glad. Still, I cannot help hoping that you will make more of a friend of Florence.”

Imogen made a little moue.

“I will if I can,” she said, adding: “It’s Miss Forsyth you think the bad influence, I can see. I’m afraid you don’t think there’s much good in her.”

“No,” said Major Winchester, gravely; “I’m afraid I do not.”

“I don’t like her,” continued the girl, “but mamma does. Miss Forsyth’s so nice to her. You’d better warn mamma. Major Winchester,” she added, rather flippantly.

“You know perfectly well I could not do anything so impertinent,” he said, with a touch of asperity. Imogen reddened. “Forgive me,” he went on, “I do not mean to speak harshly. But one thing – do promise me, Miss Wentworth, that if you are in any real trouble or dilemma here – anything in which your mother, as a stranger herself, might not be able to help you – you will not be afraid of applying to me.”

“Yes,” said Imogen, “I promise you.”

They were close to the house by this tune. As they entered the hall they came upon the two who had preceded them, warming themselves at the fire. Major Winchester stalked across and disappeared through a doorway without speaking. He had gone to look after some hot tea for Imogen, for she was blue with cold.

“What’s the matter now?” said Miss Forsyth.

“Have you offended his majesty, Miss Wentworth?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Imogen.

“How silly you are, Mab!” said Trixie.

“Don’t you see, Imogen, she – like the rest of us – is so flabbergasted that she doesn’t know how to take it?”

“Well, no wonder,” Mabella replied, lightly.

“Did any one ever before see Major Winchester devote himself like that to anything in the shape of a young lady? How have you done it, Miss Wentworth?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Imogen again. She turned to go up-stairs as she spoke, and she spoke coolly. All the same the shot had taken effect.

Chapter Seven