Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

“The last is sure, thank God for it, to follow on the two others,” her new friend interpolated.

Imogen glanced at her earnestly: the reverent expression struck her. “But,” she went on, “for the thing itself, the miserable mistake and mortification, I don’t think honestly that I was to blame, except that I was silly and, I suppose, vain.”

Her candour impressed the other favourably. It is a proof of real humility to own one’s self vain.

“You must have been very young,” she said almost more gently than she had yet spoken. “Supposing you begin at the now; try to put right some of the wrong you now are conscious of. Do not think me officious or presumptuous,” she added. Then almost in a whisper, “The dying are privileged, you know.”

“Oh, don’t!” Imogen exclaimed, raising her hand as if to ward off an impending blow. Then she answered by a question, “Shall you be here to-morrow morning, about this time?”

“Yes, if it is fine, I think I may say certainly so.”

“I am going to think,” said the girl simply. “And perhaps you will let me talk to you a little more. To-morrow is only Thursday, and we don’t go till Monday. I do hope I have not tired you?” she added anxiously.

“No, truly no. You have interested me very much. And if I can be of even the tiniest bit of help to you, it would be delightful. The feeling one’s self so useless, so condemned to lie still, is almost the worst part of it;” and again the colour rushed over her face.

“I think just to see you is use,” Imogen replied.

Then she went home, and she thought.

And “to-morrow” was fine, and Imogen had not thought in vain, nor had her new friend in any way forgotten her.

“I am going to tell you everything,” said the girl. “I don’t like it at all, even though you do not know my name, and perhaps we may never meet again. But I know I can trust you, and I want you to say plain, even hard things to me, if you think I need them.”

Then followed the story – simple enough, after all, which we know.

The invalid listened intently. Once or twice, when Imogen came to the climax of the changed letters, alluding, though but slightly, to her faint suspicion that all had not been mere accident in the little drama, she started as a restrained exclamation of pity or of indignation, perhaps of both, rose to her lips. But when Imogen had finished, quite finished, though she took her hand and held it, for some moments she did not speak. Then said the girl, waxing impatient, as was her way:

“Why don’t you say something? I told you I would not mind plain-speaking or hard speaking. Do you think me beneath contempt?”

“My dear,” said the older woman, with a touch of reproach, as she pressed the restless little hand, “I was thinking. I won’t attempt to say what I feel for you; I might say too much. Just be satisfied that I do feel for you intensely. I think it was a cruel, a really cruel trial; and if any one was an active agent in it – no, it is best not to say what I could say of such wickedness. The word is not too strong; but let us put all that aside. If so cruel a trial and mortification were sent to you, it was for a good purpose. That is a truism; but truisms are useful sometimes. Special suffering – and I do think it was very special and unusual – is meant to show special possibilities for good in those it comes to. That should take away some of the bitterness of the mortification, should it not, by helping you to rise above it?”

It was the second time in her little speech that she used the word, and as she laid a slight emphasis on it, she looked at Imogen keenly. It is not a pleasant word to have applied to one’s self, but the girl did not resent it. She only repeated it inquiringly.

“Mortification?” she said. “Yes, of course I know there was a good deal of that in it;” and her colour deepened. “But, that couldn’t have been the worst of it. I was – I had got to be very fond of him– of the person it was all about.”

“Naturally so,” said the invalid. “I don’t see how you could have helped it. And he deserved it. You need not feel ashamed of having cared for a man such as – as you describe. But – yes, I think the mortification was the worst of it, and the part that has left you so sore and morbid. I don’t think – and remember you told me to speak plainly – you can have been what is called ‘in love’ with him. You were more in love with the idea of it all. The sort of romance of it, and the girlish pride in being so quickly chosen, and your mothers gratification too.”

“It is true,” said Imogen, “that at the very first, when I thought it was really going to be, I wasn’t at all sure if I was glad or not. I was more frightened and worried than glad. But mamma said girls often feel as if they didn’t know their own minds.”

“Perhaps; but not exactly as you felt. Then there is another thing. I think and believe you would be capable of a very true and unselfish love. Now, if yours for him had been like this, it would not have spoilt your life hitherto as you tell me it has been spoilt. You would have been thankful to know the mistake had not caused him suffering. Oh, my child, that is the bitterest, to know that we have been the cause, however innocently, of sorrow to those we love better than ourselves!”

Her words and manner almost overawed Imogen. But after a little pause she replied:

“No,” she said, honestly, “I certainly did not care for him like that. I was even almost glad to think he had suffered a little. For though, of course, he was not the least atom in the world in love with me, he was unselfish. I know he was dreadfully sorry for me. But, after all, if it was more the mortification than – than any better feeling, how does that help me?”

“Because it is so clearly wrong– even ‘lowering,’ to use your own word – and it should be and must be so possible for you to throw it off and start afresh.”

Imogen raised her head; there was something inspiriting in the last words.

“What should I do?” she asked gently, but eagerly too.

And an earnest consultation followed.

The next day was rainy. Then came Saturday, fine and mild again – the last but one of the Wentworths’ stay at Tormouth. Imogen stole down for a few minutes to the sheltered nook where she had found her new friend.

Yes, she was there.

“I felt that I must see you – for a moment,” said the girl, “though I cannot stay, and I know you have friends coming to see you to-day. But I had to thank you again, and I want to tell you that I have told my mother I will do exactly what she wishes; so we are going to London on Monday to look for a house, and poor mamsey is so pleased. And I am going to follow your advice about everything. I am not going to be idle and useless any more.”

The tears were in the stranger’s eyes by this time.

“Dear child,” she said, “I am so glad.”

“Would you like to know my name?” the girl went on simply. “I thought at first I could not bear to tell it you; but if that is foolish and false pride, and if you would tell me yours?”

“No, dear,” the invalid replied. “Do not tell it to me. And I will not tell you mine. I think it would a little spoil the charm of our friendship, and there might come times at which you would wish you had not confided in me. No, I shall never forget you. And you may feel that your secret is as safe as it can be, for – ”

“I know what you are going to say, but please don’t. You may get better for a while: do let me think so.”

The dying girl shook her head, though she smiled – yes, her own sweet smile. And this was Imogen’s last remembrance of her. So when, some few months later, in the daily list of deaths came the name of “Eveleen, only surviving daughter of General Sir Jocelyn Lesley, etc, etc, aged 28,” it called forth no remark from the girl whose eye it caught for a moment, save that of ”‘Eveleen Lesley.’ What a pretty name! And Eveleen spelt the Irish way.”

“Is it a marriage?” asked Mrs Wentworth across the table.

“No,” Imogen replied, with a softened tone in her voice, “it’s somebody dead. But not a very young girl.”

Five years later, and The Fells again, in its normal condition of hospitable cheeriness, and with, at the first glance, but few changes. The Squire is a little greyer, perhaps – a little greyer and a little stouter – and Mrs Helmont a trifle more grandmotherly in bearing and appearance. And the handsome figure and face of wild Trixie are conspicuous by their absence; for she is married and away – far away with her husband and his regiment in India, learning wisdom and other good things, it is to be hoped, by experience. In her stead there sits Lady Lucy, the pretty and irreproachable, though decidedly uninteresting, wife of Captain Helmont. Alicia and Florence are both in their usual places.

It is breakfast-time, and newspapers are handed about. From Oliver at one corner there comes an exclamation:

“I say, did any of you know that Robin – Robin Winchester was going to be married? Not going to be, he is married, and guess to whom – that’s to say, if you remember her.”

“Who?” said Alicia, languidly.

“That pretty, spoilt little girl who stayed here once, ages ago, before Trixie was married. What was her name – Gwendolin? No; Imogen Wentworth.”

“Dear me, how very odd!” said Alicia, with more interest in her tone. “They met here, then; no, they didn’t – did they, Florence?”

“They did meet, but only just,” said Florence; “still, I believe Robin dates his falling in love with her from then.”

Her father and mother turned to her. “Then you knew about it; you might have told us. Indeed, for the matter of that, Master Robin might have told us himself,” said the Squire.

“He is only a second-cousin after all,” said Florence, “and we never had seen anything of him scarcely. We never knew him like Rex – in the old days. And I believe he has been very little in England all these years.”

“We have seen little enough of Rex for a long time,” said Mrs Helmont. “Poor Rex! why, he always called us uncle and aunt, you remember, my dear. I suppose he has never got over poor Eva’s death. But I think the girl’s mother might have let me know. I always meant to ask them here again – indeed I think I did once – but something came in the way. Who told you about it, Florry?”

“I only heard it vaguely, some months ago, from Rex himself, as a thing that would be some day, but not an announced engagement. And this very morning I have a letter from him. It appears Mrs Wentworth is dead: she had a very long and painful illness, and her daughter would not leave her. Rex speaks of Imogen very highly. I think he seems quite cheered by the marriage.”

“We must ask them down: don’t forget about it, my dear,” said the hospitable Squire.