Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

It had been several years ago – five or six. Harry Curzon was a subaltern in his own regiment – handsome, attractive, weak, and easily influenced; and Rex had warned him against the, even then, fast and noisy and unscrupulous girl. He had thought it his duty, and he thought it might save Harry. It had not done so. The young man had gone from bad to worse, and the watching his downward career had been one of the saddest pages in Rex Winchester’s life. But as he glanced up the darkening road after Mabella’s retreating figure, a strange pity thrilled him.

“They say no one is all bad,” he thought to himself. “I suppose it is possible she really loved that poor, foolish fellow.”

Chapter Thirteen

Eva

Late autumn again. A year, a year fully since Imogen and her mother left The Fells that bright, chilly November morning. Since then their life had been a wandering and unsettled one. Mrs Wentworth’s dreams of a modest season in London had not been realised, for Imogen had shrunk from anything and everything of the kind. So, having disposed of their house at Eastbourne, they had travelled about aimlessly enough, the one guiding influence the girl’s fancy for the time being. For Mrs Wentworth had entirely, as the French say, “effaced herself” for her child. And in this there was a strong element of not altogether undeserved self-reproach, as well as of adoring maternal devotion.

Of course it had not been wisely done, but she was not a “wise” person. And the very unwisdom of her devotion should have touched a nature essentially generous as was Imogen’s. It did so from time to time, but not lastingly; only adding, therefore, to the poor girl’s restlessness and irritability, new and perplexing developments in her character.

They had been abroad for some months, and were now, when we meet them again, hesitating as to their winter destination. For once, there had been a diversity of opinion; that is to say, for once, Mrs Wentworth had expressed a wish, and Imogen had dissented from it. That this had not already occurred was no thanks to the latter, as with the spirit of contradiction fast becoming chronic in the formerly sweet-tempered and still gentle girl, it is much to be doubted if she would not have opposed any distinct suggestion. But hitherto every proposal had emanated from herself. That her mother had at last made one was due to the influence of Mrs Hume, Imogen’s sensible though not peculiarly refined godmother, who had of necessity been taken to a certain extent into the Wentworths’ confidence.

“You are ruining her,” Mrs Hume said, without beating about the bush; “ruining her character, and laying up a store of future discontent and misery for her. Never marry! tut, tut, nonsense! She’s not twenty yet; of course she’ll marry. And even if she never did? Much better have a settled, respectable ladylike home of your own than go wandering about in this purposeless fashion, as if there were some mystery about you. You have money enough to live very nicely: make your headquarters in London, which you will like yourself, and where Imogen can find something to do. She is not too old to have some lessons and girls do all sorts of things nowadays – cooking, ambulance classes, meddling and muddling about among the poor. It’s all very wholesome for them, and Imogen would get to like London.”

But no; Imogen would not hear of it. She was not going to like anything. She would take no interest in the idea of furnishing a pretty little house and making some pleasant acquaintances; she had, or imagined she had, a morbid terror of going into society, for fear her tragic story should be known; she had taken up the rôle of a being a part– a Mariana, without Mariana’s ghostly and illusive hope. She had nothing to watch or listen for; still, that made it no better: if she could neither watch nor listen, she would at least do nothing else. Far ahead in the dim future, when “mamsey,” somehow or other – she did not define how, for she was too true-hearted to say “when mamsey dies” – would no longer need her, she had sketched out for herself a shadowy possibility.

“I will become a Sister,” she used to think, as if for such a life no qualification were wanted but the having lost heart and interest in everything else! – while a not unpleasing vision of herself in trailing and sombre garments, pale face, and unearthly eyes, carrying solace and sympathy by her very presence to the “haunts of wretchedness” of which she knew naught but the name, or lost in devotion through long hours of midnight vigil in some dimly-lighted chapel, rose before her eyes – all, as Mrs Hume’s rough common-sense had already in its way perceived, centring round “self.” For of the real meaning of religion, apart from sentiment and self-seeking, it is to be feared that the poor child as yet knew not even the alphabet.

It was in this mood that she was pacing the sands one mild morning, tempted out by the soft sunshine and unusual stillness of the air, unusual at that season, even at the seaside winter resort where for the time they were staying. She had come out alone, for the discussion as to their future plans had begun again at breakfast, ending in a nearer approach to positive disagreement than had yet come to pass. For Mrs Wentworth’s eyes were opening, and she was growing more rationally anxious about Imogen every day.

“I can’t think what has made mamma take up that craze about London,” she thought. “I should detest it; at least,” – for, after all, London was an unknown quantity to Imogen, and at twenty there is charm in that very fact – “I am sure I should, though I daresay other girls would like it. But – ”

At that moment she became aware that she had all but run against a Bath chair, drawn up in a sheltered position below the rough cliff-like bank.

“I – I beg your pardon,” she said hastily, fearing lest she had jarred the chair and its invalid occupant.

“It does not matter the least,” a sweet, bright, though feeble voice replied; and looking up, Imogen saw, half lying, half sitting, a girl – quite a young girl she seemed at first sight – whose exquisite complexion and brilliantly beautiful eyes told their own sad tale, even without the cough which quickly followed her few quick words.

“I am so sorry,” Imogen could not avoid saying, imagining that she had agitated the young lady.

“Oh no!” the stranger went on, when, after a moment or two, she had recovered her breath and voice, “it was not you at all. I made myself cough by trying to reach my book, which had fallen down. If you would be so kind – oh! thank you so much,” as Imogen eagerly started forward to pick it up. “It is my own fault, for I sent my maid home, and I never care to keep the chairman standing about. I love to be alone when I am pretty well, as I am this morning.”

Imogen gazed at her with eyes full of wondering pity. How could she be so cheerful? She had heard that consumptive patients never realise their state: it must be so in this case.

“I must not disturb you,” she said gently.

“It is a very nice mild day. May I say that I hope the air here will do you a great deal of good?” and she was moving on when the invalid stopped her.

“Do stay and talk to me for a minute or two, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I have noticed you passing so often; now and then with – your mother, I suppose?”

Imogen gave a sign of assent.

“But more often alone. And I wondered – ” But here she stopped rather abruptly. Imogen looked up; she was carrying a little folding-stool, which she set down beside the stranger’s chair. “I am rather tired,” she said with a sigh; “but please, what did you wonder?” The young lady smiled, but shook her head “No,” she said, “I don’t think I will tell you: it might sound impertinent – from an utter stranger. If – if possibly I got to know you even a little, I think I would say it.”

“That is not likely to happen, I fear,” Imogen answered. “We are leaving here on Monday. Are you going to stay all the winter?”

For the first time a rush of sudden colour overspread the lovely face, leaving it more delicately pale than before. Imogen began to change her mind about the girl’s age. Something in her tone and manner made her feel as if the invalid were some years her senior; a slight, very slight touch of gentle authority made itself felt, as if the speaker were not accustomed to have her words or opinion lightly set aside.

“I do not know about the whole winter,” she replied. “But I feel sure – quite sure – I shall never be able to go abroad, as my friends are still hoping. We are to have a grand consultation in a day or two: others of my friends are coming on Saturday.”

“But you could scarcely find a milder place in England than this,” said Imogen, a little puzzled by her manner.

“No: that is why I shall stay here, till – till I go still farther away,” said the invalid gently. “And yet it cannot be really far away – not from those we love,” she added, as if speaking to herself, while her beautiful eyes seemed to be gazing at unseen things.

Imogen did not speak; and when the stranger glanced at her again, she was startled to see some large tears stealing down the girl’s face.

“My dear child!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Imogen, “I am crying. I think it is dreadful. I think nearly everything is dreadful in the world. Why should you have to die, so beautiful and so good – I can feel you are good; and why should I, though I’m not good at all, be so very unhappy?”

Then, not a little ashamed of herself, she started up.

“I shall only do you harm if I talk to you,” she said. “Good-bye. Oh! don’t you think perhaps you will get better after all?”

She held out her hand; the lady took it and held it.

“No,” she said, “that cannot be. And, believe me, there is nothing dreadful in it all to me now. The struggle is over both for me and, I hope, even for those who love me most. It is all right. But thank you for your sweet sympathy. Do not mind about me, however. You have said of yourself what I hesitated to say. I was wondering why you looked so sad, and I see it is true that you are not happy. Yet – ” She glanced at Imogen’s pretty fur-trimmed winter dress, “you are not in mourning; you have your mother, and health and youth, and – plenty of things both useful and pleasant to do?”

“I don’t do them,” the girl replied bluntly. “I suppose they are there, if I cared to look for them. But I have no heart or interest in anything. I was really ill last year – last winter – rather badly, and I got into lazy ways, I suppose, and – and – oh, I’m just unhappy, and I don’t see why I should be, and why there should be so many things all wrong and sad.”

“If we could see the ‘why’ of such things, the wrongness and the sadness would be gone,” said the invalid.

Imogen looked perplexed.

“Ye-es,” she said. “Yes; if we saw it was a good ‘why,’ of course it would seem different.”

“Then should we not believe it is a good ‘why?’” and the young lady smiled again.

“I suppose we should,” Imogen allowed.

“There is one thing that all who know anything about human nature agree upon,” said the invalid, “and that is, that without suffering, without having suffered, we should be very poor creatures indeed; we should scarcely be at the beginning of better things.”

“Yea, suffering like yours – high and good and noble sort of suffering,” said Imogen. “And suffering borne meekly and patiently and cheerfully – that’s quite different. But when it’s only selfish, and mostly your own fault, and when you do nothing but kick at it and feel horrid – ”

The invalid smiled again.

“If we were able at once to accept and bear patiently the suffering, we should not need its discipline,” she said. “No, it goes deeper and wider than that. Suffering is the door opening for us – opening on to the higher road.”

Imogen was silent. She was impressed, but still perplexed.

“Mine – the – the trial or disappointment, or whatever it should be called, that spoilt my life was not like that. It seemed only lowering– only degrading.”

“Don’t say that!” the invalid exclaimed eagerly. “Nothing can degrade us but our own wrong-doing, and the true lowering is that which lowers us only to raise us higher in the end.”

Imogen considered.

“I don’t know that I quite understand you,” she said. “I am afraid you are too clever for me. I am not clever, and I have never thought much about religious things; they seem so dull and difficult – at least nearly always. I know I am wrong now; I am useless and selfish and discontented.”