Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

“Who?” said Alicia, languidly.

“That pretty, spoilt little girl who stayed here once, ages ago, before Trixie was married. What was her name – Gwendolin? No; Imogen Wentworth.”

“Dear me, how very odd!” said Alicia, with more interest in her tone. “They met here, then; no, they didn’t – did they, Florence?”

“They did meet, but only just,” said Florence; “still, I believe Robin dates his falling in love with her from then.”

Her father and mother turned to her. “Then you knew about it; you might have told us. Indeed, for the matter of that, Master Robin might have told us himself,” said the Squire.

“He is only a second-cousin after all,” said Florence, “and we never had seen anything of him scarcely. We never knew him like Rex – in the old days. And I believe he has been very little in England all these years.”

“We have seen little enough of Rex for a long time,” said Mrs Helmont. “Poor Rex! why, he always called us uncle and aunt, you remember, my dear. I suppose he has never got over poor Eva’s death. But I think the girl’s mother might have let me know. I always meant to ask them here again – indeed I think I did once – but something came in the way. Who told you about it, Florry?”

“I only heard it vaguely, some months ago, from Rex himself, as a thing that would be some day, but not an announced engagement. And this very morning I have a letter from him. It appears Mrs Wentworth is dead: she had a very long and painful illness, and her daughter would not leave her. Rex speaks of Imogen very highly. I think he seems quite cheered by the marriage.”

“We must ask them down: don’t forget about it, my dear,” said the hospitable Squire.

“And perhaps we could persuade Rex to come too. Ask them all for Christmas: they’d feel at home and cheer us up a bit – make up for poor Trixie, eh?”

The Christmas invitation was declined, though graciously. For Imogen’s mourning was still recent, and her marriage had been of the quietest. But the course of the following year did see the Winchesters – all three of them – at Grey Fells. And at last came to pass the friendship between Florence and Imogen, which so long ago Major Winchester had wished for and tried to compass.

“I like her exceedingly – thoroughly,” said Robin’s happy wife to – her brother-in-law.

“But, surely, is she not much softer, less standoff and much, much more sympathising than she used to be?”

“Yes; she has been through the fire, and come out of it very fine gold – tried and purified,” said Reginald. “One could scarcely wish her in the least other than she is now. Dear Florence! How pleased Eva would have been!” he murmured.

“Robin,” said Imogen, not many days after this, “do you know I cannot help praying and hoping that perhaps in time. No, I am afraid of vexing you by saying it.”

“Do you mean Rex and Florence? Why should it vex me, my darling? Hope it – yes, indeed I do, with all my heart. And what’s more, I think it. It is what Eva would have rejoiced at more than anything. She was so unselfish. How I wish you had known her, Imogen!”

But neither he nor his wife, nor anybody else, ever suspected that Imogen had known – and that she thanked God for it every day of her life – the girl whom others loved, and remembered by the name of Eveleen Lesley.

The End.