Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs Wentworth, who was dying of curiosity, mingled, it must be allowed, with a worthier feeling. “I have heard some news already this morning. Major Winchester has been called away. He and his brother breakfasted early, and started off to catch the ten o’clock express.”

Imogen’s face fell.

“Oh dear, how dreadfully vexing!” she exclaimed. “Just when we had planned such a nice day. I’m afraid there must be something wrong; bad news about his sister, probably. And this note will be to explain about it.”

She looked up questioningly in her mother’s face, toying idly with the letter in her fingers as she did so.

“Very likely; it is pretty sure to be so,” said Mrs Wentworth. “But why in the world don’t you open it, my dear, and then you would see?” There was a touch of impatience in her tone; but she controlled herself and turned away, as Imogen began to tear the envelope, feeling that the girl might prefer to read it unobserved. But scarcely a moment seemed to have passed before she heard herself called back to Imogen’s bedside. She started as she caught the sound of her child’s voice. It seemed choked and gasping, and Imogen herself was lying back, almost as white as the pillow.

“My darling,” Mrs Wentworth exclaimed, “what is the matter? Are you fainting?”

“No, no. Read that. Oh, mamma!” said the girl, incoherently, and she thrust the sheet of paper into her mother’s hand. These were the words on which fell Mrs Wentworth’s bewildered gaze:

My Dearest, —

I am just off – and Robin, too – summoned to poor Angey by this morning’s letters. The operation is to take place at once. God grant it may be successful. You will feel for us, I know. Though I have scarcely a moment, I could not go without one word to you to explain my movements, though I hope to be back at The Fells in a day or two. I have so much to tell you, and to lay before you all that I have been thinking of, and I had planned for an uninterrupted hour or two to-day. I know you will not have misunderstood my recent silence, and when we meet, a few minutes will be better than pages of writing. Ever yours, —

Rex.

P.S.– Say nothing of this at present to any one.

Imogen’s mother read and re-read. Gradually her bewilderment gave place to delight – though delight strongly mixed with astonishment. She looked up at last. A little colour had by this time returned to the girl’s cheeks.

“Mamsey,” she said, anxiously, “what does it mean?”

“Darling,” Mrs Wentworth replied, “it is rather for you to tell me; I had no idea, my pet, that things had gone so far.”

But though her tone was playful, it failed to raise any smile on Imogen’s face.

“I don’t know how you mean. I had no idea that – ” But here she stopped short.

Imogen was really truthful, and the remembrance of her morning’s cogitations just then returned inconveniently to her mind. Mrs Wentworth smiled.

“I see,” she said; “you do well to stop short, my pet. Well, well, poor old mothers must expect to be treated with reserve at such times, I suppose.”

Imogen raised herself on her elbow.

“Mamma,” she said, very gravely, “I am telling you the literal truth when I say that I did not in the least expect anything like this. Nothing that Major Winchester has said or done has led me to think that – that it was anything more than that he just liked me, and, in time, possibly – when I was older – ”

“You have been too unconscious, too simple and ingenuous to see it, my sweet. Thank God we have had to do with a good and honourable man, who has not taken advantage of your innocence,” said Mrs Wentworth with a burst of real feeling. “But others have seen it, if you have not.”

“Have they?” said Imogen, opening her eyes. Then some of Trixie’s remarks recurred to her, and she blushed a little. “Do you mean, mamsey,” she went on, “that this,” and she touched the letter, “is what one would call a proposal? It isn’t like what they are in books.”

“It is almost more than a proposal,” her mother replied. “It is as if he was quite sure of you – as if you quite understood each other. Have you not given him more encouragement than you quite realise, my pet?”

Imogen reflected.

“He did say something last night about hoping for a good talk to-day – something he wanted to say to me,” she said, hesitatingly.

“Ah, I thought so; he has in a sense taken the definite understanding for granted, as it were,” said Mrs Wentworth. “And you know, dearie, he is much older than you – about my own age, in fact,” with a touch of her little bridling of self-satisfaction, “and you must let him, as it were, do things in his own way.”

“Yes, I know he is much older than I. You do not need to remind me of that,” said Imogen, in a melancholy tone. And a vision passed before her of the ideal husband – rather, perhaps, the lover – she had pictured in her girlish dreams, eager, devoted, ardent; it was not the staid, almost paternal Major Winchester!

Mrs Wentworth’s face clouded. “But, my darling,” she said, “you don’t mean – ”

“Oh, I don’t know what I mean. I am not good enough or clever enough for him; but I daresay it will be all right. I will tell him so; and he is very kind and patient. He will teach me, I daresay, and – I know it will be a comfort to you to – to feel – and – ” Here a smile for the first time broke through her troubled expression: “Just fancy, mamsey, how astonished every one will be! It will be fun to write to Dora; and, mamsey, I must have her for one of my bridesmaids.”

“We shall see, dearie; we shall see. Yes, indeed, every one will be astonished,” and visions of the delightful letters of faire-part of the exciting news to her special cronies that would fall to her own share floated before Mrs Wentworth’s dazzled eyes. “Not but that Imogen might have made a more brilliant marriage,” she imagined herself saying; “but Major Winchester is a man one can so thoroughly trust, and – ” Here her daughter’s voice interrupted her. She was pointing to the postscript and looking rather dismayed.

“Mamma,” she said, “did you notice this? I don’t think I did; at least, I was so startled I don’t know if I noticed it or not. But I shouldn’t have told even you.”

“Oh, nonsense, darling! He could not have meant to exclude me,” said Mrs Wentworth. “However – ”

“You will be very, very careful, won’t you, mamsey?” urged, the girl, who was not without experience of her mother’s impulsiveness.

“Of course, dear, in any case; about such a thing you don’t think I need warning?” said Mrs Wentworth, in a slightly aggrieved tone.

“But – that Miss Forsyth,” said Imogen; “she is so wheedling, and you know you are rather easily taken in, mamsey, dear.”

The adjective and the caressing tone – for Imogen was not given to gush – smoothed down Mrs Wentworth’s ruffled feathers.

“I’ll be very careful, dearest,” she said; and then, at last, she tore herself away, Imogen promising to follow her down-stairs with the utmost possible speed.

It was with a sense of delightful, though almost bewildering, elation that Mrs Wentworth entered the dining-room, where various members of the party staying in the house were lounging over the irregular breakfast. No member of the family was present except Alicia, who half rose to greet her in her usual good-natured, apathetic way.

“Am I not praiseworthy, Mrs Wentworth, for being down so early?” she said.

“Is no one else down?” asked the new-comer, somewhat surprised; for the Helmont energy extended to early rising. “I mean to say, none of yourselves?”

“Oh dear, yes. Father and mother are off on their usual behests, and Florence was down at nine to give our worthy cousin his breakfast. Major Winchester was obliged to go up to town this morning.”

“I know – at least I heard so,” Mrs Wentworth could not resist saying.

“Really!” said Alicia with a glance of surprise. And as Miss Forsyth at that moment came in – “Did you know, Mab, that Rex and Robin went off first thing this morning? Oh yes, by the bye, I believe you and Trixie didn’t go to bed at all, did you?”

“It was much jollier sitting up in our armchairs over the fire,” said Mabella, carelessly. She did not look the least tired or fagged.

“Give me a cup of coffee, won’t you, Alicia? It’s such a time since I had breakfast, I feel ready to begin again. – And how is the fair Imogen, Mrs Wentworth? You yourself look brilliant,” she added.

Mrs Wentworth smiled graciously.

“Thank you,” she said; “Imogen is very well, very well indeed. She will be down directly. She would have been down already, but she had – we had some rather important letters this morning.”

Miss Forsyth drew her chair a little closer to her dear Mrs Wentworth’s.

“Nothing wrong, I trust?” she said in a low voice. “No, you could not look as you do if it were. Really, dear, there are times, and this is one of them, when, I cannot take in that you are Imogen’s mother – you do look so ridiculously young. If there is anything – any business matter – I can be of use about, you will tell me, won’t you?”

“You are so kind, dear Mabella,” murmured Mrs Wentworth vaguely.