Imogen: or, Only Eighteen. Molesworth Mrs.
and eyes, appeared at the curtained doorway, an unusual gentleness, almost appeal, in her expression and bearing, the poor little stranger’s heart went out to her with a great leap. Considerably to his surprise, much more considerably to his disgust, when Rex Winchester turned round from his instructions to Brewer on the hall steps, the two girls were, so to say, already in each other’s arms – literally speaking, they were just concluding their greeting with a kiss, while Mrs Wentworth stood by in smiling approval.
“Yes,” she said. “I was sure I was right, and you are baby Beatrix; just – let me see – two years and a few weeks older than Imogen.”
“How interesting!” said Trixie sweetly. “We must be great friends, must we not?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Imogen. “I’m so glad to have seen you first, as you are so much the nearest me in – ”
“Is Alicia not in, Trixie?” interrupted Major Winchester. “I sent for her.”
His tone was dry, to say the least. Beatrix turned away for half a second: he did not see the flash of rage and malice in her eyes – she had calmed it down before she replied in the same soft, almost timid tones.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Florence is out. I daresay Alicia’s resting: she generally is at this time of day.”
“And every other,” thought her cousin.
“What mischief in Heaven’s name is the girl up to now?” he went on to himself. Then half shocked at his suspiciousness he glanced at her sharply: she had not anticipated this and her eyes fell. “I knew it could not be sincere,” he thought, with a curious mixture of regret and satisfaction.
“I knew Florence was out,” he said aloud.
“But before hunting up mamma or Alicia, had I not better take our guests to the morning-room?” said Beatrix prettily.
And Rex could not oppose so natural a suggestion.
Mrs Helmont was not in the morning-room. Truth to tell, she had dedicated the hours before luncheon to-day to some necessary household discussions with her upper servants.
“The Meldons will have gone, and the Wentworths not coming till nice and late in the afternoon,” she had said to herself with satisfaction; “all the other people can be left to themselves – not like strangers.”
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.
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