Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

“It is far more than I deserve. They are good, truly good women,” said Rex, in reply to Florence’s remark. And this, in her heart, his cousin endorsed. “Rex has been foolish – very foolish,” she said to herself. “But he has done his best to put things straight. After all, poor child, she will outlive it. It seems to have left a mark on him, however. He looks ten years older than when he went away.”

Some one else was remarking this with satisfaction.

“It has hit him in a tender point, I delighted to see,” Miss Forsyth was saying to herself. “Major Reginald Winchester, the mirror of chivalry and honour, to have flirted so egregiously with an inexperienced little fool, as to have brought her to the brink of a brain fever and goodness knows what not: it would be a nice story to tell, if I could tell it, which, alas! I fear I can’t. But, after all, it is not the publishing it I care about; it is the delight of knowing I have scored one against him.”

He caught her eye fixed upon him with something almost diabolical in its malice, and his strange suspicions redoubled. Then came his talk with Robin.

“Why did Eva not write to me direct – telegraph – anything?” he said at first, with a touch of impatience, when he had heard what his brother had to tell.

“Telegraphing would have done no good. Then she wanted to save you annoyance, to spare your ever hearing of the – mistake – at all, if possible,” was the reasonable reply. “Don’t you see, if the Miss Wentworth whose note she received had been an elderly spinster, no harm would have been done; at least so Eva thought, though I am not sure that I agree with her,” with a touch of grim humour.

“I have told her about Imogen,” said Rex. “Not by her surname. Eva specially says she had never heard of a Miss Wentworth. That postscript was so extraordinarily unlucky too,” he added reflectively.

“Angey particularly wanted no one to know the exact date of the operation.”

“And the confusion between the names – Evangeline and Eveleen,” Robin went on.

“Upon my word, I never knew anything like it. It is as if malicious imps had been told off to play into that – into Miss Forsyth’s hands. If she– if Miss Wentworth gets ill, and anything happens to her, I, for one, shall feel as if she had been murdered.”

Rex could bear no more.

“Robin,” he exclaimed, “do you want to send me out of my mind? In your – only natural, I allow” – and he threw a quick and searching glance at his brother – “feeling for her, you seem to think I have no feeling at all. Keep to the point. What motive had that woman in doing as she did? and how can she be shown up and punished?”

“Spite,” answered Robin. “Spite, at her, Imogen, or you; that is my answer to the first question. And – ”

“She has no special motive for malevolence at me,” interrupted Rex, “and her jealousy of Imogen can scarcely be so deep-seated. Beatrix hates me, in her mad, reckless way, for getting her a scolding, as she would express it; but even she, wild as she is – ”

“Would have hesitated to open two envelopes, read their contents, and fasten them up again, after changing the letters,” said Robin. “Well, yes, it is to be hoped so; at least, I can’t help hoping so, considering she’s our cousin.”

“And you are certain, entirely certain, that the letters were rightly put in at first?” repeated his brother.

“Absolutely, entirely certain that the one I shut into the envelope addressed to Miss Wentworth was for Miss Wentworth. Yes, as certain as that I’m sitting on this chair. And I am also absolutely certain that as I was crossing the outer hall to look if the dogcart had come, I saw Miss Forsyth come down-stairs and stop at the table where notes and letters for the post always lie, and stand there looking at the letters. There was no one about; everybody was late that morning except ourselves, and Florence, and that woman. But that is all I can vouch for, though Trixie’s terror made me surer than ever.”

“Do you think she knew?”

Robin shook his head.

“I can’t say. Perhaps not all the details; but she tacitly owned to a plot of some kind.”

“If I can frighten Miss Forsyth into silence, that is the best we can hope for, I suppose,” said Rex.

“The best one should hope for, I should say,” Robin replied. “Of course one yearns to expose that woman, but the real concern is to shield Miss Wentworth. Miss Forsyth has put herself beneath contempt. I care nothing about her, provided we can stop her making a good story of it and – and getting Imogen laughed at; and you, too, for that matter.”

“Don’t take me into consideration,” said his brother.

“Not for Eva’s sake?” suggested Robin, gently.

“Eva would only feel as I do,” said Major Winchester. “Her whole sympathies will be with Miss Wentworth.”

“She is an angel, I know,” said Robin. “Well, keep cool about it, Rex, and be prepared for Miss Forsyth if you see your chance.”

Major Winchester had not to wait for it, nor did it come in any way such as could have been predicted. He was off the next morning, almost as soon as it was light, and did not return till about three in the afternoon. As he came up the drive, tired and depressed, with every step the painful scenes of the day before seemed to be re-enacted. He could not forgive himself, even though it was difficult to define precisely where and how he had been to blame. But he found no difficulty in defining and concentrating his overwhelming indignation. Instead of at all softening it, the last few hours had increased it tenfold. And now that, to a certain extent, Imogen was beyond the reach of Miss Forsyth’s malevolence, Rex almost felt as if silence were becoming impossible to him.

“She must be exposed,” he muttered to himself, “so that every honourable door may be closed to her. At all costs I cannot see that she should be allowed to get off scot-free.”

So thinking, he did not at once notice steps coming quickly behind him, nor till he heard his own name pronounced, in a mocking tone, did he realise that some one was overtaking him.

“It is you, Major Winchester, is it? This is your first appearance here to-day. You were off betimes this morning; early starts seem to be the order of the day with you.”

The effrontery of this greeting – for the voice was Mabella’s – almost took away Rex’s presence of mind and power of speech. He soon recovered them, however, and turning sharply, faced her.

“Yes, Miss Forsyth,” he said, quickly, “it is I. If you have anything to say to me, say it; if not, be so good as to walk on. Unfortunately, there are not two roads to the house from here.”

She laughed; there was not a trace of nervousness in her laugh.

“You are no diplomatist, Major Winchester. Here you are showing your colours to the enemy at once, before you have really any to show.”

“I have not the slightest objection to your knowing what I was thinking about,” he said. “I am only considering whether I shall expose you, or whether, for the sake of others, I must leave you to the punishment which is sure to come sooner or later, even if I have no hand in bringing it upon you.”

“Goody-goody talk runs off me like water off a duck’s back, I warn you,” she said. “Keep to common-sense, if you please. I shall not pretend I don’t know what you mean; I do perfectly, and I intend to treat you with entire candour. What I would ask you is this: how can you ‘expose me’ – to use your courteous phrase – without proof, reliable and certain, that I am guilty? Such proof you know you have not got. All you can say is that your brother saw me standing at the table whereon lay the two letters in question. Is it likely that people would believe that I, a lady born and bred, would have done such an unheard-of thing as to open them, read them, and change their envelopes? And when the circumstances are explained further, of your agitation and hurry that morning, do you think you would gain much by your attempt at showing me up?” He was silent for a moment. Then, “Yes,” he said, “I believe my story would be accepted. There is not only this last distinct act; there is the whole string of misleading remarks and suggestions on your part, and,” – he hesitated to name her – “Trixie’s, which show the plot into which, Heaven knows why, you inveigled that misguided girl as a fellow-conspirator.”

“Ah, Trixie,” she said. “I will revert to her in a moment, though, en passant, I may tell you there was not much ‘inveigling’ required on my part. Your cousin Beatrix hates you, Major Winchester, with a very pretty hatred;” and she laughed gently, delighted to see that he started a little. If “hate” was not a pleasant word on Imogen’s childish lips, it did not gain when pronounced by Mabella.

“Yes,” she went on, “she hates you, though not as – But that will keep. But what I am going to say will indeed surprise you. I am going to treat you with unheard-of generosity – to furnish you myself with the necessary weapons. Here they are. You are perfectly correct in your surmises. I did open the envelopes and change their contents, not out of mischief, but from a far deeper motive; and I did, and have done, and meant to do all I possibly could to mislead that silly woman and her daughter into believing you were in love with the girl, and on the point of proposing to her; in which scheme I persuaded Trixie to join me, even as far as I remember, before they came. There, now, what do you say to that?”

“Why do you tell it me?” he asked. “If it is with any idea that your confession may force me to be silent, I – ”

“Nonsense,” she said. “It is not a confession; that word is associated with penitence and coming for forgiveness. I am not penitent. I glory in what I have done. I triumph in it. And you will be silent. You cannot tell the story without making that girl a laughing-stock, even if people believed you – which I doubt – for you would scarcely like to say you were publishing what you call my ‘confession.’ And nothing, no word or sentence I have said to Mrs Wentworth, but could be naturally and innocently explained, and every one can see what a fool she is. And still more, you cannot tell the story without incriminating Trixie. Indeed, the moment I find you telling it, I shall tell her part of it. That would be very nice; your own cousin, the daughter, of the relatives you owe so much kindness to. For you know the Squire would be capable of turning her out-of-doors for such dishonourable breach of hospitality to guests.”

It was all quite true.

“Why have you told me, then?” he asked.

“Because I wanted to come to an understanding; to show you that you had better decide not to tell I shall not tell, for the story is nothing to me. I am leaving Grey Fells at once, and I don’t think I care to return. I am sick of Trixie’s atrocious temper, and I have got what I stayed for.”

“What was that?” he added. There was a curious fascination about the girl, with her entire absence of principle and absolute indifference to his opinion.

“My revenge,” she said quietly. “Not as much as I could have wished. I should not be easily satisfied; but it is better than nothing. I have made you suffer. I have lowered you in your own estimation. I have touched you in a tender part, for you know that Imogen Wentworth’s sunny girlhood is gone – gone for ever; she will never be the same again, and all through you?”

He winced, and she saw it.

“And why, may I ask, mystery of mysteries, have you condescended to this flattering interest in me? When and how did I incur the honour of offending you?”

His sarcasm made her for the first time lose a little of her self-control. Her black eyes positively glared as she went a step or two nearer him.

“The day you warned Harry Curzon against marrying me,” she replied. “Do you remember? You are good at that sort of dirty work; insolent meddling is rather a speciality of yours. Still, I think you cannot have forgotten this particular case.”

Rex grew visibly paler. Yes, he remembered. But without waiting for his reply, Mabella turned and fled swiftly up the avenue to the house. And she left The Fells the next day.