Chapter Thirteen.

Eva.

Late autumn again. A year, a year fully since Imogen and her mother left The Fells that bright, chilly November morning. Since then their life had been a wandering and unsettled one. Mrs Wentworth’s dreams of a modest season in London had not been realised, for Imogen had shrunk from anything and everything of the kind. So, having disposed of their house at Eastbourne, they had travelled about aimlessly enough, the one guiding influence the girl’s fancy for the time being. For Mrs Wentworth had entirely, as the French say, “effaced herself” for her child. And in this there was a strong element of not altogether undeserved self-reproach, as well as of adoring maternal devotion.

Of course it had not been wisely done, but she was not a “wise” person. And the very unwisdom of her devotion should have touched a nature essentially generous as was Imogen’s. It did so from time to time, but not lastingly; only adding, therefore, to the poor girl’s restlessness and irritability, new and perplexing developments in her character.

They had been abroad for some months, and were now, when we meet them again, hesitating as to their winter destination. For once, there had been a diversity of opinion; that is to say, for once, Mrs Wentworth had expressed a wish, and Imogen had dissented from it. That this had not already occurred was no thanks to the latter, as with the spirit of contradiction fast becoming chronic in the formerly sweet-tempered and still gentle girl, it is much to be doubted if she would not have opposed any distinct suggestion. But hitherto every proposal had emanated from herself. That her mother had at last made one was due to the influence of Mrs Hume, Imogen’s sensible though not peculiarly refined godmother, who had of necessity been taken to a certain extent into the Wentworths’ confidence.

“You are ruining her,” Mrs Hume said, without beating about the bush; “ruining her character, and laying up a store of future discontent and misery for her. Never marry! tut, tut, nonsense! She’s not twenty yet; of course she’ll marry. And even if she never did? Much better have a settled, respectable ladylike home of your own than go wandering about in this purposeless fashion, as if there were some mystery about you. You have money enough to live very nicely: make your headquarters in London, which you will like yourself, and where Imogen can find something to do. She is not too old to have some lessons and girls do all sorts of things nowadays—cooking, ambulance classes, meddling and muddling about among the poor. It’s all very wholesome for them, and Imogen would get to like London.”

But no; Imogen would not hear of it. She was not going to like anything. She would take no interest in the idea of furnishing a pretty little house and making some pleasant acquaintances; she had, or imagined she had, a morbid terror of going into society, for fear her tragic story should be known; she had taken up the rôle of a being a part—a Mariana, without Mariana’s ghostly and illusive hope. She had nothing to watch or listen for; still, that made it no better: if she could neither watch nor listen, she would at least do nothing else. Far ahead in the dim future, when “mamsey,” somehow or other—she did not define how, for she was too true-hearted to say “when mamsey dies”—would no longer need her, she had sketched out for herself a shadowy possibility.

“I will become a Sister,” she used to think, as if for such a life no qualification were wanted but the having lost heart and interest in everything else!—while a not unpleasing vision of herself in trailing and sombre garments, pale face, and unearthly eyes, carrying solace and sympathy by her very presence to the “haunts of wretchedness” of which she knew naught but the name, or lost in devotion through long hours of midnight vigil in some dimly-lighted chapel, rose before her eyes—all, as Mrs Hume’s rough common-sense had already in its way perceived, centring round “self.” For of the real meaning of religion, apart from sentiment and self-seeking, it is to be feared that the poor child as yet knew not even the alphabet.

It was in this mood that she was pacing the sands one mild morning, tempted out by the soft sunshine and unusual stillness of the air, unusual at that season, even at the seaside winter resort where for the time they were staying. She had come out alone, for the discussion as to their future plans had begun again at breakfast, ending in a nearer approach to positive disagreement than had yet come to pass. For Mrs Wentworth’s eyes were opening, and she was growing more rationally anxious about Imogen every day.

“I can’t think what has made mamma take up that craze about London,” she thought. “I should detest it; at least,”—for, after all, London was an unknown quantity to Imogen, and at twenty there is charm in that very fact—“I am sure I should, though I daresay other girls would like it. But—”

At that moment she became aware that she had all but run against a Bath chair, drawn up in a sheltered position below the rough cliff-like bank.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she said hastily, fearing lest she had jarred the chair and its invalid occupant.

“It does not matter the least,” a sweet, bright, though feeble voice replied; and looking up, Imogen saw, half lying, half sitting, a girl—quite a young girl she seemed at first sight—whose exquisite complexion and brilliantly beautiful eyes told their own sad tale, even without the cough which quickly followed her few quick words.

“I am so sorry,” Imogen could not avoid saying, imagining that she had agitated the young lady.

“Oh no!” the stranger went on, when, after a moment or two, she had recovered her breath and voice, “it was not you at all. I made myself cough by trying to reach my book, which had fallen down. If you would be so kind—oh! thank you so much,” as Imogen eagerly started forward to pick it up. “It is my own fault, for I sent my maid home, and I never care to keep the chairman standing about. I love to be alone when I am pretty well, as I am this morning.”

Imogen gazed at her with eyes full of wondering pity. How could she be so cheerful? She had heard that consumptive patients never realise their state: it must be so in this case.

“I must not disturb you,” she said gently.

“It is a very nice mild day. May I say that I hope the air here will do you a great deal of good?” and she was moving on when the invalid stopped her.

“Do stay and talk to me for a minute or two, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I have noticed you passing so often; now and then with—your mother, I suppose?”

Imogen gave a sign of assent.

“But more often alone. And I wondered—” But here she stopped rather abruptly. Imogen looked up; she was carrying a little folding-stool, which she set down beside the stranger’s chair. “I am rather tired,” she said with a sigh; “but please, what did you wonder?” The young lady smiled, but shook her head “No,” she said, “I don’t think I will tell you: it might sound impertinent—from an utter stranger. If—if possibly I got to know you even a little, I think I would say it.”

“That is not likely to happen, I fear,” Imogen answered. “We are leaving here on Monday. Are you going to stay all the winter?”

For the first time a rush of sudden colour overspread the lovely face, leaving it more delicately pale than before. Imogen began to change her mind about the girl’s age. Something in her tone and manner made her feel as if the invalid were some years her senior; a slight, very slight touch of gentle authority made itself felt, as if the speaker were not accustomed to have her words or opinion lightly set aside.

“I do not know about the whole winter,” she replied. “But I feel sure—quite sure—I shall never be able to go abroad, as my friends are still hoping. We are to have a grand consultation in a day or two: others of my friends are coming on Saturday.”

“But you could scarcely find a milder place in England than this,” said Imogen, a little puzzled by her manner.

“No: that is why I shall stay here, till—till I go still farther away,” said the invalid gently. “And yet it cannot be really far away—not from those we love,” she added, as if speaking to herself, while her beautiful eyes seemed to be gazing at unseen things.

Imogen did not speak; and when the stranger glanced at her again, she was startled to see some large tears stealing down the girl’s face.

“My dear child!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Imogen, “I am crying. I think it is dreadful. I think nearly everything is dreadful in the world. Why should you have to die, so beautiful and so good—I can feel you are good; and why should I, though I’m not good at all, be so very unhappy?”

Then, not a little ashamed of herself, she started up.

“I shall only do you harm if I talk to you,” she said. “Good-bye. Oh! don’t you think perhaps you will get better after all?”

She held out her hand; the lady took it and held it.

“No,” she said, “that cannot be. And, believe me, there is nothing dreadful in it all to me now. The struggle is over both for me and, I hope, even for those who love me most. It is all right. But thank you for your sweet sympathy. Do not mind about me, however. You have said of yourself what I hesitated to say. I was wondering why you looked so sad, and I see it is true that you are not happy. Yet—” She glanced at Imogen’s pretty fur-trimmed winter dress, “you are not in mourning; you have your mother, and health and youth, and—plenty of things both useful and pleasant to do?”

“I don’t do them,” the girl replied bluntly. “I suppose they are there, if I cared to look for them. But I have no heart or interest in anything. I was really ill last year—last winter—rather badly, and I got into lazy ways, I suppose, and—and—oh, I’m just unhappy, and I don’t see why I should be, and why there should be so many things all wrong and sad.”

“If we could see the ‘why’ of such things, the wrongness and the sadness would be gone,” said the invalid.

Imogen looked perplexed.

“Ye-es,” she said. “Yes; if we saw it was a good ‘why,’ of course it would seem different.”

“Then should we not believe it is a good ‘why?’” and the young lady smiled again.

“I suppose we should,” Imogen allowed.

“There is one thing that all who know anything about human nature agree upon,” said the invalid, “and that is, that without suffering, without having suffered, we should be very poor creatures indeed; we should scarcely be at the beginning of better things.”

“Yea, suffering like yours—high and good and noble sort of suffering,” said Imogen. “And suffering borne meekly and patiently and cheerfully—that’s quite different. But when it’s only selfish, and mostly your own fault, and when you do nothing but kick at it and feel horrid—”

The invalid smiled again.

“If we were able at once to accept and bear patiently the suffering, we should not need its discipline,” she said. “No, it goes deeper and wider than that. Suffering is the door opening for us—opening on to the higher road.”

Imogen was silent. She was impressed, but still perplexed.

“Mine—the—the trial or disappointment, or whatever it should be called, that spoilt my life was not like that. It seemed only lowering—only degrading.”

“Don’t say that!” the invalid exclaimed eagerly. “Nothing can degrade us but our own wrong-doing, and the true lowering is that which lowers us only to raise us higher in the end.”

Imogen considered.

“I don’t know that I quite understand you,” she said. “I am afraid you are too clever for me. I am not clever, and I have never thought much about religious things; they seem so dull and difficult—at least nearly always. I know I am wrong now; I am useless and selfish and discontented.”

“The last is sure, thank God for it, to follow on the two others,” her new friend interpolated.

Imogen glanced at her earnestly: the reverent expression struck her. “But,” she went on, “for the thing itself, the miserable mistake and mortification, I don’t think honestly that I was to blame, except that I was silly and, I suppose, vain.”

Her candour impressed the other favourably. It is a proof of real humility to own one’s self vain.

“You must have been very young,” she said almost more gently than she had yet spoken. “Supposing you begin at the now; try to put right some of the wrong you now are conscious of. Do not think me officious or presumptuous,” she added. Then almost in a whisper, “The dying are privileged, you know.”

“Oh, don’t!” Imogen exclaimed, raising her hand as if to ward off an impending blow. Then she answered by a question, “Shall you be here to-morrow morning, about this time?”

“Yes, if it is fine, I think I may say certainly so.”

“I am going to think,” said the girl simply. “And perhaps you will let me talk to you a little more. To-morrow is only Thursday, and we don’t go till Monday. I do hope I have not tired you?” she added anxiously.

“No, truly no. You have interested me very much. And if I can be of even the tiniest bit of help to you, it would be delightful. The feeling one’s self so useless, so condemned to lie still, is almost the worst part of it;” and again the colour rushed over her face.

“I think just to see you is use,” Imogen replied.

Then she went home, and she thought.

And “to-morrow” was fine, and Imogen had not thought in vain, nor had her new friend in any way forgotten her.

“I am going to tell you everything,” said the girl. “I don’t like it at all, even though you do not know my name, and perhaps we may never meet again. But I know I can trust you, and I want you to say plain, even hard things to me, if you think I need them.”

Then followed the story—simple enough, after all, which we know.

The invalid listened intently. Once or twice, when Imogen came to the climax of the changed letters, alluding, though but slightly, to her faint suspicion that all had not been mere accident in the little drama, she started as a restrained exclamation of pity or of indignation, perhaps of both, rose to her lips. But when Imogen had finished, quite finished, though she took her hand and held it, for some moments she did not speak. Then said the girl, waxing impatient, as was her way:

“Why don’t you say something? I told you I would not mind plain-speaking or hard speaking. Do you think me beneath contempt?”

“My dear,” said the older woman, with a touch of reproach, as she pressed the restless little hand, “I was thinking. I won’t attempt to say what I feel for you; I might say too much. Just be satisfied that I do feel for you intensely. I think it was a cruel, a really cruel trial; and if any one was an active agent in it—no, it is best not to say what I could say of such wickedness. The word is not too strong; but let us put all that aside. If so cruel a trial and mortification were sent to you, it was for a good purpose. That is a truism; but truisms are useful sometimes. Special suffering—and I do think it was very special and unusual—is meant to show special possibilities for good in those it comes to. That should take away some of the bitterness of the mortification, should it not, by helping you to rise above it?”

It was the second time in her little speech that she used the word, and as she laid a slight emphasis on it, she looked at Imogen keenly. It is not a pleasant word to have applied to one’s self, but the girl did not resent it. She only repeated it inquiringly.

“Mortification?” she said. “Yes, of course I know there was a good deal of that in it;” and her colour deepened. “But, that couldn’t have been the worst of it. I was—I had got to be very fond of him—of the person it was all about.”

“Naturally so,” said the invalid. “I don’t see how you could have helped it. And he deserved it. You need not feel ashamed of having cared for a man such as—as you describe. But—yes, I think the mortification was the worst of it, and the part that has left you so sore and morbid. I don’t think—and remember you told me to speak plainly—you can have been what is called ‘in love’ with him. You were more in love with the idea of it all. The sort of romance of it, and the girlish pride in being so quickly chosen, and your mothers gratification too.”

“It is true,” said Imogen, “that at the very first, when I thought it was really going to be, I wasn’t at all sure if I was glad or not. I was more frightened and worried than glad. But mamma said girls often feel as if they didn’t know their own minds.”

“Perhaps; but not exactly as you felt. Then there is another thing. I think and believe you would be capable of a very true and unselfish love. Now, if yours for him had been like this, it would not have spoilt your life hitherto as you tell me it has been spoilt. You would have been thankful to know the mistake had not caused him suffering. Oh, my child, that is the bitterest, to know that we have been the cause, however innocently, of sorrow to those we love better than ourselves!”

Her words and manner almost overawed Imogen. But after a little pause she replied:

“No,” she said, honestly, “I certainly did not care for him like that. I was even almost glad to think he had suffered a little. For though, of course, he was not the least atom in the world in love with me, he was unselfish. I know he was dreadfully sorry for me. But, after all, if it was more the mortification than—than any better feeling, how does that help me?”

“Because it is so clearly wrong—even ‘lowering,’ to use your own word—and it should be and must be so possible for you to throw it off and start afresh.”

Imogen raised her head; there was something inspiriting in the last words.

“What should I do?” she asked gently, but eagerly too.

And an earnest consultation followed.

The next day was rainy. Then came Saturday, fine and mild again—the last but one of the Wentworths’ stay at Tormouth. Imogen stole down for a few minutes to the sheltered nook where she had found her new friend.

Yes, she was there.

“I felt that I must see you—for a moment,” said the girl, “though I cannot stay, and I know you have friends coming to see you to-day. But I had to thank you again, and I want to tell you that I have told my mother I will do exactly what she wishes; so we are going to London on Monday to look for a house, and poor mamsey is so pleased. And I am going to follow your advice about everything. I am not going to be idle and useless any more.”

The tears were in the stranger’s eyes by this time.

“Dear child,” she said, “I am so glad.”

“Would you like to know my name?” the girl went on simply. “I thought at first I could not bear to tell it you; but if that is foolish and false pride, and if you would tell me yours?”

“No, dear,” the invalid replied. “Do not tell it to me. And I will not tell you mine. I think it would a little spoil the charm of our friendship, and there might come times at which you would wish you had not confided in me. No, I shall never forget you. And you may feel that your secret is as safe as it can be, for—”

“I know what you are going to say, but please don’t. You may get better for a while: do let me think so.”

The dying girl shook her head, though she smiled—yes, her own sweet smile. And this was Imogen’s last remembrance of her. So when, some few months later, in the daily list of deaths came the name of “Eveleen, only surviving daughter of General Sir Jocelyn Lesley, etc, etc, aged 28,” it called forth no remark from the girl whose eye it caught for a moment, save that of ”‘Eveleen Lesley.’ What a pretty name! And Eveleen spelt the Irish way.”

“Is it a marriage?” asked Mrs Wentworth across the table.

“No,” Imogen replied, with a softened tone in her voice, “it’s somebody dead. But not a very young girl.”

Five years later, and The Fells again, in its normal condition of hospitable cheeriness, and with, at the first glance, but few changes. The Squire is a little greyer, perhaps—a little greyer and a little stouter—and Mrs Helmont a trifle more grandmotherly in bearing and appearance. And the handsome figure and face of wild Trixie are conspicuous by their absence; for she is married and away—far away with her husband and his regiment in India, learning wisdom and other good things, it is to be hoped, by experience. In her stead there sits Lady Lucy, the pretty and irreproachable, though decidedly uninteresting, wife of Captain Helmont. Alicia and Florence are both in their usual places.

It is breakfast-time, and newspapers are handed about. From Oliver at one corner there comes an exclamation:

“I say, did any of you know that Robin—Robin Winchester was going to be married? Not going to be, he is married, and guess to whom—that’s to say, if you remember her.”

“Who?” said Alicia, languidly.

“That pretty, spoilt little girl who stayed here once, ages ago, before Trixie was married. What was her name—Gwendolin? No; Imogen Wentworth.”

“Dear me, how very odd!” said Alicia, with more interest in her tone. “They met here, then; no, they didn’t—did they, Florence?”

“They did meet, but only just,” said Florence; “still, I believe Robin dates his falling in love with her from then.”

Her father and mother turned to her. “Then you knew about it; you might have told us. Indeed, for the matter of that, Master Robin might have told us himself,” said the Squire.

“He is only a second-cousin after all,” said Florence, “and we never had seen anything of him scarcely. We never knew him like Rex—in the old days. And I believe he has been very little in England all these years.”

“We have seen little enough of Rex for a long time,” said Mrs Helmont. “Poor Rex! why, he always called us uncle and aunt, you remember, my dear. I suppose he has never got over poor Eva’s death. But I think the girl’s mother might have let me know. I always meant to ask them here again—indeed I think I did once—but something came in the way. Who told you about it, Florry?”

“I only heard it vaguely, some months ago, from Rex himself, as a thing that would be some day, but not an announced engagement. And this very morning I have a letter from him. It appears Mrs Wentworth is dead: she had a very long and painful illness, and her daughter would not leave her. Rex speaks of Imogen very highly. I think he seems quite cheered by the marriage.”

“We must ask them down: don’t forget about it, my dear,” said the hospitable Squire.

“And perhaps we could persuade Rex to come too. Ask them all for Christmas: they’d feel at home and cheer us up a bit—make up for poor Trixie, eh?”

The Christmas invitation was declined, though graciously. For Imogen’s mourning was still recent, and her marriage had been of the quietest. But the course of the following year did see the Winchesters—all three of them—at Grey Fells. And at last came to pass the friendship between Florence and Imogen, which so long ago Major Winchester had wished for and tried to compass.

“I like her exceedingly—thoroughly,” said Robin’s happy wife to—her brother-in-law.

“But, surely, is she not much softer, less standoff and much, much more sympathising than she used to be?”

“Yes; she has been through the fire, and come out of it very fine gold—tried and purified,” said Reginald. “One could scarcely wish her in the least other than she is now. Dear Florence! How pleased Eva would have been!” he murmured.

“Robin,” said Imogen, not many days after this, “do you know I cannot help praying and hoping that perhaps in time. No, I am afraid of vexing you by saying it.”

“Do you mean Rex and Florence? Why should it vex me, my darling? Hope it—yes, indeed I do, with all my heart. And what’s more, I think it. It is what Eva would have rejoiced at more than anything. She was so unselfish. How I wish you had known her, Imogen!”

But neither he nor his wife, nor anybody else, ever suspected that Imogen had known—and that she thanked God for it every day of her life—the girl whom others loved, and remembered by the name of Eveleen Lesley.

The End.