Other visitors were expected to arrive there that day—visitors more welcome and more congenial—yet on the Wentworths an unusual amount of anticipatory attention had been bestowed, attention which, had they known of it, they would certainly not have coveted. Not that it was all unfriendly; Mrs Helmont, and the Squire himself, so far as he ever interfered in the details of such matters, were anxious that the strangers, rather specially thrown on their hospitality, should be happy and at home under their roof. But the precautions they took to this end were not of the most judicious.
“It is Trixie I am uneasy about,” said Mrs Helmont to her husband. “She, and indeed the others too—though Alicia never worries, and Florence, I must say, is good about it—are annoyed at having any ‘outsiders,’ as they call the Wentworths. I almost think, Ronald, you had better say a word to Trixie yourself. It comes with better effect from you, as you seldom do find fault with her.”
“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” said Mr Helmont, whose strongest instincts, as I have said, were those of hospitality. “Nothing would vex me more than for any guests of ours not to receive proper attention.”
“It is rather too much attention I dread for them, for the girl at least, at Trixie’s hands,” said Mrs Helmont, rather mysteriously. But the Squire was a little deaf, and did not catch the words.
“I will speak to Beatrix this very morning,” he repeated reassuringly. And speak, unfortunately, he did. He had better have left it alone. Trixie had had the bit between her teeth for too long to be pulled up all at once, even by the most skilful hands. And the Squire had no thought of skill or tact; his only notion of “speaking” was to come down upon the girl with heavy, rather clumsy authority. It was with flashing eyes and compressed lips that Beatrix Helmont left her father’s so-called study that day, as she flew to confide her grievances to her second and not better self, Mab Forsyth.
“I’ll pay them out; see if I won’t,” she muttered. “It’s Rex who’s at the bottom of it, I could swear. He and his saintly Eva.”
“Let us put our heads together, Mab,” she wound up, when the whole had been related. “You and I should be a match for the rest of them. Florence has gone over to the enemy, it appears, but I can manage her; she’s not in such a very Christian frame of spirit. It’s Rex I’m furious at; he’s been setting dad against me.”
“But the worst of it is, we shall be spotted at once if we plan anything,” said Mab. “You’re so stupid, Trixie, flying into a temper and showing your colours.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Did I show any colours? Had I any to show? Till this very moment did I care one farthing what became of the little fool of a girl? Even now it’s not to spite her—it’s that prig of a Rex. Didn’t you hear him yesterday, Mab; his stilted, preachy tone: ‘Is that exactly a young lady’s place, Beatrix?’ when I was doing nothing at all? I hate him, and so would you if—”
“I do,” said Miss Forsyth, calmly; “but if what?”