Chapter Eight.
“Valesca.”
”‘Oh, to think how I trusted you,’” repeated Major Winchester, “hum, hum,” and he read on a few sentences to himself consideringly.
“Yes,” said Imogen, “and ‘Hubert’, you know, is Mr Calthorp. Just fancy! If only I were going to do it with you now, Major Winchester, I—”
She stopped short. The sound of a door softly shutting startled her. “What was that?” she said.
“Oh, nothing; some unfortunate actor seeking the solitude of the library to study his part in,” said Rex.
He went on reading for a minute or two. Neither he nor Imogen heard a door overhead open, even more softly than the other one had closed.
“Fancy,” Imogen repeated, “Mr Calthorp, Major Winchester. Now, if you were it, I am sure I could do it better.”
“For your sake I wish I were, though the character is scarcely one which recommends itself to me,” he said. “But now, look here, my dear child;” and he leant forward towards her a little, while he pointed out a passage on the page; “when you come to—” And he proceeded to emphasise a line or two.
The door above closed very, very gently, and two ladies slipped quietly back into the up-stairs passage from which it opened. They were Mrs Wentworth and Miss Forsyth. Imogen’s mother was smiling with a slightly self-conscious, slightly alarmed expression; Mabella was whispering eagerly.
“There now,” she said; “I am so glad you have seen for yourself. Wasn’t I clever?” Mrs Wentworth spoke half nervously.
“I hope you don’t think any one else has seen them?” she said. “I am so afraid of any gossip. You see, I have scarcely realised that Imogen is more than a child—a mere child. I am afraid I am not a very efficient chaperon as yet.”
“Oh, it’s all right. Major Winchester is discretion itself. I only wanted to give you ocular demonstration of his devotion. It is not to be wondered at; she did look irresistible when she glanced up at him just now, did she not? But you know he is usually so unimpressionable and high and mighty. Only be sure you never tell anybody that I made you peep. You promise, don’t you, dear Mrs Wentworth? I always feel as if you were a girl like myself, you know. I cannot take in that you are really the mother of a grown-up daughter.”
Mrs Wentworth beamed.
“Of course I will never betray you,” she said. “But she is so very young. I do feel so at a loss.”
“There is nothing to feel at a loss about,” said Mabella quickly. It would not have suited her at all for Mrs Wentworth to take others into her confidence. “Imogen is quite charming. You must just make up your mind that every man she comes across will be at her feet; she will have any number to choose from, and she can afford to be difficile.”
“Are you not too partial, dear Miss—?”
“You naughty woman,” said the girl, playfully laying her fingers on Mrs Wentworth’s lips, “what was it you promised? Miss Forsyth indeed!”
“Well then, dear Mabella, if you really wish it,” said Imogen’s mother; “are you not too partial?”
“You are so incredulous; other mothers would not be nearly so difficult to convince,” said Mab. “That’s why I wanted you to see his high mightiness’s devotion with your own eyes; not that it’s of any consequence in itself. Imogen will do far better than that; it’s only to convince you of her fascination.”
Mrs Wentworth gave a gentle little sigh.
“I suppose I must not hope to keep her very long,” she said, “hard as it will be to part with her. But if it is for her happiness, that is all I think about. I would not ask or expect any extraordinarily brilliant marriage for her. I should be quite content to give her to some really good man, whom I could trust her to.”
“Oh yes, of course, of course,” said Miss Forsyth, with an undertone of slightly contemptuous incredulity, which Mrs Wentworth was too simple to perceive. “All the same, you must not be too unworldly—too easily pleased, you know. It is not every day one sees a girl like Imogen, so well brought up too.”
“Dear Mabella, you are too partial,” Mrs Wentworth repeated.
“It is true that when I take to any one I can see no fault in them,” said Miss Forsyth. “I think I may say of myself that I am a very thorough-going friend—and,” she added to herself, “a very thorough-going enemy.”
Half an hour or so later Imogen was up-stairs.
“Mamma,” she said, as she glanced in at her mother, “I’m going out for a few minutes’ blow before luncheon. I won’t be long.”
“No, don’t be late, darling,” her mother replied; “the Squire does like people to be punctual. It’s one of the few things he is strict about. But come in for half a second, my pet. I have not seen you all the morning. How bright and well you are looking!”
Imogen stooped to kiss her mother.
“Don’t keep me, mamsey dear,” she said, “Major Winchester is waiting for me. I only ran up for my hat and jacket. You wouldn’t have said I was looking bright and well if you had seen me half an hour or so ago. I was in the depths of despair about my part. Indeed, I was almost making up my mind to throw it all up.”
“And are you in better spirits now, dearest? I am sure they would all be dreadfully disappointed if you gave it up. You will certainly be the central figure in it, by what I hear.”
“Oh, mamsey dear, you mustn’t believe such nonsense,” said Imogen. “I truly can’t act a bit, and—I’m not at all sure but that some people would be glad if I give it up. However, I think it will go a little better now. Major Winchester has been so kind, so painstaking and patient with me about it—he has been coaching me for ever so long down in the library.”
“Indeed, dear. I am very glad you have got him to help you. He has really been your good fairy here ever since we came.”
“Yes, truly he has,” said Imogen. “And he is so nice. I had no idea he was such a hero, mamma. You should hear the stories Trixie was telling me of the wonderfully brave things he has done. And Trixie, you know, is by no means one of his admirers in a general way. But I mustn’t keep him waiting. Good-bye, mamsey darling,” and off she flew, a perfect picture of sunny brightness.
“Dear child!” thought her mother. “She seems as happy as possible. It is really wonderful—such a child as she is to have made a conquest of a man like him. He does seem rather old for her, but yet—if she is content; and of course it is not a connection one could in any way ever feel ashamed of. Still, I hope he will not think of precipitating matters: it would be almost more honourable if he were to wait till she has seen a little more of the world. If I could manage to give her a London season next year; but I hardly see how I can. Mrs Helmont has her hands quite full with her own daughters, and she says their London house is too small for visitors. I wonder if there is any one else I could look up; or if we let our Eastbourne house, and could take a little one temporarily in London, as Imogen wishes.”
Whereupon her mind set off on an interesting journey of practical details, ways, and means.
“The nicest of all,” she decided, reverting to the original subject of her meditations, “would be if Major Winchester were to speak to me in the first place. If there were an understanding between him and me, it would all be so much easier; perhaps he will speak to me. Of course, I may have to allow an engagement almost at once. Dear, dear! how astonished everybody will be; it is not often nowadays that a girl so young— But really I must get my letters written and not waste time.”
The said letters contained more than one hint of coming events, for Mrs Wentworth found it impossible altogether to repress her sense of maternal exultation.
And several times during the next few days her heart beat faster, and she was conscious of a flutter of pleasurable expectation, when Rex happened to approach her or seemed to be seeking her society.
“I must give him all the opportunities I can,” she reflected. But she was not clever enough to do so with the real adroitness and apparent nonchalance such tactics require. Miss Forsyth saw through the little manoeuvres, and enjoyed them with strange, almost impish acuteness, though her pleasure could not be shared, as she had too small faith in Trixie’s powers of discretion to draw her attention to them.
But Major Winchester himself, though the least suspicious or self-conscious of human beings, was uncomfortably aware of a certain change in Mrs Wentworth’s manner.
“What can it be?” he asked himself. “She is a nice woman, though not a very wise one. Surely she is not a silly old coquette at bottom. I should be very sorry to think so, for that child’s sake.”
But the very suggestion of such a misgiving tinged his manner in turn with a faint constraint, which gave colour to Mrs Wentworth’s prepossessions.
The very evening before that of the grand representation a little scene of this kind occurred. The full-dress rehearsal, for the benefit of the upper servants and some of the out-of-doors retainers and neighbouring small tenants on the estate, had just taken place; and while the actors were changing their dresses Major Winchester, who had good-naturedly volunteered to be prompter, strolled into the drawing-room in search of Florence. She was not there; but Imogen’s mother was standing by the fire. He was moving away, when Mrs Wentworth recalled him.
“No; Florence is not here,” she said, in answer to a word or two that he had let fall; “but she will be back directly. She went to say something or other about the lights, I think. She was speaking to Mr Villars about them.”
“Ah, yes, that is all right then; it was that I wanted her for. They must be changed.” And out of a sort of reluctance to seem abrupt or discourteous, he lingered for a moment.
“Do stay a little and talk about the acting. It seemed to me so successful. You are all so busy I never see any of you. Of course, I don’t pretend to be anything of a judge; but it really is very good now, is it not?”
She spoke simply, and Major Winchester, who was really interested in the play, sat down and replied with his ordinary natural and simple cordiality.
“Yes, things have improved wonderfully these last few days,” he said. “I think it often is so in these cases. Amateurs warm to the work, and a sense of desperation makes even the weaker members forget themselves at the last, which, after all, is half the battle.”
He smiled as he spoke, for there flitted across his mind’s eye several amusing episodes in the recent struggles after dramatic art.
“Your daughter,” he went on, “has really improved surprisingly. I own I was rather nervous about her till quite at the end. But it went so very fairly to-night that I think we need have no misgivings. Besides, after all, there is no terribly critical audience to fear; every one will, I hope, wish to be pleased.”
Mrs Wentworth’s expression took a touch of offence at Major Winchester’s tone about Imogen.
“I heard several people saying that ‘Valesca’ was the gem of it all,” she said, and Rex, glancing at her, detected his mistake. “She really is too silly,” he reflected; “she cannot imagine that child, pretty as she is, to be a Mrs Siddons in embryo.” But his quick kind-heartedness made him add aloud: “I can well believe that, as far as appearance goes, that opinion will be pretty general. The dress, too, is remarkably becoming to Im— to Miss Wentworth. Still, dramatic power, even in a small degree, is a distinct gift, like talent for music, sculpture, or any art. It cannot be acquired, though it may be developed.”
He was already rather beyond his hearer’s range, though his words were intended as an explanation. But they had the effect of smoothing down her ruffled plumage—or rather, perhaps, his manner did so.
“Of course, he does not want me to imagine for an instant that he could say anything derogatory to Imogen,” she reflected. “And after all, unless he felt quite a peculiar interest in her, he would not speak so frankly,” and her tone was quite itself again as she replied.
“I am sure Imogen should be, and is, most grateful to you, Major Winchester. She has said ever so many times that she never could have managed it but for your help. I think she acted beautifully to-night,”—and the simplicity with which she said this pleased Rex—“but then I am not nearly clever enough to be a judge.”
“I myself did really think it very—extremely pretty,” he said. “And it has been a great pleasure to me to help her, I need scarcely assure you.”
“You have been our good angel ever since our first arrival here,” said Mrs Wentworth. “Dear Imogen was saying so only yesterday. Altogether, when I remember our distress that wet morning at the station, and your appearing just at the right moment—it was quite romantic.” She hesitated a little. “Now is his time,” she thought. But Major Winchester did not seem on the alert, and he again detected the slight tendency to “gush” in her tone, which had before this disappointed him in Imogen’s mother. “I am always so, I fear, really, foolishly anxious about my darling child,” she went on. “My only one, and—alone as we are.”
“But after all, it ended all right, did it not?” he said. “Miss Wentworth did not take the least cold, nor did you yourself, I think.”
“Oh no,” she replied, “none whatever. I was not only thinking of cold and such things. I—of course, I am always anxious about her. And this visit here—a sort of ‘coming out’ it really was—and among comparative strangers—”
“Still, after all, it has turned out all right,” he repeated, still with that vague instinct of annoyance. “At least,” he went on, as his own misgivings and anxiety concerning Imogen’s friendship with Beatrix occurred to his mind—“at least, I hope so. I—I have done what I could,” but here he hesitated. It scarcely came within the lines of loyalty to his hosts to discuss them with an outsider, and an outsider concerning whose discretion his doubts were grave.
“I am sure of that. Oh yes, indeed,” said Mrs Wentworth, with a recurrence of gush in her tone. “As Miss Forsyth was saying only yesterday, Imogen is really a most—”
“Excuse me,” said Rex, much more stiffly than he had yet spoken, “one thing I must ask of you, Mrs Wentworth, and that is not to repeat to me any of Miss Forsyth’s remarks on any subject whatsoever. As regards Miss Wentworth, so far as you are good enough to allow me to advise, I was going to say I wish she had made, I wish still she could make, more of a friend of Florence. Believe me, I am not influenced by prejudice or anything of that sort in saying so. For the future, too—”
Unconsciously to himself the stiffness had melted away again as he spoke. Mrs Wentworth’s perceptions were not of the quickest; still she could not but hear the contempt in his voice when he spoke of Mabella. Against this, however, she was, so to say, forearmed by Miss Forsyth’s own plausible regrets that Major Winchester, a man for whom she had the profoundest respect, should dislike her so.
“It may have been partly my own fault,” she had said, with a sigh. “I know I have been wild and foolish; but some one has made mischief too, I feel sure.”
So Mab’s new friend did not resent his rather imperious request as she might otherwise have done, and the vague, uncompleted sentence at the end of his speech—“for the future,”—aroused in her all sorts of pleasant surmises.
“You are so kind, so very kind, dear Major Winchester, to take so much interest in my Imogen,” she murmured. “Yes, I wish she knew more of Florence, as I see you think highly of her. Of course she is a good deal older—”
“Florence cannot be older than that other girl,” said Rex, rather gruffly. “And her age does not seem to be any objection to her as a friend.”
“Imogen is not a particular friend of Mabella’s,” said Mrs Wentworth, quietly. “In fact she—I think she has rather taken a dislike to the poor girl. I like her, I confess, very much. I am sorry for her; she seems to me much misunderstood; and of course, if a little friendly, elder-sisterly sympathy can do her any good, or be any help to her—”
Major Winchester could not help smiling. Mrs Wentworth’s simplicity was sublime.
“My dear lady,” he said, “you are years—centuries younger than Miss Forsyth. I cannot agree with you about her, I am sorry to say; but that does not signify. I am only uncommonly glad to hear that Miss Wentworth is rather of my way of thinking than yours in this matter.”
He rose as he spoke, but Mrs Wentworth was reluctant to let him go. “How stupid men are!” she thought to herself. “When could he have a better opportunity of taking me into his confidence?”
“Thank you so much, Major Winchester,” she said. “You may indeed trust me. I shall consider all you have said as quite, quite between ourselves.”
Rex almost started. He looked and felt bewildered. He had had no intention whatever of establishing any private understanding with the amiable lady; it was about the very last thing he desired.
“I must go,” he said. “Florence will be looking for me elsewhere. It really doesn’t matter in the least if you repeat anything I have said. Do not feel any constraint about it, I beg of you.”
But Mrs Wentworth chose to take it her own way.
“I see where Imogen has learnt her dislike to Mabella,” she thought to herself. “Ah, well—it really does not signify. But how oddly Major Winchester expresses himself sometimes.”
The theatricals were pronounced a great success. Nothing of any consequence went wrong, and the audience, composed of all the society to be got together within a reasonable radius of The Fells, professed itself delighted. This was the festive and sociable season in the north country, of course; several of the large neighbouring houses were nearly as full of guests as Grey Fells Hall itself, and their respective hosts were most ready to be grateful for this entertainment on a large scale. So the unfavourable criticisms, if there were any, were not made in public, and congratulations and compliments were the order of the day.
“It wasn’t half so dreadful, after all, as I expected,” said Imogen, throwing herself down on a couch standing in a passage just outside the temporary green-room. “Now it is over, I almost feel as if I should like to do it again.”
She was speaking to Major Winchester. He could not help laughing at her exceedingly untechnical way of expressing herself.
“I am afraid there is nothing of the ‘born actress’ in you, Miss Wentworth,” he said. ”‘Do it again,’ oh dear!”
“Well, ‘act it,’ ‘play it’—what should I say?” she replied childishly. “Oh dear, I am so hot. And we are going to dance; did you know?”
“For your sake I am glad to hear it, if you are fond of dancing,” he said.
“I have only danced at school with the other girls,” Imogen replied dubiously. “But even that was very nice. Only this dress is so heavy. And it’s fixed that we are to keep our dresses on for the rest of the evening.”
“It is heavy, and hot, too, I daresay. But il faut souffrir pour être belle, you know,” he added lightly, “and it certainly is very pretty and becoming.”
He touched, as he spoke, some of the richly-coloured draperies of the fantastic costume. Imogen flushed with pleasure.
“Do you really think so?” she said. “I am so pleased. Do you know, Major Winchester,” she added, half shyly, “I believe that is the very first compliment you have ever paid me!” Rex looked at her kindly. She was very sweet, very lovely just then.
“What a dear child she is!” he thought to himself. For the best of men are but men, and he was keenly sensitive to beauty. He stroked the little hand that lay on the couch beside him, and Imogen’s colour deepened still more.
“And after all,” he said, “I fear my compliment, such as it was, was more for ‘Valesca’ than for Imogen.”
“Never mind,” said she, her voice trembling a little, “Imogen thought it very nice.”
“Imogen is very sweet and—” he replied, but suddenly started up, exclaiming, with a complete change of voice:
“Robin, my boy! Where have you dropped from? I had no idea you were in the neighbourhood.”