Chapter Ten
Mabella Pulls the Strings
Imogen slept late the next morning, later than she had ever done in her life; for she was new to gay doings, and when at last she opened her eyes, it was but to close them again with a sleepy smile as she gradually recalled the scenes of the night before.
“How nice it was! I wonder if all girls enjoy their first real grown-up party as much,” she thought. “I wonder if Major Winchester will manage the skating.” (For a hard frost had set in somewhat prematurely.) “What fun it would be, only I’m afraid I shall tumble about dreadfully. I wonder,” as another recollection suddenly returned to her mind, “what he meant when he said he wanted to have a little talk with me to-day – to tell me something; it must be something particular, for he whispered ‘Remember about our talk to-morrow,’ last thing. Mother noticed it, but I wasn’t going to tell her all he said; she is so – so fanciful!”
The colour deepened on the girl’s cheeks, alone though she was, as she reached this point in her cogitations. Was it all “fancy” of her mother’s? Could it be that Major Winchester really was? – and remarks of Trixie’s as to the astonishingness of his “making such friends” with a girl of her age, “he who never scarcely speaks to a girl,” returned to her memory in full force. Imogen’s heart beat faster with a sensation of mingled gratification and vague fear. Was “it,” the great “it” of her girl life, really coming to her already? Did all girls feel as she did when such things drew near? It was not what she had expected, somehow: she liked him, liked and respected and trusted him thoroughly, but he seemed so old in comparison with her. And – oh, after all, perhaps it was all nonsense – mamsey was silly about her; all mothers fancy their daughters something wonderful – very likely there was nothing in it; and with a sigh, half of relief, half of disappointment, Imogen threw herself back on her pillows. Would she be glad or sorry if it were all nonsense? she asked herself. And it was not easy to answer.
Her meditations were interrupted by a tap, the gentlest of taps, at the door, and in reply to her “Come in,” Mrs Wentworth appeared. She was all dressed and ready to go down-stairs. Imogen started up.
“Oh, mamsey,” she exclaimed, “I am so ashamed of myself! I had no idea it was so late. Why hasn’t Colman wakened me?”
“I would not let her,” her mother replied, kissing her tenderly as she spoke. “She said you were sleeping so sweetly an hour ago. I tapped very softly, not to wake you in case you were still asleep.”
“But I must jump up now and be as quick as possible,” said Imogen.
“There is really no hurry,” Mrs Wentworth replied. “Indeed, Colman and I were wondering if you would not like your breakfast brought up. I am sure it will be a most irregular meal this morning.”
“Breakfast in bed, and I quite well! Oh dear, no,” said Imogen, laughing. “I will be ready in twenty minutes, at most.”
“But first,” said Mrs Wentworth, “here are two letters for you; at least, a letter and a note,” and she held them out. Imogen seized the former.
“From Dora,” she said. “How nice! Now, when I answer it, I shall have all about last night to tell her. And a note.” She took it and examined it doubtfully. “I don’t know the writing – at least, I’m not sure. I fancy I’ve seen it before – oh yes; I believe it’s Major Winchester’s. What can he have to write to me about, when he’s just going to see me at breakfast?”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs Wentworth, who was dying of curiosity, mingled, it must be allowed, with a worthier feeling. “I have heard some news already this morning. Major Winchester has been called away. He and his brother breakfasted early, and started off to catch the ten o’clock express.”
Imogen’s face fell.
“Oh dear, how dreadfully vexing!” she exclaimed. “Just when we had planned such a nice day. I’m afraid there must be something wrong; bad news about his sister, probably. And this note will be to explain about it.”
She looked up questioningly in her mother’s face, toying idly with the letter in her fingers as she did so.
“Very likely; it is pretty sure to be so,” said Mrs Wentworth. “But why in the world don’t you open it, my dear, and then you would see?” There was a touch of impatience in her tone; but she controlled herself and turned away, as Imogen began to tear the envelope, feeling that the girl might prefer to read it unobserved. But scarcely a moment seemed to have passed before she heard herself called back to Imogen’s bedside. She started as she caught the sound of her child’s voice. It seemed choked and gasping, and Imogen herself was lying back, almost as white as the pillow.
“My darling,” Mrs Wentworth exclaimed, “what is the matter? Are you fainting?”
“No, no. Read that. Oh, mamma!” said the girl, incoherently, and she thrust the sheet of paper into her mother’s hand. These were the words on which fell Mrs Wentworth’s bewildered gaze:
My Dearest, —
I am just off – and Robin, too – summoned to poor Angey by this morning’s letters. The operation is to take place at once. God grant it may be successful. You will feel for us, I know. Though I have scarcely a moment, I could not go without one word to you to explain my movements, though I hope to be back at The Fells in a day or two. I have so much to tell you, and to lay before you all that I have been thinking of, and I had planned for an uninterrupted hour or two to-day. I know you will not have misunderstood my recent silence, and when we meet, a few minutes will be better than pages of writing. Ever yours, —
Rex.
P.S.– Say nothing of this at present to any one.
Imogen’s mother read and re-read. Gradually her bewilderment gave place to delight – though delight strongly mixed with astonishment. She looked up at last. A little colour had by this time returned to the girl’s cheeks.
“Mamsey,” she said, anxiously, “what does it mean?”
“Darling,” Mrs Wentworth replied, “it is rather for you to tell me; I had no idea, my pet, that things had gone so far.”
But though her tone was playful, it failed to raise any smile on Imogen’s face.
“I don’t know how you mean. I had no idea that – ” But here she stopped short.
Imogen was really truthful, and the remembrance of her morning’s cogitations just then returned inconveniently to her mind. Mrs Wentworth smiled.
“I see,” she said; “you do well to stop short, my pet. Well, well, poor old mothers must expect to be treated with reserve at such times, I suppose.”
Imogen raised herself on her elbow.
“Mamma,” she said, very gravely, “I am telling you the literal truth when I say that I did not in the least expect anything like this. Nothing that Major Winchester has said or done has led me to think that – that it was anything more than that he just liked me, and, in time, possibly – when I was older – ”
“You have been too unconscious, too simple and ingenuous to see it, my sweet. Thank God we have had to do with a good and honourable man, who has not taken advantage of your innocence,” said Mrs Wentworth with a burst of real feeling. “But others have seen it, if you have not.”
“Have they?” said Imogen, opening her eyes. Then some of Trixie’s remarks recurred to her, and she blushed a little. “Do you mean, mamsey,” she went on, “that this,” and she touched the letter, “is what one would call a proposal? It isn’t like what they are in books.”
“It is almost more than a proposal,” her mother replied. “It is as if he was quite sure of you – as if you quite understood each other. Have you not given him more encouragement than you quite realise, my pet?”
Imogen reflected.
“He did say something last night about hoping for a good talk to-day – something he wanted to say to me,” she said, hesitatingly.
“Ah, I thought so; he has in a sense taken the definite understanding for granted, as it were,” said Mrs Wentworth. “And you know, dearie, he is much older than you – about my own age, in fact,” with a touch of her little bridling of self-satisfaction, “and you must let him, as it were, do things in his own way.”
“Yes, I know he is much older than I. You do not need to remind me of that,” said Imogen, in a melancholy tone. And a vision passed before her of the ideal husband – rather, perhaps, the lover – she had pictured in her girlish dreams, eager, devoted, ardent; it was not the staid, almost paternal Major Winchester!
Mrs Wentworth’s face clouded. “But, my darling,” she said, “you don’t mean – ”
“Oh, I don’t know what I mean. I am not good enough or clever enough for him; but I daresay it will be all right. I will tell him so; and he is very kind and patient. He will teach me, I daresay, and – I know it will be a comfort to you to – to feel – and – ” Here a smile for the first time broke through her troubled expression: “Just fancy, mamsey, how astonished every one will be! It will be fun to write to Dora; and, mamsey, I must have her for one of my bridesmaids.”
“We shall see, dearie; we shall see. Yes, indeed, every one will be astonished,” and visions of the delightful letters of faire-part of the exciting news to her special cronies that would fall to her own share floated before Mrs Wentworth’s dazzled eyes. “Not but that Imogen might have made a more brilliant marriage,” she imagined herself saying; “but Major Winchester is a man one can so thoroughly trust, and – ” Here her daughter’s voice interrupted her. She was pointing to the postscript and looking rather dismayed.
“Mamma,” she said, “did you notice this? I don’t think I did; at least, I was so startled I don’t know if I noticed it or not. But I shouldn’t have told even you.”
“Oh, nonsense, darling! He could not have meant to exclude me,” said Mrs Wentworth. “However – ”
“You will be very, very careful, won’t you, mamsey?” urged, the girl, who was not without experience of her mother’s impulsiveness.
“Of course, dear, in any case; about such a thing you don’t think I need warning?” said Mrs Wentworth, in a slightly aggrieved tone.
“But – that Miss Forsyth,” said Imogen; “she is so wheedling, and you know you are rather easily taken in, mamsey, dear.”
The adjective and the caressing tone – for Imogen was not given to gush – smoothed down Mrs Wentworth’s ruffled feathers.
“I’ll be very careful, dearest,” she said; and then, at last, she tore herself away, Imogen promising to follow her down-stairs with the utmost possible speed.
It was with a sense of delightful, though almost bewildering, elation that Mrs Wentworth entered the dining-room, where various members of the party staying in the house were lounging over the irregular breakfast. No member of the family was present except Alicia, who half rose to greet her in her usual good-natured, apathetic way.
“Am I not praiseworthy, Mrs Wentworth, for being down so early?” she said.
“Is no one else down?” asked the new-comer, somewhat surprised; for the Helmont energy extended to early rising. “I mean to say, none of yourselves?”
“Oh dear, yes. Father and mother are off on their usual behests, and Florence was down at nine to give our worthy cousin his breakfast. Major Winchester was obliged to go up to town this morning.”
“I know – at least I heard so,” Mrs Wentworth could not resist saying.
“Really!” said Alicia with a glance of surprise. And as Miss Forsyth at that moment came in – “Did you know, Mab, that Rex and Robin went off first thing this morning? Oh yes, by the bye, I believe you and Trixie didn’t go to bed at all, did you?”
“It was much jollier sitting up in our armchairs over the fire,” said Mabella, carelessly. She did not look the least tired or fagged.
“Give me a cup of coffee, won’t you, Alicia? It’s such a time since I had breakfast, I feel ready to begin again. – And how is the fair Imogen, Mrs Wentworth? You yourself look brilliant,” she added.
Mrs Wentworth smiled graciously.
“Thank you,” she said; “Imogen is very well, very well indeed. She will be down directly. She would have been down already, but she had – we had some rather important letters this morning.”
Miss Forsyth drew her chair a little closer to her dear Mrs Wentworth’s.
“Nothing wrong, I trust?” she said in a low voice. “No, you could not look as you do if it were. Really, dear, there are times, and this is one of them, when, I cannot take in that you are Imogen’s mother – you do look so ridiculously young. If there is anything – any business matter – I can be of use about, you will tell me, won’t you?”
“You are so kind, dear Mabella,” murmured Mrs Wentworth vaguely.
“Let us take our work and go and sit in the large conservatory after breakfast, and have a good cosy talk,” the girl went on. “Imogen is sure to be – oh no, I forgot; Major Rex is off there will be no one especially to claim her this morning.”
Mrs Wentworth closed her lips in a peculiar way but did not reply. Just then Trixie came in, like a whirlwind, as usual, but looking very handsome.
“Where’s Imogen?” she exclaimed. “We’re going to skate – Noll and I and one or two others – and she said she wanted to learn. Is she still asleep?”
“Oh no, she will be down directly, and – if it’s not too cold, and – ” she hesitated, for her faith was small in Trixie. “Would you like to go, dear?” she went on to Imogen, as she made her appearance.
“I have just told Florence I would go,” Imogen answered quietly. “I met her in the hall. She said she had undertaken to look after me. You know I can’t skate a bit, Trixie.”
“Promised Major Winchester to take care of her, you see,” whispered Mabella to Mrs Wentworth, with a smile. And for the life of her, Mrs Wentworth could not repress a certain self-consciousness in her “Perhaps so,” in reply.
How sardonic were Mabella’s inward chuckles of satisfaction!
“It is too good to be true almost, Trixie,” she told her semi-confidante that morning. “Revenged! I should think so, indeed – never was anything so neat in this world.”
But beyond this, not one word would she say.
And in spite of Imogen’s warnings and expressed misgivings, ere the day was many hours older, Miss Forsyth was pretty fairly in possession of all she wanted to know.
“She is so sympathising, and interested in Imogen,” thought Mrs Wentworth, “and I cannot tell what is absolutely untrue.”
But when after events had caused her to qualify Miss Forsyth’s character with very different adjectives, she found it impossible to recall any words of that astute young woman’s which, when repeated, could be fairly said to endorse or strengthen her own belief as to Major Winchester’s attitude towards Imogen. On the contrary, little phrases literally expressive of doubt or perplexity, though contradicted even while uttered by her tone and smile, returned to her memory.
“Of course, I cannot give an opinion, whatever I may think.”
“No, Major Winchester cannot be called a flirt, and every one speaks of him as a most honourable man; but I am not in his confidence, and one can only judge by what one sees.”
“I have been told of some attachment or engagement of old standing, but then one knows how such things often end,” – and so on, all providing a more or less safe shelter for Mabella should she ever be brought to book for her treachery.
And the next two or three days passed like a confused dream to Imogen herself. There were times when she felt girlishly exultant and elated; times when she was half inclined to entreat her mother to keep to their programme (for the original term of their visit expired two days after the theatricals) and leave The Fells before Major Winchester’s return; times when she longed to see him and test her own feelings; times when she dreaded meeting him again more than she could express. But with the obstinacy which I have before alluded to, on one point Mrs Wentworth was immovable. Leave The Fells before his return she absolutely would not. In vain Imogen pleaded that if he “really meant it,” he could follow them, and that it would be both more dignified and “much more comfortable,” to meet again elsewhere.
“It would be the most distinct refusal you could give him under the circumstances,” Mrs Wentworth maintained. “And a man of his age and position must be allowed to take his own way to some extent, even if it be a little eccentric;” adding, in her own mind, “And just supposing he wrote that odd letter impulsively, not being really quite sure of his own mind,” (which was, to do her justice, Mrs Wentworth’s only misgiving), “if he came back and found us gone, and Florence, who I know, does not like us, got hold of him and talked him round, where would we be? We might never hear of or see him again – quite as honourable men as he have backed out of things of the kind before now – and Imogen’s whole career might be spoilt, for of course he would not suppose she had shown me the letter, considering the postscript, and knowing what a punctilious darling she is.”
But these reflections she kept to herself – the effect of revealing them to Imogen would, she felt instinctively, have been disastrous, for the slight strain of coarseness, undeniable in the mother’s nature, despite her real gentleness and unselfishness, would have found no response in the perfect delicacy of the high-minded though undisciplined daughter.
A hint or two to the effect that another week at The Fells would be a convenience as well as a pleasure was cordially responded to by the Wentworths’ hostess. Truth to tell, the seed fell on ground already carefully prepared by Mabella, through Trixie, bribed by the promise of a speedy dénouement of their cherished scheme of revenge.
“I am really pleased to see that Trixie has made such friends with Imogen Wentworth,” said honest Mrs Helmont to her husband. “She is a thoroughly sweet, refined girl. And even Mab seems quieter lately.”
“Trixie was none the worse for her bit of plain-speaking, you see,” said the Squire with satisfaction. “I think I know how to manage that sort of thing when it is really called for, though I have no idea of nagging at the children as some do. I wish poor Florry could pick up her spirits a bit.”
“She misses Rex; he has such a good influence on her,” said Mrs Helmont, “though he has troubles enough of his own, poor fellow. I daresay she is anxious about his troubles too.”
For Florence, of all the party, had perhaps the most perturbed aspect just then. She was both distressed and bewildered – vaguely conscious that mischief was brewing, though unable to define how or where. And her anxiety was not lessened by the perception that Imogen was avoiding her.
“I wish Rex were back,” she said to herself. “And still more I wish he had not left that child in my charge, as he said. What can I do? She gives me no confidence, and she is always with Trixie, just as her silly mother is with Mabella.”
It was true, though the further truth that in those days it was not Imogen seeking Beatrix, but Beatrix Imogen, Beatrix was clever enough to conceal from her elder sister.
“Keep her always in view; for Heaven’s sake don’t let her get confidential with any one else, or it will all be spoilt!” were Mab’s instructions to Trixie.
“She’s not confidential with me; she’s as dull as ditch-water. I’m getting sick of your secret plots and plans that come to nothing,” grumbled Beatrix.
There came a morning, however, when Mabella altered her commands for the day.
“Trixie,” she said, in a low voice, “he– your cousin – is returning this afternoon. His luggage is to be fetched, and he himself is going to walk up from the station. He comes by the 2:15 express. No one is to be told; but I trust to you to let it out to Imogen.”
Beatrix faced round upon her.
“How do you know, if no one is to be told?” she asked sharply. Mabella smiled, a peculiar smile.
“I have ways and means,” she said. “He wrote it to Florence, and I was sitting beside her at breakfast. I knew he would be writing to her when he fixed his return.”
Trixie flamed up; her patience had been over-taxed.
“You mean, despicable – I don’t know what to call you,” she said. “I’ve a great mind to throw it all up, and tell what you’re capable of.”
“As you please,” returned Mabella, coolly. “I’m getting rather sick of it myself. But remember, you can’t tell on me without telling on yourself. It wouldn’t, after all, matter so very much to me, only a house the less to visit at; but it would be uncommonly unpleasant for you. Your father would never forgive you for playing tricks on his guests, and you couldn’t pack up and go off comfortably enough, as I could.”
Trixie looked blacker and blacker; there was truth in Mabella’s words.
“I haven’t played tricks, if it comes to that,” she said. “I’ve only connived, to a certain extent, at what you’re doing; and what you’re after just now I don’t understand in the least.”
“Wait a bit and you’ll see,” said Miss Forsyth. “We may as well have some fun for our pains. Be sensible, Trixie. After all, no one will be any the worse for it in the end, and it will be very wholesome for some people to be brought down a peg or two.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Trixie, sulkily.
“Find ways and means to confide to Imogen that Rex Winchester is coming to-day, and that he will be walking up alone from the station at a certain hour. He wanted Florence to meet him, but she can’t. She had promised to go to Catborough to luncheon. You might insinuate that Florence wants to keep him all to herself, which is true. She never tells any one anything. I often wonder you and Alicia stand it. Ten to one Imogen will jump at the chance of meeting him unobserved. She hates her mother’s silly meddling, I can see.”
“And what will happen then?” demanded Trixie.
“Not much to hurt Imogen – I don’t believe she really cares for him, it’s only gratified vanity – but I hope and believe Major Rex will have a more thoroughly uncomfortable quart d’heure than he has ever experienced,” said Mabella, smacking her lips, so to say, in anticipation. “And you will be revenged, Trix, gloriously revenged on him, for his priggish meddling. And it will be all his own fault! That’s the beauty of it; he won’t be able to blame any one else – not a shadow of suspicion will fall on you or me, if only you are sensible.”
“And,” she added, to herself, in a lower tone, “I shall be revenged. What are Trixie’s babyish wrongs compared to mine?”
Thus worked upon and primed, Beatrix, as usual, agreed to carry out Miss Forsyth’s very precise and exact instructions. But Mabella’s dictatorial and scornful tyranny had overshot the mark.
“I know what she’s after,” thought Trixie. “She’s to have all the fun, to be in at the death; but I’m not. And then she’ll make some flimsy excuse afterwards! I know you, Miss Mabella Forsyth, and I can plot and plan too – ah, well, we shall see.”
It was a bright, clear, slightly frosty day. “The perfection of a day for a quick, brisk walk,” thought Imogen, as in ample time to meet a passenger by the train in question, walking up from the station, she let herself out by a side door which opened on an unobserved path joining the long winding avenue at some distance from the house. It had not been without difficulty that she had escaped from her mother, or avoided telling her of Major Winchester’s return. The girl’s head and heart were in a state of ferment, and to her overstrained nerves Mrs Wentworth’s fidgety excitement and anxiety was becoming almost unendurable. Added to this was a considerable element of perplexity and sore indignation – by every post she had looked for another and more coherent letter.
“After writing like that” she thought, and not unreasonably, “he had no right to leave me all these days in this way.” And now, Trixie’s communications had still farther increased her mental distress by the jealousy of Florence they had skilfully suggested.
“I believe he meant to consult her before he said anything more to me,” thought Imogen, though the next moment her loyal trust in Rex’s perfect honour caused her to discard the notion with disgust at herself for having entertained it. “No, not after going so far,” she reflected. “Yet, but for Trixie, I could never have known he was coming. Poor Trixie! she is far truer after all, than Florence. I wonder if a letter can have miscarried,” was her next idea, and one which so plausibly explained things, that she could not help turning it over and over in her mind. It had already occurred to Mrs Wentworth, and she had not failed to suggest it to Imogen.
“If we knew his address, I almost think you might write to him,” she had said. But Imogen turned upon her sharply.
“If I did, it would only be to enclose his letter in an envelope and send it back to him,” she said. “If – if it is possible that he wrote it impulsively, and is regretting it, do you think I would move one little finger to recall him?”
And on the whole Mrs Wentworth saw that it was best for her to keep her fingers, for the present anyway, out of the pie.
The road – the latter part of it at least – from Cobbolds to The Fells, was straight and direct. There was no possibility of missing any one on his way to the house within a mile. The first gates opened on to a sort of continuation of the drive – less carefully kept than the part within them, but still a private road. And before emerging on to the highway it led through a little fir-wood, where, as somewhat screened from the observation of any curious passers-by – not that many such were probable, for the men were shooting in a different direction that day, and a large party had started to join them at luncheon – Imogen had determined to try to meet Major Winchester.
She walked quietly, half unconsciously hoping by so doing to calm her momentarily-increasing agitation. The first time she emerged from among the firs there was no one to be seen in the stretch, of open road before her. So she retraced her steps, and it was not till she had traversed the little wood two or three times that she descried a tall, familiar figure moving quickly towards her. And in another moment, considerably to her surprise, she saw that she was herself – as she supposed – recognised. For Major Winchester took off his cap and waved it towards her.
“How could he know I was coming?” she thought, with a thrill of gratification nevertheless. “A letter must have miscarried. He must have written to me as well as to Florence.”