“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs Wentworth, who was dying of curiosity, mingled, it must be allowed, with a worthier feeling. “I have heard some news already this morning. Major Winchester has been called away. He and his brother breakfasted early, and started off to catch the ten o’clock express.”
Imogen’s face fell.
“Oh dear, how dreadfully vexing!” she exclaimed. “Just when we had planned such a nice day. I’m afraid there must be something wrong; bad news about his sister, probably. And this note will be to explain about it.”
She looked up questioningly in her mother’s face, toying idly with the letter in her fingers as she did so.
“Very likely; it is pretty sure to be so,” said Mrs Wentworth. “But why in the world don’t you open it, my dear, and then you would see?” There was a touch of impatience in her tone; but she controlled herself and turned away, as Imogen began to tear the envelope, feeling that the girl might prefer to read it unobserved. But scarcely a moment seemed to have passed before she heard herself called back to Imogen’s bedside. She started as she caught the sound of her child’s voice. It seemed choked and gasping, and Imogen herself was lying back, almost as white as the pillow.
“My darling,” Mrs Wentworth exclaimed, “what is the matter? Are you fainting?”
“No, no. Read that. Oh, mamma!” said the girl, incoherently, and she thrust the sheet of paper into her mother’s hand. These were the words on which fell Mrs Wentworth’s bewildered gaze:
My Dearest,—
I am just off—and Robin, too—summoned to poor Angey by this morning’s letters. The operation is to take place at once. God grant it may be successful. You will feel for us, I know. Though I have scarcely a moment, I could not go without one word to you to explain my movements, though I hope to be back at The Fells in a day or two. I have so much to tell you, and to lay before you all that I have been thinking of, and I had planned for an uninterrupted hour or two to-day. I know you will not have misunderstood my recent silence, and when we meet, a few minutes will be better than pages of writing. Ever yours,—
Rex.
P.S.—Say nothing of this at present to any one.
Imogen’s mother read and re-read. Gradually her bewilderment gave place to delight—though delight strongly mixed with astonishment. She looked up at last. A little colour had by this time returned to the girl’s cheeks.
“Mamsey,” she said, anxiously, “what does it mean?”