Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

So that, in spite of her really friendly feelings to the mother and daughter – her own peculiar guests indeed – it can easily be understood that the announcement of their premature arrival was not a joyful one in her ears.

“Come!” she repeated to the maid who had disinterred her and the old housekeeper in the linen-room, where she was really enjoying herself, “you don’t say so. At this time of day! it is too provoking. My cap is all on one side, I’m certain, and we were just getting into the new pillow-cases, Baxter. The girls will be so put out too. And Florence gone for me to Culvey! Alicia is sure to be asleep. I must go – it will all have to stand over, Baxter; you must put everything back again,” and with a very natural sigh the poor lady prepared to descend to the morning-room.

She was hospitable and kind, but of a slightly less easy-going nature than her husband and family in general: in reality she was less selfish. But she did not show to advantage as the chatelaine of The Fells, when she entered the morning-room, feeling and looking worried and perplexed.

“So glad to see you, so sorry I was not down-stairs!” she said in a somewhat constrained tone, as Mrs Wentworth pressed forward effusively. And the cheek which received the visitor’s kiss was quickly turned away. “Your daughter? ah, yes, of course. I remember. You have a son too? No? Oh, I am confusing you with Mrs – Why, Trixie, you here!” in a tone of extremest surprise. “Wonders will never cease! Can she be going to turn over a new leaf?” she asked herself mentally. Anyway, it was a convenience for the time being to have one daughter at hand; “perhaps what her father said to her this morning is going to have some effect,” she went on to herself, feeling by no means disposed in the present emergency to quarrel with the goods the gods sent her, even though they were but Beatrix.

“I was just thinking that, perhaps, Mrs Wentworth and Miss – No?” In response to a smiling gesture of deprecation from her new friend, “am I really to call you Imogen; that is sweet of you.” This was going a little too far. An undisguised frown on her cousin’s face startled Trixie a little. “I was thinking,” she repeated in a more natural tone, “that, perhaps, they would like to see their rooms.”

“Very decidedly so, I should say,” replied Major Winchester sharply.

Beatrix turned to her mother.

“Which rooms, mamma?” she said in a low tone. But Imogen overheard it. “Fancy,” she thought, with a little thrill of disappointment, “fancy her not knowing. Why, if they had been coming to stay with us, I would have been running about to get flowers for their toilet-tables, and all sorts of things like that. But, I suppose, it is different when people have so many visitors.”

The momentary feeling, however, was visible, as were most of the girl’s feelings to quick observation at least, on her transparent countenance. As she raised her sweet eyes, she caught Major Winchester’s fixed on her with a curious expression. She felt herself flush a little.

“I do believe he knows what I am thinking,” she said to herself, with a strange mingling of pleasure and annoyance, “and I have not known him two hours!”

But the sound of Mrs Helmont’s voice recalled her to practical matters.

“The brown room and the little pink room beside it; you know, Trixie, in the corner by the west staircase. Only – I am really so vexed – I am afraid your room is not quite ready, Mrs Wentworth, you see – ”

“Mrs Wentworth,” repeated the owner of the name reproachfully, “am I not to be ‘Lucy’ to you, dear Mrs Helmont?”

At another time the good lady would probably have been touched and would have responded kindly, but just now she was thoroughly put out.

“It is twenty years, if not more, since we met, and then only for a couple of days. I really had not the least idea what your name was; but the question is your room. – Trixie!” glancing round despairingly.

Mrs Wentworth put a brave effort on herself; she was determined that Imogen should not suspect she was feeling mortified.

“What does it matter about my room?” she said, laughingly. “I can’t allow you to treat me as quite a stranger, even though you had forgotten my name. Can’t I take off my wraps in – ” “In Beatrix’s room,” she was going to have said, but she was interrupted.

“In mine,” said a new-comer. “It is Mrs and Miss Wentworth, is it not? I heard of some arrival, and knowing Florence was out, and you busy, dear Mrs Helmont, mayn’t I be of a little use for once?” and Miss Forsyth – for she it was – drew near her hostess with an air of half-timid deprecation. Mrs Helmont felt completely bewildered. She had little presence of mind at any time, and this extraordinary metamorphosis was too much for her. Major Winchester, be it observed, had before this taken his departure.

“I – I am sure I have never refused to let you be of use, Mabella,” said the elder lady, rather stiffly.

Miss Forsyth drew still nearer, and whispered a word or two in her ear. Mrs Helmont’s face softened.

“Now, Mrs Wentworth, do come with me,” said the young woman. “My room is next to Trixie’s, where I know she is dying to take your daughter. I can lend you anything – slippers, brushes, combs – even a tea-gown if your dress is damp, and if you would so far condescend?”

Mrs Wentworth looked at her. Miss Forsyth was undeniably plain, almost coarse-looking. Her features were large, her complexion swarthy; the only redeeming point, as not infrequently is the case with otherwise ugly people, was her eyes. They were large and dark, and therefore supposed to be beautiful.

“She has nice eyes,” thought Mrs Wentworth, “and she seems very amiable. For such a plain girl to be amiable she must be very amiable, I should say. – And thank you very much, Miss – ” And she hesitated.

“Forsyth,” said Mrs Helmont. “Miss Forsyth is a very frequent visitor with us,” she went on, her conscience smiting her a little for making over these innocent lambs to the wolf Mabella, whom, truth to tell, she herself was not a little afraid of. But Baxter would not have got all the linen put away yet: there would be time for her to resume and complete the interesting review of her possessions before luncheon if she went at once.

“If you will be so kind, Mabella,” she went on. – “You, dear Mrs Wentworth, will, I know, excuse me. I really am very busy this morning.”

“Of course, of course,” cried Imogen’s mother, delighted to have won the gratifying adjective. “We shall be perfectly happy. – Thank you so much, Miss Forsyth,” and she turned to follow Mabella, Beatrix and the other victim having already disappeared. Trixie managed to hang back on the stairs, however, and to exchange an aside with her double.

“I like you,” she said, “preaching to me about not overdoing it, and there you are, humbugging away to such an extent. Any fool could see you were up to mischief.”

“I know what I’m about, thank you,” said Miss Forsyth. “If you manage your part of it as well, you’ll have no reason to turn upon me. Your mother is incapable of more than one idea at a time, and just now her only thought is to hand over these people to somebody or anybody till luncheon time.”

And long before luncheon time one part of Mabella’s task was accomplished. She had won thoroughly and completely Mrs Wentworth’s confidence, and this with so little difficulty that she almost despised herself as well as her unconscious victim for the ease of the achievement.

“She is charming,” said poor Mrs Wentworth, when at last she found herself alone with her daughter, “quite charming, so kind and unselfish. I really must say I should have felt just a little, a very little strange and uncomfortable arriving so early, and poor dear Mrs Helmont so busy and the elder girls out, if it hadn’t been for Miss Forsyth. It shows how unwise it is to judge by appearances; at first, I confess, I did not at all feel as if I should take to her.”

“I never shall take to her,” said Imogen, bluntly; “I can’t bear her. She has a sort of patronising way that I think is perfectly horrid. Still, I’m glad if she made you more comfortable. I felt horribly uncomfortable, and I don’t think Mrs Helmont is ‘poor dear’ at all: she really didn’t seem the very least glad to see us – hardly as if she knew whom we were. I felt inclined to beg you to go back to London again.”

“My darling!” exclaimed Mrs Wentworth in horror.

They were in Imogen’s room – which was at last ready – doing their best, though without their luggage, to make themselves presentable for luncheon.

“Yes,” said Imogen. “I did, indeed. And I felt very cross with you too, mamsey, for it really was all with you insisting on coming so long before they expected us: it was a stupid thing to do. Trixie allowed that it was, though she’s as nice as can be. She made me feel at home almost at once, I must say.”

“I am so glad,” said Mrs Wentworth, fervently.

“All the same.” Imogen went on thoughtfully, “I think I understand what Major Winchester meant.” Was it fancy, or did a faint, the very faintest pink flush steal over her face at the mere mention of his name?

“How do you mean, darling?” asked her mother. “You seem to have made great friends with this Major Winchester already.”

“Nonsense, mamsey!” said Imogen, not too respectfully, it must be allowed; “he was very kind to us, and of course it was natural for him to tell me a little about the girls, when he saw I was so anxious to know. He likes Florence much the best; but in spite of what he said, I am not sure that I shall. There is a great deal of good in Trixie, I am sure. She has been telling me about herself: she has been spoilt and selfish, she says, and rather wild. And though she didn’t say so, I fancy Miss Forsyth has not had a good influence on her. That’s why I don’t like her.”

“My dear, you must not jump to conclusions so quickly,” remonstrated Mrs Wentworth.

“I’m not jumping more quickly than you, mamma,” Imogen replied. “You have made up your mind that Miss Forsyth is all that is delightful; I only say I don’t think so. I did not at first think I should like Trixie particularly, except that she really met us very kindly. But she seemed to me to have something rather hard about her; only now I understand it.” Imogen paused for a moment, as if thinking out something to herself, and that not with perfect satisfaction – “at least I think I do. They don’t understand her; she wants to be nice and good, I’m sure, but nobody believes her. Major Winchester is dreadfully down upon her, she says; he can’t bear girls who are at all loud, you know, or fast. And poor Trixie has no friend to help her at all. She says she does so hope we shall be friends, mamsey.”

“Yes, dearest, I am sure she will learn nothing but good from you,” said Mrs Wentworth, well pleased. “It is very evident that he appreciates Imogen already,” she added, to herself with a little thrill of maternal pride. “But, darling, we must be quick. I do hope the luncheon bell hasn’t gone without us hearing it, and I’m half afraid I don’t remember the way to the dining-room.”

“We needn’t go straight there,” said Imogen. “Trixie said we should find some of them in the morning-room. You look quite right, mamsey; you do really. But oh dear! I do wish we hadn’t arrived before our luggage and Colman, my boots do clump so. Trixie offered to lend me a pair of shoes, but I could see hers would be too big, so I said I didn’t mind keeping on my boots.”

“Your feet are so tiny; just the least little atom longer than mine,” said her mother, with an amusing mixture of admiration and self-complacency. “And mine were always spoken of as quite extraordinary. Your dear father used to wonder how I could walk upon them.”

“Well, in India that didn’t matter much, as nobody ever does walk – not what I call walking,” Imogen remarked.

And thus chattering, with the real though unavowed motive of keeping up their courage and keeping down their shyness, the mother and daughter slowly descended the great wide shallow-stepped staircase which led to the hall.

Chapter Five

The Duties of Hospitality

They heard voices in the direction of the morning-room, so thither they turned their steps. The morning-room opened at one side into the large dining-room, on the other into the library. The doors of communication between all these were now open, and bright fires were burning in each. To Imogen, at the first glance, it seemed as if the rooms were filled with people, for the moving about and laughing and talking that were going on had a confusing effect upon her; she had scarcely time to do more than glance round her bewilderedly when the luncheon gong sounded, and universal making for the door ensued.

“Stay behind with me, and then we can sit together,” said some one beside her, and turning round, Imogen saw Beatrix at her elbow. But at the same moment, another voice reached her.

“Excuse me, Trixie,” it said; “you are forgetting that Miss Wentworth has not yet made acquaintance with your sisters. It is hardly my business to introduce you and your guest,” he added, with a smile to the girl beside him.