Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

“Poor Florence!” said Imogen’s mother, patronisingly. “She does not get too much attention. You should try to be kind to her, dear.”

“I!” Imogen exclaimed. “Nonsense, mamsey: She would not care for that sort of thing at all. I am only too flattered when she notices me. I don’t take to her much, but of course I admire her. Indeed, I’m rather frightened of her. Me be kind to Florence! Oh, mamsey, Florence could have any amount of attention if she cared for it.”

“My dear little modest darling,” said Mrs Wentworth. “Well, some day my pet will have to learn to take more upon her, I daresay. In the meantime no one loves her the less for her humility.”

“It isn’t humility; it’s common-sense,” said the girl. “But, oh, I’m so sleepy!”

“Off with you, then. There’s no beauty-sleep for you to-night; but you must not think of getting up early. I know more than one person who would not be pleased to see you pale and wearied-looking.”

Mrs Wentworth’s dreams that night were roseate-hued. She had been well primed in the course of the evening by Mabella Forsyth with her clever hints and suggestions, so clever that when told over in simple language they sounded but natural and ingenuous little kindly compliments.

Imogen slept the sleep of her eighteen years, untroubled by dreams, for she was really tired, but with a pleasant undercurrent of gratification and vague anticipation which her mother’s words had greatly tended to strengthen.

And while the little conversation I have repeated was taking place between Mrs Wentworth and her daughter, another was passing between the two brothers. Down-stairs in the smoking-room – for it had been arranged that he was to stay the night at The Fells – Robin Winchester was sitting, more silent than his wont, while his cousins and their friends kept up a rather noisy chatter, unrestrained by the awe-inspiring presence of Major Rex.

“It’s hardly worth while to go to bed,” said Robin at last. His brother got up and went over to him.

“Oh yes, it is: you can have four or five hours’ sleep; nobody will be very early here. What have you been about, Robin? You seem done up.”

Robin started slightly.

“I’m all right. Perhaps I was thinking about Angey,” he said. “There may be a letter for you in the morning, Rex. That was one reason I was glad to stay. That girl – Miss Wentworth – was so sympathising about it.”

“Yes,” said Major Winchester. “She has a kind little heart. She’s a nice child; a great deal of good in her. And isn’t she pretty? Last night she looked really charming. But, Robin, about Angey. I almost think I should go.”

This point was discussed for a moment or two. Then Robin again managed to bring in Imogen’s name. Rex answered carelessly; he was thinking of something else. “Miss Wentworth, did you say? Oh yes, that was her mother. Then, Robin, if you hear anything,” – and so on about arrangements and plans in connection with Mrs Bertrand.

It was no use. Robin could not manage to bring the talk round deftly, as he had hoped. He must plunge in boldly.

“Rex,” he said abruptly, though in a low voice. He glanced round; they were practically alone, for the room was large and the Helmonts and their friends were still making a good deal of noise at the other end. “Rex, does Miss Wentworth know, about you?”

“Know about me!” Major Winchester repeated. “How do you mean?”

“About your – about you and Eva?”

Rex looked a little surprised, but in no way startled or even interested.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” he said. “Yes, I daresay she does. Everybody who knows either of us knows it. But she’s too young to understand that kind of thing. I don’t think I have ever talked about it to her. It would have seemed so – I don’t know how, exactly – so incongruous. And I have not felt inclined to talk about Eva lately – you can understand.”

“No, of course not,” Robin agreed. “But I think Miss Wentworth is more of a woman than you imagine, Rex. She was very sympathising about Angey.”

“Yes. Well, I may tell her about Eva some day, if you think it would please her to have her sympathy sought. I am going to warn her to-morrow again about Trixie, now this acting is over. But she is such a child, I like to see her enjoying herself; knowledge of troubles comes soon enough. Well, good-night, Robin. I am rather sleepy, I confess. So glad you came over, old fellow.”

But Robin, though he shook hands and half moved to go, still lingered.

“What is it, Robin? You’ve nothing on your mind, have you, my dear boy?” asked the elder brother, half anxiously. “You’re not quite like yourself, somehow.”

“I’m afraid of annoying you, Rex, that’s the fact of the matter,” said Mr Winchester, and his colour deepened a little. “But I can’t help telling you. I think Miss Wentworth should know, and I feel sure she doesn’t. She’s – ”

And he hesitated, then repeated his former phrase, “she’s more of a woman than you think, Rex.”

It was now Major Winchester’s turn to hesitate: he did so from his utter and complete astonishment.

“My dear good boy,” he exclaimed at last, “you are too absurd. That little childish creature! Why, she looks upon me as a sort of father. She does, I can assure you.”

And he laughed, sincerely and without constraint.

But Robin did not give in. On the contrary, his grave face grew graver.

“I might have known you would take it so,” he said, half provoked and half admiringly. “I wish, Rex, you were just a little more – conceited; I don’t know what word to use. But I can quite believe it might have been as you say – all quite simple and natural, with a genuine innocent-minded girl such as she is, had you known her elsewhere; but here – There can be nothing simple and refined where Trixie and that odious Forsyth girl are. And Miss Wentworth rather stands up for Trixie.”

“I know she does, out of a kind of misplaced chivalry,” said Rex, speaking more seriously now. “I am afraid, though I have done what I could, that Trixie has got some influence over her. But I don’t see how she can make mischief in this case.”

Robin shook his head.

“I wouldn’t answer for her,” he said. “Well, anyway, Rex, it can do no harm for you to talk to Miss Wentworth a little about Eva. Dear Eva,” he added, with a sigh. “How I wish – ”

“Don’t,” said Rex, almost sharply. “I – I can scarcely bear the sound of her name sometimes. I daresay that has made me avoid alluding to her in my talks with little Imogen. For I told her about poor Angey. But I will see about it; though, remember, I do not in the very least agree with your reason for thinking it advisable. Of all things I hate that style of thing, imagining one’s self an attractive young fellow like you, Robin, when one’s hair is growing grey.”

He turned it off lightly. Still, his brother’s words had their effect.

“I had no idea little Robin was so worldly-wise; no, that’s not the word,” Major Winchester said to himself when his companion had gone. “He means it for the best, but it must be nonsense. Still, the mother is silly enough for anything. I must think it over.”

Chapter Ten

Mabella Pulls the Strings

Imogen slept late the next morning, later than she had ever done in her life; for she was new to gay doings, and when at last she opened her eyes, it was but to close them again with a sleepy smile as she gradually recalled the scenes of the night before.

“How nice it was! I wonder if all girls enjoy their first real grown-up party as much,” she thought. “I wonder if Major Winchester will manage the skating.” (For a hard frost had set in somewhat prematurely.) “What fun it would be, only I’m afraid I shall tumble about dreadfully. I wonder,” as another recollection suddenly returned to her mind, “what he meant when he said he wanted to have a little talk with me to-day – to tell me something; it must be something particular, for he whispered ‘Remember about our talk to-morrow,’ last thing. Mother noticed it, but I wasn’t going to tell her all he said; she is so – so fanciful!”

The colour deepened on the girl’s cheeks, alone though she was, as she reached this point in her cogitations. Was it all “fancy” of her mother’s? Could it be that Major Winchester really was? – and remarks of Trixie’s as to the astonishingness of his “making such friends” with a girl of her age, “he who never scarcely speaks to a girl,” returned to her memory in full force. Imogen’s heart beat faster with a sensation of mingled gratification and vague fear. Was “it,” the great “it” of her girl life, really coming to her already? Did all girls feel as she did when such things drew near? It was not what she had expected, somehow: she liked him, liked and respected and trusted him thoroughly, but he seemed so old in comparison with her. And – oh, after all, perhaps it was all nonsense – mamsey was silly about her; all mothers fancy their daughters something wonderful – very likely there was nothing in it; and with a sigh, half of relief, half of disappointment, Imogen threw herself back on her pillows. Would she be glad or sorry if it were all nonsense? she asked herself. And it was not easy to answer.

Her meditations were interrupted by a tap, the gentlest of taps, at the door, and in reply to her “Come in,” Mrs Wentworth appeared. She was all dressed and ready to go down-stairs. Imogen started up.

“Oh, mamsey,” she exclaimed, “I am so ashamed of myself! I had no idea it was so late. Why hasn’t Colman wakened me?”

“I would not let her,” her mother replied, kissing her tenderly as she spoke. “She said you were sleeping so sweetly an hour ago. I tapped very softly, not to wake you in case you were still asleep.”

“But I must jump up now and be as quick as possible,” said Imogen.

“There is really no hurry,” Mrs Wentworth replied. “Indeed, Colman and I were wondering if you would not like your breakfast brought up. I am sure it will be a most irregular meal this morning.”

“Breakfast in bed, and I quite well! Oh dear, no,” said Imogen, laughing. “I will be ready in twenty minutes, at most.”

“But first,” said Mrs Wentworth, “here are two letters for you; at least, a letter and a note,” and she held them out. Imogen seized the former.

“From Dora,” she said. “How nice! Now, when I answer it, I shall have all about last night to tell her. And a note.” She took it and examined it doubtfully. “I don’t know the writing – at least, I’m not sure. I fancy I’ve seen it before – oh yes; I believe it’s Major Winchester’s. What can he have to write to me about, when he’s just going to see me at breakfast?”