Chapter Nine.
Robin.
Imogen looked up, not without a feeling of irritation at the interruption, to see whom Major Winchester was thus greeting. The new-comer was a tall, good-looking young fellow, of four or five and twenty at the most, with pleasant eyes, and a likeness—rather strong at first, but fading even as she looked at him—to some one she knew.
“Whom is he like?” thought the girl. Then as her glance fell on Major Winchester she could not help smiling at her own dullness. Of course, it was Rex himself the younger man resembled! But as they stood together talking, she lost it; when she came to know Robin Winchester’s face better, she found it was much more a resemblance of expression than of feature or colouring.
“I didn’t expect to be here to-night, or I would have written,” she heard the stranger reply. “I’m staying at Wood Cross for three days’ shooting. We drove over, a large party. But I say, Rex, have you heard from Angey the last day or two? I had a letter from Arthur that rather startled me.”
“No; I have heard nothing for a week or more,” said Rex, hastily, his face clouding over with anxiety. “Is it—is it anything new?”
“No, no; you would have heard, of course, if it had been anything exactly critical. Perhaps I should not have told you of it. Arthur says he would write to you if it got worse. I have his letter in my pocket. Here it is. You can read it afterwards;” and he held out an envelope. “Your not having heard is a good sign, you see. I’ve made a muddle of it, and frightened you for nothing. Angey didn’t want you told, if it could be helped. She—she said you had enough on your mind already, just now.”
The last few words were spoken in a lower tone, so low that Imogen scarcely caught them, and they were accompanied by a glance in her direction which made the colour rise to her cheeks. There was a sort of questioning in the glance as well as undisguised, but entirely respectful, admiration. She got up from her seat and touched Major Winchester very slightly on the arm. He turned at once with a quick gesture of apology. But before he had time to speak, she forestalled him.
“I think I will go into the drawing-room. Mother, or some of them, are sure to be there,” she said, gently.
“Forgive me,” he said, quickly. “Wait one moment. You must not go alone. The dancing is beginning. Robin—Miss Wentworth, may I introduce my brother, Mr Robert Winchester? My little brother,” with a smile, though the anxiety was still visible in his face. “And, Robin, will you take care of Miss Wentworth for a few minutes while I read this? Then you will find me here again; and—I hope I shall still have my dance with you—Valesca?” he said, and the smile was brighter now.
Imogen brightened up too.
“If—if you are not disinclined for it,” she replied.
“No, no; it will do me good.”
“Don’t you think, Miss Wentworth,” said Robert Winchester, as he offered Imogen his arm and they walked away, “that I can best take care of you by replacing Rex as your partner. You were dancing with, him, were you not?”
“I don’t think we had settled anything about it,” Imogen answered, simply. “But I should like to dance very much. Only first—I could not help overhearing a little—I am so sorry. Is it about your sister, Mrs Bertrand?”
“Yes,” and Robin glanced at her. “He has told you, I see. Poor Rex! he’s lucky to have your sympathy. He—I wish a few less troubles would fall to his share. I wish I could see him really happy at last.” And again he glanced at her, half inquiringly.
“He told me,” she said, hesitating a little, out of a sort of shyness, “he told me of his anxiety about Mrs Bertrand; but that must be an anxiety to you, too, Mr Winchester.”
“Yes, of course. I’m awfully fond of Angey—we both are. But Rex has so much upon him just now, so many different things. Of course, it’s not all anxiety; there’s the bright side, the hopeful side to it too. I don’t know that I’ve any right to talk to you like this though, Miss Wentworth, but somehow I feel as if I’d known you before. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh no,” said Imogen, wondering a little at his manner, nevertheless, and conscious of looking slightly awkward—why, she scarcely knew. “It’s—it’s very kind of you. I do trust Mrs Bertrand will be all right again soon. I am so sorry for Major Winchester. He—he has been so kind to me.”
“I am so delighted to see you understand—appreciate him,” said the young fellow boyishly, and Imogen felt herself growing red as he looked at her. She was half pleased, half puzzled by his manner. “I think him—well, perfection—the most splendid fellow going,” he went on, laughing a little at his own enthusiasm. “But all the same everybody doesn’t take to him. Some people think him so cold and stand-off.”
“He has never—never from the first seemed so to me,” she replied, impulsively. “I couldn’t tell you what a difference his being here and—and his goodness has made to me. I feel as if I could tell him anything—he understands so;” then she stopped, feeling ashamed of her little outburst, and very conscious of her glowing cheeks. “I hope he won’t think me gushing, or anything like that,” she thought. “I couldn’t bear his talking of me that way to Major Winchester; I know he hates gushing.”
For she felt that Robin was looking at her with an expression she was at a loss to understand. There was admiration in it undoubtedly—admiration as respectful as it was genuine; but there was something of questioning, of slight misgiving in the eyes that now and then looked so like his brother’s.
“You are right,” he said quietly; “there’s no one like him.”
They were in the dancing-room by this time. Imogen began to feel nervous in another sense.
“I hope you don’t dance very well, Mr Winchester,” she began. “No—I don’t mean that, for it would make it worse. I mean I hope you are not very—difficult to please. For I have had very little practice. Oh yes,” as she noticed the surprised expression on her companion’s face—“I can dance; of course I have learnt, but I haven’t danced properly—among other people, you know—at balls.”
“I’m sure we’ll get on all right,” he replied; “you look as if you would dance well. Don’t be nervous.”
He proved a true prophet; after a moment or two’s slight hesitation, Imogen found herself quite at home.
“Oh,” she said, when at last they stopped, “I had no idea it could be so nice; ever so much easier, too, than dancing when it’s a dancing-lesson, you know.”
Mr Winchester could scarcely help laughing, but he was pleased too.
“You really dance beautifully,” he said. “So if your only experience has been dancing-lessons, as you say, you have certainly profited by them. But you should dance with Rex.”
“Does he dance so well?” asked the girl, with interest.
“Splendidly: his worst enemy can’t deny that,” answered Robin with emphasis.
“Who is his worst enemy? I shouldn’t have thought he had any,” said Imogen, half thoughtlessly, but with a spice of curiosity too.
Robin glanced round the room, but suddenly checked himself.
“No,” he said, “I won’t make mischief. Never mind, Miss Wentworth; it’s a shame to spoil a jolly good dance by talking of disagreeable things. Shall we have another turn?”
His spirits seemed to rise as the dance went on, and so did Imogen’s. Truth to tell, she had never enjoyed herself so much in her life.
Robin was really much nearer her in every way than his elder brother. For kind as Major Winchester was to her, Imogen was conscious of a certain strain in talking to him, and her pleasure in his society was largely composed of gratified vanity at the attentions of a man of his age and position; vanity only too cleverly and steadily fed by the two conspirators—directly by Beatrix, with her irresistible appearance of candour and bonhommie; more astutely by Miss Forsyth’s remarks to Mrs Wentworth all of which sooner or later were sure to find their way to the girl herself.
The first dance had become the second, before the two happy young people separated. Just as the latter was coming to a close, Imogen caught sight of Major Winchester dancing with Florence. Her face clouded.
“Why,” she said, “I thought your brother was reading his letters. He promised me his first dance.”
“Never mind,” said Robin. “It’s a pleasure to see those two dancing together; they’re worth watching, I assure you. And how could Rex dance with you, when you were already dancing?”
“He should have come and asked me. I only danced with you to—to—because he was busy,” said Imogen, bluntly, and with evident pique.
“Thank you, Miss Wentworth,” Robin replied. He could not help laughing a little. “It will be all right after this dance, I have no doubt,” he went on. But he looked at her as he spoke with the same expression of inquiry, almost concern, in his eyes, which she had before been conscious of without understanding it.
He was not offended, however; his tone was as hearty, his whole bearing as kindly as before.
“He is very nice,” thought Imogen, “and—I don’t think he’s quite as clever and grand as his brother;” and in the reflection there was a certain unacknowledged sensation of relief. But the sight of Florence and Major Winchester, who just then came in view, brought the cloud back to her face.
“Don’t they dance splendidly?” said Robin. “You see they’ve been used to each other’s paces for so long—ever since Florry grew up.”
“Yea, that is a good while ago,” said Imogen, with a faint touch of spite.
“She is a year older than I, and I am twenty-four,” Mr Winchester replied, simply. “I am fourteen years younger than my brother. Why, he is almost old enough to be your father.”
“Nonsense!” said the girl, sharply. “I am eighteen—eighteen past; that only makes—”
She stopped and looked confused.
“Twenty years,” said Robin, calmly. “Practically a generation. Still, as Wordsworth says—what is it he says about ‘a pair of friends?’ One was—I forget how old or how young, but Matthew was seventy-two, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know,” Imogen replied. “I don’t know Wordsworth well, except ‘We are Seven,’ and I can’t bear it. I had to learn it when I was seven, and I always thought her such a stupid little girl. After all,” she went on, “twenty years don’t seem so much. When Major Winchester is seventy-two I shall be fifty-two, and I’m sure once a woman is fifty-two she might as well be a hundred.”
“Perhaps you won’t think so when the time comes,” said Robin. “Shall we take one other turn, Miss Wentworth? We shall not have time for more.”
The music stopped before they had got well round the room. Then Imogen, espying her mother in a corner not far from where Florence and her partner were standing, made Mr Winchester pilot her thither. But she did not volunteer to introduce him, though he lingered in the neighbourhood for a moment or two.
“The mother is a sweet-looking woman,” he thought. For he had noticed the adoring smile with which the girl was greeted. “But she never can have been as charming as the girl. She has much more character, I should say, than her mother. But she is very, very young. I wonder if—I hope;” then his thoughts became less defined, as he went off in another direction to claim the dance which Alicia, his eldest cousin, had promised. Still they had brought a somewhat anxious expression to his usually unclouded face, and more than once during his waltz with her, Miss Helmont reproached him with being nearly as solemn and “absent” as Rex himself.
And there was some reason for her remarks. Robin’s misgivings intensified, as the first turn round the room brought into full view his late partner, glancing up in his brother’s face with what looked to him like not-to-be-concealed delight, as Major Winchester appeared to claim the dance he had been somewhat tardy of remembering.
“She has forgiven him already,” thought the younger man. “I never saw that look in her face all the time she was dancing with me,” and he gave a little sigh. “Rex should be—”
“Robin, what is the matter? Are you in love? You are sighing ‘like a furnace,’ or an old man with asthma?” said Alicia. And the young man had to smile and excuse himself.
His interpretation of Imogen’s face was not quite correct, but it would have required much deeper discernment than his—than Imogen’s own indeed—to eliminate the elements of gratified vanity and girlish triumph from the nobler feelings with which they were intermingled.
Major Winchester almost never danced, Trixie had taken care to tell her, “except with one of us, or some very great friend. He says he is too old and grave. But, indeed, he scarcely ever speaks to girls at all; of course every one sees you are quite an exception, Imogen.”
The evening was pronounced on all hands to have gone off excellently.
“You have really enjoyed it thoroughly, my darling, have you not?” said Mrs Wentworth, fondly, when she looked in to Imogen’s room to bid her good-night—or good-morning, rather, for midnight was well past.
“Yes, mamsey, very much indeed,” was the reply, “only I’m dreadfully sleepy. I think I enjoyed the first part the most, before I got at all tired, you know, and Mr Winchester just suits me for dancing.”
“Mr Winchester?” her mother repeated, inquiringly.
“Yes; didn’t you see? A tall man, though not as tall as his brother, but just a little like him, only much younger. He came over with the Penmores—I think that’s the name. He’s staying there for shooting. Didn’t you know? He’s so nice looking.”
Mrs Wentworth looked slightly discomfited.
“Oh yes,” she said, “I think I did see you dancing with a young man whom I did not know—a mere boy.”
“No,” Imogen replied, rather hotly, “he’s not a mere boy; he’s twenty-four or twenty-five; and he’s very nice.”
“But it was Major Winchester you were dancing with at the end?”
“Yes, he’s rather too tall for me, and he is very old, mamsey,” and Imogen glanced up with a curious, somewhat perplexed expression.
“Old!” repeated Mrs Wentworth with a little laugh. “What ridiculous ideas girls have! I was just thinking you and he looked so—no, I mustn’t say what I thought when I saw you dancing together.”
“Mother!” exclaimed Imogen, and her cheeks grew scarlet.
“And what was that I heard him whispering as he said good-night just now?” Mrs Wentworth went on. “Something about ‘forgive’ or ‘forgiven?’”
“Oh, nothing,” said the girl, “only that he hadn’t come for the first dance he had asked me for. He danced it with Florence.”
“Poor Florence!” said Imogen’s mother, patronisingly. “She does not get too much attention. You should try to be kind to her, dear.”
“I!” Imogen exclaimed. “Nonsense, mamsey: She would not care for that sort of thing at all. I am only too flattered when she notices me. I don’t take to her much, but of course I admire her. Indeed, I’m rather frightened of her. Me be kind to Florence! Oh, mamsey, Florence could have any amount of attention if she cared for it.”
“My dear little modest darling,” said Mrs Wentworth. “Well, some day my pet will have to learn to take more upon her, I daresay. In the meantime no one loves her the less for her humility.”
“It isn’t humility; it’s common-sense,” said the girl. “But, oh, I’m so sleepy!”
“Off with you, then. There’s no beauty-sleep for you to-night; but you must not think of getting up early. I know more than one person who would not be pleased to see you pale and wearied-looking.”
Mrs Wentworth’s dreams that night were roseate-hued. She had been well primed in the course of the evening by Mabella Forsyth with her clever hints and suggestions, so clever that when told over in simple language they sounded but natural and ingenuous little kindly compliments.
Imogen slept the sleep of her eighteen years, untroubled by dreams, for she was really tired, but with a pleasant undercurrent of gratification and vague anticipation which her mother’s words had greatly tended to strengthen.
And while the little conversation I have repeated was taking place between Mrs Wentworth and her daughter, another was passing between the two brothers. Down-stairs in the smoking-room—for it had been arranged that he was to stay the night at The Fells—Robin Winchester was sitting, more silent than his wont, while his cousins and their friends kept up a rather noisy chatter, unrestrained by the awe-inspiring presence of Major Rex.
“It’s hardly worth while to go to bed,” said Robin at last. His brother got up and went over to him.
“Oh yes, it is: you can have four or five hours’ sleep; nobody will be very early here. What have you been about, Robin? You seem done up.”
Robin started slightly.
“I’m all right. Perhaps I was thinking about Angey,” he said. “There may be a letter for you in the morning, Rex. That was one reason I was glad to stay. That girl—Miss Wentworth—was so sympathising about it.”
“Yes,” said Major Winchester. “She has a kind little heart. She’s a nice child; a great deal of good in her. And isn’t she pretty? Last night she looked really charming. But, Robin, about Angey. I almost think I should go.”
This point was discussed for a moment or two. Then Robin again managed to bring in Imogen’s name. Rex answered carelessly; he was thinking of something else. “Miss Wentworth, did you say? Oh yes, that was her mother. Then, Robin, if you hear anything,”—and so on about arrangements and plans in connection with Mrs Bertrand.
It was no use. Robin could not manage to bring the talk round deftly, as he had hoped. He must plunge in boldly.
“Rex,” he said abruptly, though in a low voice. He glanced round; they were practically alone, for the room was large and the Helmonts and their friends were still making a good deal of noise at the other end. “Rex, does Miss Wentworth know, about you?”
“Know about me!” Major Winchester repeated. “How do you mean?”
“About your—about you and Eva?”
Rex looked a little surprised, but in no way startled or even interested.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” he said. “Yes, I daresay she does. Everybody who knows either of us knows it. But she’s too young to understand that kind of thing. I don’t think I have ever talked about it to her. It would have seemed so—I don’t know how, exactly—so incongruous. And I have not felt inclined to talk about Eva lately—you can understand.”
“No, of course not,” Robin agreed. “But I think Miss Wentworth is more of a woman than you imagine, Rex. She was very sympathising about Angey.”
“Yes. Well, I may tell her about Eva some day, if you think it would please her to have her sympathy sought. I am going to warn her to-morrow again about Trixie, now this acting is over. But she is such a child, I like to see her enjoying herself; knowledge of troubles comes soon enough. Well, good-night, Robin. I am rather sleepy, I confess. So glad you came over, old fellow.”
But Robin, though he shook hands and half moved to go, still lingered.
“What is it, Robin? You’ve nothing on your mind, have you, my dear boy?” asked the elder brother, half anxiously. “You’re not quite like yourself, somehow.”
“I’m afraid of annoying you, Rex, that’s the fact of the matter,” said Mr Winchester, and his colour deepened a little. “But I can’t help telling you. I think Miss Wentworth should know, and I feel sure she doesn’t. She’s—”
And he hesitated, then repeated his former phrase, “she’s more of a woman than you think, Rex.”
It was now Major Winchester’s turn to hesitate: he did so from his utter and complete astonishment.
“My dear good boy,” he exclaimed at last, “you are too absurd. That little childish creature! Why, she looks upon me as a sort of father. She does, I can assure you.”
And he laughed, sincerely and without constraint.
But Robin did not give in. On the contrary, his grave face grew graver.
“I might have known you would take it so,” he said, half provoked and half admiringly. “I wish, Rex, you were just a little more—conceited; I don’t know what word to use. But I can quite believe it might have been as you say—all quite simple and natural, with a genuine innocent-minded girl such as she is, had you known her elsewhere; but here— There can be nothing simple and refined where Trixie and that odious Forsyth girl are. And Miss Wentworth rather stands up for Trixie.”
“I know she does, out of a kind of misplaced chivalry,” said Rex, speaking more seriously now. “I am afraid, though I have done what I could, that Trixie has got some influence over her. But I don’t see how she can make mischief in this case.”
Robin shook his head.
“I wouldn’t answer for her,” he said. “Well, anyway, Rex, it can do no harm for you to talk to Miss Wentworth a little about Eva. Dear Eva,” he added, with a sigh. “How I wish—”
“Don’t,” said Rex, almost sharply. “I—I can scarcely bear the sound of her name sometimes. I daresay that has made me avoid alluding to her in my talks with little Imogen. For I told her about poor Angey. But I will see about it; though, remember, I do not in the very least agree with your reason for thinking it advisable. Of all things I hate that style of thing, imagining one’s self an attractive young fellow like you, Robin, when one’s hair is growing grey.”
He turned it off lightly. Still, his brother’s words had their effect.
“I had no idea little Robin was so worldly-wise; no, that’s not the word,” Major Winchester said to himself when his companion had gone. “He means it for the best, but it must be nonsense. Still, the mother is silly enough for anything. I must think it over.”