Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

“Let us take our work and go and sit in the large conservatory after breakfast, and have a good cosy talk,” the girl went on. “Imogen is sure to be – oh no, I forgot; Major Rex is off there will be no one especially to claim her this morning.”

Mrs Wentworth closed her lips in a peculiar way but did not reply. Just then Trixie came in, like a whirlwind, as usual, but looking very handsome.

“Where’s Imogen?” she exclaimed. “We’re going to skate – Noll and I and one or two others – and she said she wanted to learn. Is she still asleep?”

“Oh no, she will be down directly, and – if it’s not too cold, and – ” she hesitated, for her faith was small in Trixie. “Would you like to go, dear?” she went on to Imogen, as she made her appearance.

“I have just told Florence I would go,” Imogen answered quietly. “I met her in the hall. She said she had undertaken to look after me. You know I can’t skate a bit, Trixie.”

“Promised Major Winchester to take care of her, you see,” whispered Mabella to Mrs Wentworth, with a smile. And for the life of her, Mrs Wentworth could not repress a certain self-consciousness in her “Perhaps so,” in reply.

How sardonic were Mabella’s inward chuckles of satisfaction!

“It is too good to be true almost, Trixie,” she told her semi-confidante that morning. “Revenged! I should think so, indeed – never was anything so neat in this world.”

But beyond this, not one word would she say.

And in spite of Imogen’s warnings and expressed misgivings, ere the day was many hours older, Miss Forsyth was pretty fairly in possession of all she wanted to know.

“She is so sympathising, and interested in Imogen,” thought Mrs Wentworth, “and I cannot tell what is absolutely untrue.”

But when after events had caused her to qualify Miss Forsyth’s character with very different adjectives, she found it impossible to recall any words of that astute young woman’s which, when repeated, could be fairly said to endorse or strengthen her own belief as to Major Winchester’s attitude towards Imogen. On the contrary, little phrases literally expressive of doubt or perplexity, though contradicted even while uttered by her tone and smile, returned to her memory.

“Of course, I cannot give an opinion, whatever I may think.”

“No, Major Winchester cannot be called a flirt, and every one speaks of him as a most honourable man; but I am not in his confidence, and one can only judge by what one sees.”

“I have been told of some attachment or engagement of old standing, but then one knows how such things often end,” – and so on, all providing a more or less safe shelter for Mabella should she ever be brought to book for her treachery.

And the next two or three days passed like a confused dream to Imogen herself. There were times when she felt girlishly exultant and elated; times when she was half inclined to entreat her mother to keep to their programme (for the original term of their visit expired two days after the theatricals) and leave The Fells before Major Winchester’s return; times when she longed to see him and test her own feelings; times when she dreaded meeting him again more than she could express. But with the obstinacy which I have before alluded to, on one point Mrs Wentworth was immovable. Leave The Fells before his return she absolutely would not. In vain Imogen pleaded that if he “really meant it,” he could follow them, and that it would be both more dignified and “much more comfortable,” to meet again elsewhere.

“It would be the most distinct refusal you could give him under the circumstances,” Mrs Wentworth maintained. “And a man of his age and position must be allowed to take his own way to some extent, even if it be a little eccentric;” adding, in her own mind, “And just supposing he wrote that odd letter impulsively, not being really quite sure of his own mind,” (which was, to do her justice, Mrs Wentworth’s only misgiving), “if he came back and found us gone, and Florence, who I know, does not like us, got hold of him and talked him round, where would we be? We might never hear of or see him again – quite as honourable men as he have backed out of things of the kind before now – and Imogen’s whole career might be spoilt, for of course he would not suppose she had shown me the letter, considering the postscript, and knowing what a punctilious darling she is.”

But these reflections she kept to herself – the effect of revealing them to Imogen would, she felt instinctively, have been disastrous, for the slight strain of coarseness, undeniable in the mother’s nature, despite her real gentleness and unselfishness, would have found no response in the perfect delicacy of the high-minded though undisciplined daughter.

A hint or two to the effect that another week at The Fells would be a convenience as well as a pleasure was cordially responded to by the Wentworths’ hostess. Truth to tell, the seed fell on ground already carefully prepared by Mabella, through Trixie, bribed by the promise of a speedy dénouement of their cherished scheme of revenge.

“I am really pleased to see that Trixie has made such friends with Imogen Wentworth,” said honest Mrs Helmont to her husband. “She is a thoroughly sweet, refined girl. And even Mab seems quieter lately.”

“Trixie was none the worse for her bit of plain-speaking, you see,” said the Squire with satisfaction. “I think I know how to manage that sort of thing when it is really called for, though I have no idea of nagging at the children as some do. I wish poor Florry could pick up her spirits a bit.”

“She misses Rex; he has such a good influence on her,” said Mrs Helmont, “though he has troubles enough of his own, poor fellow. I daresay she is anxious about his troubles too.”

For Florence, of all the party, had perhaps the most perturbed aspect just then. She was both distressed and bewildered – vaguely conscious that mischief was brewing, though unable to define how or where. And her anxiety was not lessened by the perception that Imogen was avoiding her.

“I wish Rex were back,” she said to herself. “And still more I wish he had not left that child in my charge, as he said. What can I do? She gives me no confidence, and she is always with Trixie, just as her silly mother is with Mabella.”

It was true, though the further truth that in those days it was not Imogen seeking Beatrix, but Beatrix Imogen, Beatrix was clever enough to conceal from her elder sister.

“Keep her always in view; for Heaven’s sake don’t let her get confidential with any one else, or it will all be spoilt!” were Mab’s instructions to Trixie.

“She’s not confidential with me; she’s as dull as ditch-water. I’m getting sick of your secret plots and plans that come to nothing,” grumbled Beatrix.

There came a morning, however, when Mabella altered her commands for the day.

“Trixie,” she said, in a low voice, “he– your cousin – is returning this afternoon. His luggage is to be fetched, and he himself is going to walk up from the station. He comes by the 2:15 express. No one is to be told; but I trust to you to let it out to Imogen.”

Beatrix faced round upon her.

“How do you know, if no one is to be told?” she asked sharply. Mabella smiled, a peculiar smile.

“I have ways and means,” she said. “He wrote it to Florence, and I was sitting beside her at breakfast. I knew he would be writing to her when he fixed his return.”

Trixie flamed up; her patience had been over-taxed.

“You mean, despicable – I don’t know what to call you,” she said. “I’ve a great mind to throw it all up, and tell what you’re capable of.”

“As you please,” returned Mabella, coolly. “I’m getting rather sick of it myself. But remember, you can’t tell on me without telling on yourself. It wouldn’t, after all, matter so very much to me, only a house the less to visit at; but it would be uncommonly unpleasant for you. Your father would never forgive you for playing tricks on his guests, and you couldn’t pack up and go off comfortably enough, as I could.”

Trixie looked blacker and blacker; there was truth in Mabella’s words.

“I haven’t played tricks, if it comes to that,” she said. “I’ve only connived, to a certain extent, at what you’re doing; and what you’re after just now I don’t understand in the least.”

“Wait a bit and you’ll see,” said Miss Forsyth. “We may as well have some fun for our pains. Be sensible, Trixie. After all, no one will be any the worse for it in the end, and it will be very wholesome for some people to be brought down a peg or two.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Trixie, sulkily.

“Find ways and means to confide to Imogen that Rex Winchester is coming to-day, and that he will be walking up alone from the station at a certain hour. He wanted Florence to meet him, but she can’t. She had promised to go to Catborough to luncheon. You might insinuate that Florence wants to keep him all to herself, which is true. She never tells any one anything. I often wonder you and Alicia stand it. Ten to one Imogen will jump at the chance of meeting him unobserved. She hates her mother’s silly meddling, I can see.”

“And what will happen then?” demanded Trixie.

“Not much to hurt Imogen – I don’t believe she really cares for him, it’s only gratified vanity – but I hope and believe Major Rex will have a more thoroughly uncomfortable quart d’heure than he has ever experienced,” said Mabella, smacking her lips, so to say, in anticipation. “And you will be revenged, Trix, gloriously revenged on him, for his priggish meddling. And it will be all his own fault! That’s the beauty of it; he won’t be able to blame any one else – not a shadow of suspicion will fall on you or me, if only you are sensible.”

“And,” she added, to herself, in a lower tone, “I shall be revenged. What are Trixie’s babyish wrongs compared to mine?”

Thus worked upon and primed, Beatrix, as usual, agreed to carry out Miss Forsyth’s very precise and exact instructions. But Mabella’s dictatorial and scornful tyranny had overshot the mark.

“I know what she’s after,” thought Trixie. “She’s to have all the fun, to be in at the death; but I’m not. And then she’ll make some flimsy excuse afterwards! I know you, Miss Mabella Forsyth, and I can plot and plan too – ah, well, we shall see.”

It was a bright, clear, slightly frosty day. “The perfection of a day for a quick, brisk walk,” thought Imogen, as in ample time to meet a passenger by the train in question, walking up from the station, she let herself out by a side door which opened on an unobserved path joining the long winding avenue at some distance from the house. It had not been without difficulty that she had escaped from her mother, or avoided telling her of Major Winchester’s return. The girl’s head and heart were in a state of ferment, and to her overstrained nerves Mrs Wentworth’s fidgety excitement and anxiety was becoming almost unendurable. Added to this was a considerable element of perplexity and sore indignation – by every post she had looked for another and more coherent letter.

“After writing like that” she thought, and not unreasonably, “he had no right to leave me all these days in this way.” And now, Trixie’s communications had still farther increased her mental distress by the jealousy of Florence they had skilfully suggested.

“I believe he meant to consult her before he said anything more to me,” thought Imogen, though the next moment her loyal trust in Rex’s perfect honour caused her to discard the notion with disgust at herself for having entertained it. “No, not after going so far,” she reflected. “Yet, but for Trixie, I could never have known he was coming. Poor Trixie! she is far truer after all, than Florence. I wonder if a letter can have miscarried,” was her next idea, and one which so plausibly explained things, that she could not help turning it over and over in her mind. It had already occurred to Mrs Wentworth, and she had not failed to suggest it to Imogen.

“If we knew his address, I almost think you might write to him,” she had said. But Imogen turned upon her sharply.

“If I did, it would only be to enclose his letter in an envelope and send it back to him,” she said. “If – if it is possible that he wrote it impulsively, and is regretting it, do you think I would move one little finger to recall him?”