Imogen: or, Only Eighteen

“But still – under the circumstances – ”

“Yes,” said Imogen, smiling herself, “under the circumstance of its being very doubtful if we should have got here at all without you, I think certainly you may be – ”

“Master of the ceremonies,” said Florence, half interrupting her as she hesitated. Imogen looked at her. She was as tall as Beatrix, scarcely as handsome perhaps, but with an expression in her eyes which would have attracted Imogen much more than Trixie’s bold defiance, had it not been for the prejudice already skilfully sown against her elder sister by that astute young woman.

“She is discontented and rather cross-looking,” thought Imogen. “I am sure it is true, as Trixie said, that she has a disagreeable temper;” and the gentleness of Florence’s voice and manner – gentleness which, to please her cousin, she endeavoured to make specially kindly – the little stranger dubbed as “patronising,” while the real sadness underlying it she attributed to the chronic unamiability Beatrix had done more than hint at. Still, it was not in Imogen’s nature to be altogether unresponsive. She replied becomingly to Florence’s few words of welcome, and went on into the dining-room beside her. But there was a complete absence of the girlish camaraderie which lighted up her face as she threw back a laughing word or two to Trixie following with Rex behind them.

Major Winchester almost ground his teeth.

“Already!” he muttered. “So you have made friends with Miss Wentworth, I see,” he said aloud, dryly.

A sharp and defiant reply was on Trixie’s lips, but she prudently recalled Miss Forsyth’s advice. Nor did she “overdo” her part either.

“I don’t know what you call ‘making friends’,” she said quietly, and not without a certain dignity. “You know me too well to suppose that a child like that and I could have much in common; but after my father’s exceedingly severe warnings this morning, I was bound to be civil and attentive, if I did not want to drive things too far.” There was a touch, possibly sincere for the moment, of something like genuine regret and reproach, as she added, rather bitterly: “I don’t, of course, dream of asking you to believe I mean to turn over a new leaf. It would be quite against you very good people’s principles to credit one with such intentions.”

Rex started. The words came home to his sensitive conscience. Was it not true that he had almost come to have no belief in Beatrix? “Trixie!” he exclaimed impulsively, “if you – ” But she had already turned away.

She did not wish him to be kind to her; she resented his interference too deeply and maliciously; she did not wish to be in the slightest degree softened to him. But he did not see the expression on her face, or the mocking, spiteful smile on her lips, so he retained a certain feeling of pity and self-reproach, as he thought to himself, with a sigh: “If only Eva had been well and strong, her influence might have done something, even with Trixie.”

And this touch of self-accusation with regard to Beatrix was, though unsuspected by the two conspirators, about the most fortunate thing that could have happened to further Miss Forsyth’s silence. For it caused Rex, by a mistaken sort of loyalty to the girl who, he fancied, had appealed to his kindlier judgment, to measure his words about her, to be chary of repeating the warnings he had already hinted to Imogen. Not, perhaps, that she would now have believed them; they might, however, not improbably have made a barrier between herself and her first friend, Major Winchester, and thus prevented the success of Mabella’s plot.

In spite of Trixie’s manoeuvres, Imogen found herself at luncheon beside Florence. Beatrix, however, was just opposite, so that any sort of rapprochement between the young girl and her neighbour was impossible. Florence herself was not brave enough to dare the mocking glances of her younger sister’s eyes, and her well-meant attempts at conversation fell flat, while her somewhat constrained manner only added to Imogen’s prejudice.

“She speaks to me as if I were about two years old,” thought the girl. “Of course she is much, much older than I; but still, even Major Winchester, who is nearly as old as mamsey, I daresay, speaks to me as if I had some sense.”

And happening at the moment to glance down the long table, she caught his eye. He was looking towards her, in search of her, with a certain concern and anxiety which Imogen was at once conscious of. She felt herself blush a little, even as she responded to his inaudible inquiry with the tiniest nod and smile of reassurance.

“I’m all right, thank you,” they seemed to say. And, “How kind he is! How nice it is to feel that there is one person among all these strangers who cares a little for me already!” she thought with a little thrill, as she caught the smile on Rex’s face in return.

Some one else saw the smile and the blush, and it needed but a glance in the direction in which they had been bestowed for Trixie to interpret them. Florence, unfortunately, by this time despairing of making any way with the girl beside her, had allowed her thoughts to wander far from the present, and was paying but little attention to what passed, till rousing herself suddenly she began an animated conversation with the man on her other side, thus throwing Imogen altogether on the mercy of her left-hand neighbour, Oliver Helmont. He had not yet been introduced to her, but a word to Trixie on the opposite side had the desired effect, and in a minute or two Imogen began to feel considerably more at home than she could have believed possible.

There was no harm in Oliver, as the saying goes. He was a good-natured rattle, more or less selfish, but honest and well-meaning, and not without some faint capacity somewhere about him for a species of hero-worship. And though there were few to whom he would have owned it, the hero down at the bottom of his heart was his cousin Reginald. So when, encouraged by his pleasant genial face and manner, Imogen confided to him the history of the morning’s misadventures, they soon found themselves on common ground.

“Major Winchester was so kind,” said the girl, after relating Rex’s good offices. “We should have been there still, but for him.”

Oliver’s face beamed.

“Just like him,” he said. “He is awfully kind. Fact is,” here he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, “I don’t think there’s another fellow like him, search the world over. It isn’t every one he takes to though, so a good many people call him a prig and a saint, and all that style of thing. My sisters now, though they’ve known him all their lives – naturally so, as he’s our cousin – they don’t get on with him, except Florence; she’s rather made an alliance with him lately, or he with her, since she’s been so down in the mouth, you know.”

Imogen did not “know,” but she scarcely felt as if she could ask for an explanation.

“That’s his way – any one in trouble, or helpless, or that he can be any good to, you see.”

“Yes,” said the girl, smiling, “I do see, for we were very helpless, and he was of great good to us.”

“No wonder,” said Oliver, feeling as if he were putting things rather awkwardly. “In this case his benevolence was certainly a pleasure.”

“Thank you,” said Imogen, laughing.

“But you see,” he went on, “in a general way, Rex isn’t at all a ladies’ man; he’s rather standoff and severe, and he’s got very, very particular ideas. I never dare stand up for him to my sisters. Not that he needs it, but they’d only make fun of me, you see. Trixie pretty nearly hates Rex, I do believe,” he added, almost in a whisper, “and Alicia can’t stand him. He’s down upon them both in their different ways, you see.”

“I have not spoken to Miss Helmont yet,” said Imogen, “but Trixie has been so kind to us. I can’t help thinking Major Winchester misunderstands her a little.”

Oliver drew his lips together almost as if he were going to whistle. Then he thought better of it, and turned the conversation from his youngest sister.

“I suppose it’s true what the parsons say,” he remarked. “People have much kinder feelings to others if they’ve had troubles themselves. Rex has had lots; his mother died when he was quite a young fellow, and he adored her; and then – ”

“Has he no brothers and sisters – no one belonging to him?” asked the girl, eagerly.

“He’s got a brother, much younger – a very good fellow – and a sister. But it’s very sad about her, and the saddest of all is – ” But here a general move announced that luncheon was over, and Oliver’s communications only left Imogen with a vague notion that Major Winchester was one of a thousand, and that there were some especially sorrowful circumstances connected with his only sister.

This latent sympathy gave an additional gentleness and almost deference to her manner, a still greater softness to her pretty eyes, when she came upon Rex in the hall, where with Florence and Captain Helmont, the eldest son of the house, and one or two others, he was discussing the plans for the afternoon.

“It is clearing, there’s no doubt,” Major Winchester was saying. “I’ve had driving enough for my part, for to-day; suppose we go off for a walk?”

“Dear me!” said a mocking voice beside him. “What condescension! You don’t mean to say that you, Major Winchester, are offering to go for a walk with any of us!”

The speaker was Mabella Forsyth.

“Yes, really, it is wonderful,” said Alicia as she sauntered up to join the group, which was gradually augmented by most of those present. “What’s coming over you, Rex? Not that I want to go for a walk; it’s far too sloppy and plashy, and I’m tired already. Besides, some one must stay with mother to receive the Girards and the Custances.”

“I will come, Rex,” said Florence, promptly though quietly. “There is nothing to do in the house: we can’t begin settling our parts or anything till Mr Girard is here, and Gerty for the dresses is indispensable. – Perhaps Miss Wentworth would like to come too?” she added kindly. “We can lend you strong boots and a mackintosh if your things haven’t come. And we must start at once – November afternoons in these northern latitudes are not much to boast of. Who else will come? You, Noll?”

“Very much at your service,” replied Oliver, who had found his pretty neighbour to his taste.

Florence’s eyes wandered round the group.

“No, thank you,” said Miss Forsyth, pretending to think that they had rested on her, “Trixie and I prefer to be independent in our strolls.”

“I was not thinking of either of you,” replied Florence, icily. Mabella’s swarthy face darkened; she was not quite proof against Florence’s contempt. “Will you come, Mrs Wyngate?” Florence proceeded, “and your husband; and you, Fred?” turning to her eldest brother.

“Wyngate and I are reserving ourselves for our great shoot to-morrow,” said Captain Helmont. “I think billiards will be more in our line, and this horrid damp makes us old Indians rheumatic.”

“But I will come,” cried Mrs Wyngate, “though I am an older Indian than either of you;” which was true, as she was some years her husband’s senior – a fact which she never affected to deny, and had married him as a widow out in Madras. She was good-natured and lively without being fast, and Florence had selected her with a view to Rex’s approval of her society for Imogen, the guileless.

So they all dispersed, and before long the walking party found themselves in front of the house scanning the sky and consulting as to their destination; Miss Wentworth, anxious to believe herself perfectly happy, though, as a matter of fact, Florence’s stout boots were too big for her, and her own waterproof, worn above her thick cloth jacket – for it was very cold – far from an ideal garment as to comfort, or, as she sadly feared, as to appearance either. Truth to tell, Imogen was not an enthusiast about long walks. She was quickly tired, and entirely unaccustomed to real country life. Then she was a little afraid of Florence, and Mrs Wyngate was a complete stranger.

“If I could have gone alone with Major Winchester and, I suppose, Oliver, I should have liked it much better,” she said to herself.

“No,” decided Rex, “it will not rain again for three or four hours certainly. Don’t you agree with me, Noll?”

Oliver, who was nothing if not a weather prophet on his native heath, did agree.

“So,” continued Major Winchester in his decided, slightly autocratic tones, “we shall run no risk in skirting the Great Fell, by the Torwood road. We can show Miss Wentworth the two caves, and if we are very lucky we may catch a gleam of red sunset over the moor.”

“Not much red sunset in this evening’s programme, I take it,” said Oliver, as he attached himself to Imogen. The path was narrow, accommodating but two abreast in its moments of generosity, and narrowing, every now and then, to scanty for one, considering the fringes of drenched bracken and other rough verdure at each side. Mrs Wyngate naturally took the lead, as Imogen had hung back at the start – Florence closely behind her. Then came Rex, and a conversation à trois began, leaving the girl to Noll’s good offices.

He was not brilliant, and the only subject on which he ever approached eloquence being but a yard or two in front of him, could scarcely, under the circumstances, be discussed. Before long the young stranger began to feel considerably bored.