Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

“You do look so absurd when Mr Villars scolds you,” said Trixie, one day after one of these scenes. “If you talk in that brokenhearted voice I shall not be able to keep from laughing, I warn you, on the grand night itself.”

“You are very unkind,” said Imogen, flashing out. “I never wanted to act, and I never said I could. I have a good mind to – ” But here her voice failed her. She turned away abruptly and left the room.

“She has gone to complain to her mother. You are a fool, Trixie,” said Miss Forsyth, elegantly.

“Not a bit of it. Her mother would put a stop to it, and Miss Imogen doesn’t in her heart wish that, by any means,” said Trixie.

“What a pity Rex isn’t here; it would be a part of the play for him to go to comfort her.”

“Hush!” said Mabella hastily, as Florence at that moment came in.

“What is the matter with that child?” Florence asked sternly. “I was writing in the library just now, and she came rushing in. She pretended she was looking for a book when she saw me, but I am almost sure she was crying.”

“She is such an idiot – ” began Trixie, but a warning glance from Mab stopped her.

“Do you wish Florence to take her up and spoil all?” she said afterwards.

“I mean,” Beatrix went on, “she takes things up so. I couldn’t help laughing at the way Mr Villars scolded her.”

“You don’t want to frighten her out of it now at the last?” said Florence. “It would be very awkward, and might get you into hot water, I warn you.”

She had an additional motive for not desiring such a catastrophe. No one, she knew, failing Miss Wentworth, could take the “Valesca” but herself, and this, Florence was by no means inclined to do. It was the part which faintly shadowed her own story – the devotion of a girl to an unworthy object. So with these words of remonstrance to Trixie, Florence went her way.

Her way was to seek for Rex, and enlist his help. She found him writing in her brother’s smoking-room.

“Rex,” she said abruptly, “I’m afraid you are not looking after your Miss Wentworth after all. She’s in a sea of troubles about her acting, and I cannot meddle. For one thing I can’t and won’t take ‘Valesca,’ if she throws it up,” and she crimsoned as she said it.

“Nobody could propose such a thing,” he said.

“Wouldn’t they? I would rather not risk it. But you know something about acting; quite as much as Mr Villars, I believe, only you are not so exaggerated and affected; couldn’t you coach Miss Wentworth a little? You see I don’t hide that my motives in seeking you are half, or more than half, selfish ones.”

“They are very natural,” he replied kindly. “And, of course, though I am interested in this little girl – she is very sweet – I can’t but be far more interested in you, dear Florrie, and I believe you are more unselfish than you allow.”

Florence looked and felt pleased. A little praise from Rex went a long way with her.

“Then you’ll see what you can do,” she said, persuasively. “You would find her in the library at the present moment; better catch her red-handed, or red-eyed rather, and then she cannot deny her troubles.”

Poor Major Winchester! He had been promising himself a peaceful half-hour to finish his letter to Eva; but after all it was too late for to-day’s post. “It wouldn’t really go any sooner,” he reflected, “so I suppose I may as well.”

Still, it was not without an effort that he went off to the library on his benevolent quest.

Yes; Imogen was there, busily reading or making believe to do so, in a corner. The Fells library was a large and imposing room, filled with books, the most valuable of which seldom left their shelves except to be dusted. But everything about the house was well kept and well managed. Not being of a literary turn himself, nor possessing children with strongly developed intellectual tastes, was no reason, said the Squire, why there should not be a good library. And he had engaged the services of a properly qualified person to look after it, so that the volumes were clean and well arranged, and from time to time added to.

This, however, was not one of the librarian’s days, so Imogen had it all to herself. A gallery ran all round, to which there were two means of access – a stair at one end of the room itself, and a door from an upper passage in the house; for originally the library had been a ballroom, with a musicians’ balcony, since discarded. Rex glanced round once or twice before he discovered Miss Wentworth, half-hidden in a big leather arm-chair by the fire. He smiled as he saw her.

“She is not so very upset after all,” he thought. “Ten to one she is very happy over a novel, and won’t thank me for disturbing her.”

But it was not so. Imogen was both angry and unhappy, and she was only pretending to read. She glanced up quickly at the sound of Major Winchester’s approaching footsteps, and a gleam of pleasure came over her face, to be, however, almost instantly replaced by a flush of shame and mortification as she became conscious of her swollen eyes and tear-stained face.

“What are you studying?” said Rex, as he sat down beside her. “Oh, Great Expectations. Why, you must have read that long ago!”

“No, I haven’t,” said Imogen, “but I don’t think I care for it.”

“Not just now, I daresay,” he said kindly, “for you are vexed and upset, I know.”

“How do you know?” she asked, some laggard tears rising slowly as she spoke.

“Never mind. I was told I should find you here, and so I have. I know what it’s about too,” for Major Winchester was great at going to the point. “It isn’t a very big trouble after all, but then at seventeen – ”

“I’m eighteen – eighteen past,” interrupted Imogen, so indignantly that the tears hid themselves in a fright, which her friend was not sorry to see. He smiled.

“Well – even at eighteen. I was once eighteen myself,” (Imogen could not help smiling a little); “and I can understand that, as you have to do this thing, you would rather do it well than badly. I can understand, too, that Trixie is probably not the most delicate and tactful person to have to do with in the circumstances.”

“I hate being laughed at,” said Imogen frankly.

“Naturally. Villars is really not a bad fellow, but he thinks he’s bound to keep his hobby always at full-speed. Now – have you got your part?”

“Yes,” she replied, extracting some rather dilapidated-looking pages from her pocket, “here it is. This is the worst bit,” she went on, “the little dialogue with Hubert. ‘Oh, to think how I trusted you,’ it begins.”

Chapter Eight

“Valesca.”

”‘Oh, to think how I trusted you,’” repeated Major Winchester, “hum, hum,” and he read on a few sentences to himself consideringly.

“Yes,” said Imogen, “and ‘Hubert’, you know, is Mr Calthorp. Just fancy! If only I were going to do it with you now, Major Winchester, I – ”

She stopped short. The sound of a door softly shutting startled her. “What was that?” she said.

“Oh, nothing; some unfortunate actor seeking the solitude of the library to study his part in,” said Rex.

He went on reading for a minute or two. Neither he nor Imogen heard a door overhead open, even more softly than the other one had closed.

“Fancy,” Imogen repeated, “Mr Calthorp, Major Winchester. Now, if you were it, I am sure I could do it better.”

“For your sake I wish I were, though the character is scarcely one which recommends itself to me,” he said. “But now, look here, my dear child;” and he leant forward towards her a little, while he pointed out a passage on the page; “when you come to – ” And he proceeded to emphasise a line or two.

The door above closed very, very gently, and two ladies slipped quietly back into the up-stairs passage from which it opened. They were Mrs Wentworth and Miss Forsyth. Imogen’s mother was smiling with a slightly self-conscious, slightly alarmed expression; Mabella was whispering eagerly.

“There now,” she said; “I am so glad you have seen for yourself. Wasn’t I clever?” Mrs Wentworth spoke half nervously.

“I hope you don’t think any one else has seen them?” she said. “I am so afraid of any gossip. You see, I have scarcely realised that Imogen is more than a child – a mere child. I am afraid I am not a very efficient chaperon as yet.”

“Oh, it’s all right. Major Winchester is discretion itself. I only wanted to give you ocular demonstration of his devotion. It is not to be wondered at; she did look irresistible when she glanced up at him just now, did she not? But you know he is usually so unimpressionable and high and mighty. Only be sure you never tell anybody that I made you peep. You promise, don’t you, dear Mrs Wentworth? I always feel as if you were a girl like myself, you know. I cannot take in that you are really the mother of a grown-up daughter.”

Mrs Wentworth beamed.

“Of course I will never betray you,” she said. “But she is so very young. I do feel so at a loss.”