“No, Major Winchester cannot be called a flirt, and every one speaks of him as a most honourable man; but I am not in his confidence, and one can only judge by what one sees.”
“I have been told of some attachment or engagement of old standing, but then one knows how such things often end,”—and so on, all providing a more or less safe shelter for Mabella should she ever be brought to book for her treachery.
And the next two or three days passed like a confused dream to Imogen herself. There were times when she felt girlishly exultant and elated; times when she was half inclined to entreat her mother to keep to their programme (for the original term of their visit expired two days after the theatricals) and leave The Fells before Major Winchester’s return; times when she longed to see him and test her own feelings; times when she dreaded meeting him again more than she could express. But with the obstinacy which I have before alluded to, on one point Mrs Wentworth was immovable. Leave The Fells before his return she absolutely would not. In vain Imogen pleaded that if he “really meant it,” he could follow them, and that it would be both more dignified and “much more comfortable,” to meet again elsewhere.
“It would be the most distinct refusal you could give him under the circumstances,” Mrs Wentworth maintained. “And a man of his age and position must be allowed to take his own way to some extent, even if it be a little eccentric;” adding, in her own mind, “And just supposing he wrote that odd letter impulsively, not being really quite sure of his own mind,” (which was, to do her justice, Mrs Wentworth’s only misgiving), “if he came back and found us gone, and Florence, who I know, does not like us, got hold of him and talked him round, where would we be? We might never hear of or see him again—quite as honourable men as he have backed out of things of the kind before now—and Imogen’s whole career might be spoilt, for of course he would not suppose she had shown me the letter, considering the postscript, and knowing what a punctilious darling she is.”
But these reflections she kept to herself—the effect of revealing them to Imogen would, she felt instinctively, have been disastrous, for the slight strain of coarseness, undeniable in the mother’s nature, despite her real gentleness and unselfishness, would have found no response in the perfect delicacy of the high-minded though undisciplined daughter.
A hint or two to the effect that another week at The Fells would be a convenience as well as a pleasure was cordially responded to by the Wentworths’ hostess. Truth to tell, the seed fell on ground already carefully prepared by Mabella, through Trixie, bribed by the promise of a speedy dénouement of their cherished scheme of revenge.
“I am really pleased to see that Trixie has made such friends with Imogen Wentworth,” said honest Mrs Helmont to her husband. “She is a thoroughly sweet, refined girl. And even Mab seems quieter lately.”
“Trixie was none the worse for her bit of plain-speaking, you see,” said the Squire with satisfaction. “I think I know how to manage that sort of thing when it is really called for, though I have no idea of nagging at the children as some do. I wish poor Florry could pick up her spirits a bit.”
“She misses Rex; he has such a good influence on her,” said Mrs Helmont, “though he has troubles enough of his own, poor fellow. I daresay she is anxious about his troubles too.”
For Florence, of all the party, had perhaps the most perturbed aspect just then. She was both distressed and bewildered—vaguely conscious that mischief was brewing, though unable to define how or where. And her anxiety was not lessened by the perception that Imogen was avoiding her.