Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

So Mab’s new friend did not resent his rather imperious request as she might otherwise have done, and the vague, uncompleted sentence at the end of his speech – “for the future,” – aroused in her all sorts of pleasant surmises.

“You are so kind, so very kind, dear Major Winchester, to take so much interest in my Imogen,” she murmured. “Yes, I wish she knew more of Florence, as I see you think highly of her. Of course she is a good deal older – ”

“Florence cannot be older than that other girl,” said Rex, rather gruffly. “And her age does not seem to be any objection to her as a friend.”

“Imogen is not a particular friend of Mabella’s,” said Mrs Wentworth, quietly. “In fact she – I think she has rather taken a dislike to the poor girl. I like her, I confess, very much. I am sorry for her; she seems to me much misunderstood; and of course, if a little friendly, elder-sisterly sympathy can do her any good, or be any help to her – ”

Major Winchester could not help smiling. Mrs Wentworth’s simplicity was sublime.

“My dear lady,” he said, “you are years – centuries younger than Miss Forsyth. I cannot agree with you about her, I am sorry to say; but that does not signify. I am only uncommonly glad to hear that Miss Wentworth is rather of my way of thinking than yours in this matter.”

He rose as he spoke, but Mrs Wentworth was reluctant to let him go. “How stupid men are!” she thought to herself. “When could he have a better opportunity of taking me into his confidence?”

“Thank you so much, Major Winchester,” she said. “You may indeed trust me. I shall consider all you have said as quite, quite between ourselves.”

Rex almost started. He looked and felt bewildered. He had had no intention whatever of establishing any private understanding with the amiable lady; it was about the very last thing he desired.

“I must go,” he said. “Florence will be looking for me elsewhere. It really doesn’t matter in the least if you repeat anything I have said. Do not feel any constraint about it, I beg of you.”

But Mrs Wentworth chose to take it her own way.

“I see where Imogen has learnt her dislike to Mabella,” she thought to herself. “Ah, well – it really does not signify. But how oddly Major Winchester expresses himself sometimes.”

The theatricals were pronounced a great success. Nothing of any consequence went wrong, and the audience, composed of all the society to be got together within a reasonable radius of The Fells, professed itself delighted. This was the festive and sociable season in the north country, of course; several of the large neighbouring houses were nearly as full of guests as Grey Fells Hall itself, and their respective hosts were most ready to be grateful for this entertainment on a large scale. So the unfavourable criticisms, if there were any, were not made in public, and congratulations and compliments were the order of the day.

“It wasn’t half so dreadful, after all, as I expected,” said Imogen, throwing herself down on a couch standing in a passage just outside the temporary green-room. “Now it is over, I almost feel as if I should like to do it again.”

She was speaking to Major Winchester. He could not help laughing at her exceedingly untechnical way of expressing herself.

“I am afraid there is nothing of the ‘born actress’ in you, Miss Wentworth,” he said. ”‘Do it again,’ oh dear!”

“Well, ‘act it,’ ‘play it’ – what should I say?” she replied childishly. “Oh dear, I am so hot. And we are going to dance; did you know?”

“For your sake I am glad to hear it, if you are fond of dancing,” he said.

“I have only danced at school with the other girls,” Imogen replied dubiously. “But even that was very nice. Only this dress is so heavy. And it’s fixed that we are to keep our dresses on for the rest of the evening.”

“It is heavy, and hot, too, I daresay. But il faut souffrir pour être belle, you know,” he added lightly, “and it certainly is very pretty and becoming.”

He touched, as he spoke, some of the richly-coloured draperies of the fantastic costume. Imogen flushed with pleasure.

“Do you really think so?” she said. “I am so pleased. Do you know, Major Winchester,” she added, half shyly, “I believe that is the very first compliment you have ever paid me!” Rex looked at her kindly. She was very sweet, very lovely just then.

“What a dear child she is!” he thought to himself. For the best of men are but men, and he was keenly sensitive to beauty. He stroked the little hand that lay on the couch beside him, and Imogen’s colour deepened still more.

“And after all,” he said, “I fear my compliment, such as it was, was more for ‘Valesca’ than for Imogen.”

“Never mind,” said she, her voice trembling a little, “Imogen thought it very nice.”

“Imogen is very sweet and – ” he replied, but suddenly started up, exclaiming, with a complete change of voice:

“Robin, my boy! Where have you dropped from? I had no idea you were in the neighbourhood.”

Chapter Nine

Robin

Imogen looked up, not without a feeling of irritation at the interruption, to see whom Major Winchester was thus greeting. The new-comer was a tall, good-looking young fellow, of four or five and twenty at the most, with pleasant eyes, and a likeness – rather strong at first, but fading even as she looked at him – to some one she knew.

“Whom is he like?” thought the girl. Then as her glance fell on Major Winchester she could not help smiling at her own dullness. Of course, it was Rex himself the younger man resembled! But as they stood together talking, she lost it; when she came to know Robin Winchester’s face better, she found it was much more a resemblance of expression than of feature or colouring.

“I didn’t expect to be here to-night, or I would have written,” she heard the stranger reply. “I’m staying at Wood Cross for three days’ shooting. We drove over, a large party. But I say, Rex, have you heard from Angey the last day or two? I had a letter from Arthur that rather startled me.”

“No; I have heard nothing for a week or more,” said Rex, hastily, his face clouding over with anxiety. “Is it – is it anything new?”

“No, no; you would have heard, of course, if it had been anything exactly critical. Perhaps I should not have told you of it. Arthur says he would write to you if it got worse. I have his letter in my pocket. Here it is. You can read it afterwards;” and he held out an envelope. “Your not having heard is a good sign, you see. I’ve made a muddle of it, and frightened you for nothing. Angey didn’t want you told, if it could be helped. She – she said you had enough on your mind already, just now.”

The last few words were spoken in a lower tone, so low that Imogen scarcely caught them, and they were accompanied by a glance in her direction which made the colour rise to her cheeks. There was a sort of questioning in the glance as well as undisguised, but entirely respectful, admiration. She got up from her seat and touched Major Winchester very slightly on the arm. He turned at once with a quick gesture of apology. But before he had time to speak, she forestalled him.

“I think I will go into the drawing-room. Mother, or some of them, are sure to be there,” she said, gently.

“Forgive me,” he said, quickly. “Wait one moment. You must not go alone. The dancing is beginning. Robin – Miss Wentworth, may I introduce my brother, Mr Robert Winchester? My little brother,” with a smile, though the anxiety was still visible in his face. “And, Robin, will you take care of Miss Wentworth for a few minutes while I read this? Then you will find me here again; and – I hope I shall still have my dance with you —Valesca?” he said, and the smile was brighter now.

Imogen brightened up too.

“If – if you are not disinclined for it,” she replied.

“No, no; it will do me good.”

“Don’t you think, Miss Wentworth,” said Robert Winchester, as he offered Imogen his arm and they walked away, “that I can best take care of you by replacing Rex as your partner. You were dancing with, him, were you not?”

“I don’t think we had settled anything about it,” Imogen answered, simply. “But I should like to dance very much. Only first – I could not help overhearing a little – I am so sorry. Is it about your sister, Mrs Bertrand?”

“Yes,” and Robin glanced at her. “He has told you, I see. Poor Rex! he’s lucky to have your sympathy. He – I wish a few less troubles would fall to his share. I wish I could see him really happy at last.” And again he glanced at her, half inquiringly.

“He told me,” she said, hesitating a little, out of a sort of shyness, “he told me of his anxiety about Mrs Bertrand; but that must be an anxiety to you, too, Mr Winchester.”

“Yes, of course. I’m awfully fond of Angey – we both are. But Rex has so much upon him just now, so many different things. Of course, it’s not all anxiety; there’s the bright side, the hopeful side to it too. I don’t know that I’ve any right to talk to you like this though, Miss Wentworth, but somehow I feel as if I’d known you before. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh no,” said Imogen, wondering a little at his manner, nevertheless, and conscious of looking slightly awkward – why, she scarcely knew. “It’s – it’s very kind of you. I do trust Mrs Bertrand will be all right again soon. I am so sorry for Major Winchester. He – he has been so kind to me.”

“I am so delighted to see you understand – appreciate him,” said the young fellow boyishly, and Imogen felt herself growing red as he looked at her. She was half pleased, half puzzled by his manner. “I think him – well, perfection – the most splendid fellow going,” he went on, laughing a little at his own enthusiasm. “But all the same everybody doesn’t take to him. Some people think him so cold and stand-off.”

“He has never – never from the first seemed so to me,” she replied, impulsively. “I couldn’t tell you what a difference his being here and – and his goodness has made to me. I feel as if I could tell him anything – he understands so;” then she stopped, feeling ashamed of her little outburst, and very conscious of her glowing cheeks. “I hope he won’t think me gushing, or anything like that,” she thought. “I couldn’t bear his talking of me that way to Major Winchester; I know he hates gushing.”

For she felt that Robin was looking at her with an expression she was at a loss to understand. There was admiration in it undoubtedly – admiration as respectful as it was genuine; but there was something of questioning, of slight misgiving in the eyes that now and then looked so like his brother’s.

“You are right,” he said quietly; “there’s no one like him.”