“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.”