Читать книгу Imogen: or, Only Eighteen - Molesworth Mrs. - Страница 2

November outside – a less attractive November than even up in the north among the Fells. For there, at least, though chilly and raw, it was clear and clean. Here, in a London lodging, very unexceptionable as to respectability and practical cleanliness, but not much above the average of London lodgings as regards attractiveness, it – whatever “it” means, the day, the weather, the general atmosphere – was assuredly not the former, and did not look the latter. For it was a morning of incipient fog; a state of things even less endurable – like an ailment before it has thoroughly declared itself – than full-fledged fog at its worst. Naturally so, for mature fog cannot last more than a day or two after all, whereas indefinite fog may be indefinite as to duration as well as quality. And besides this, thorough fog has its compensations; you draw down the blinds and light the lamps, and leave off pretending it is a normal day; you feel a certain thrill of not unpleasing excitement; “it is surely the worst that has yet been known” – what may not be going to happen next; the end of the world, or a German invasion?

Hoarse cries from the streets, rendered still more unearthly by the false sound of distance that comes with the thickened air, garbled tales of adventure filtering up through the basement from the baker’s boy, who, through incredible perils, has somehow made his way to the area gate; the children’s shouts of gleeful excitement at escaping lessons, seeing that the daily governess “can’t possibly be coming now, mamma;” all and everything adds to the general queerness and vague expectancy, in itself a not unexhilarating sensation.

But things were only at the dull unromantic stage of fog this morning at Number 33 Bouverie Terrace, where two ladies were seated at breakfast. It was not a bad little breakfast in its way. There were temptingly fried bacon and London muffins, and the coffee looked and scented good. But the room was foggy, and the silver was electroplate of the regulation lodging-house kind, and there was nothing extraordinarily cheering in the surroundings in general, nothing to call up or explain the beaming pleasure, the indescribable sunshininess, pervading the whole person of the younger of the two companions; brightness and pleasure reflected scarce undiminished on the older face of her mother as she sat behind the breakfast tray.

“It is just too beautiful, too lovely, mamsey dear. And oh, how clever it was of you to think of it! We might have been years and years without ever coming across these old friends, mightn’t we?” she exclaimed.

“We might never have come across them; probably we never should, if I had left it to chance,” said Mrs Wentworth, with a little tone of complacency. “But that I would scarcely have thought it right to do, considering the old friendship and the kindness Mrs Helmont when a girl received from my people. Not that I can remember it clearly, of course; she is ever so much older than I,” – and here the complacency became a little more evident. “Why, her eldest daughter, Mrs Poland, can’t be much under thirty-five.”

“Almost as old as you, mamsey,” said Imogen.

“For you know you’re not forty yet, and I don’t think I’m ever going to allow you to be forty.”

“You silly child,” said her mother, smiling. “Why, you may be married before we know where we are, and it would not do at all to be a grandmother – fancy me a grandmother! – and not forty. I should have to pretend I was.”

“Wait till the time comes,” said Imogen, sagely. “I’m not at all sure that I ever shall marry. I should be so terribly afraid of finding out he had a bad temper, or was horribly extravagant, or – or – ”

“You absurd child, who ever put such ideas into your mind?” said her mother, looking at her with fond pride.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Imogen replied, with a little coquettish toss of her head; “I think a lot of things, and then you know, in books mamsey, too often men who seem very nice are really dreadful tyrants or something horrid after they’re married.”

“Well, darling, there shall be choice care taken as to whom we give you to,” said her mother. “I daresay it won’t be the first comer, nor the second, nor third whom I shall think worthy of my Imogen.”

“I wonder when he will come,” thought the girl to herself, but she did not express the thought. She only smiled and blushed a little at her mother’s words.

“Tell me more about the Helmonts, mamsey,” she said. “You have been there once, didn’t you say?”

“Yes, but only for a day or two, not long before your dear father and I went out to India,” said Mrs Wentworth with a little sigh. “I don’t remember it very distinctly – it was a great big house, an ideal country-house for a large merry party. Of course, a good many of the young people were not grown up then – there was a baby if I remember rightly. Oh yes, the youngest daughter Beatrix, so she must be only a year or so older than you, darling. How very odd that Mrs Helmont and I have children so nearly of an age, when she might really be my mother!” and Mrs Wentworth gave the little self-complacent laugh she often indulged in when her comparative youth, or youthful appearance, was alluded to.

“How delightful!” exclaimed Imogen, ignoring entirely, though with no intention of disrespect, her mothers last sentence. “How delightful that there should be one daughter, anyway, of my age. There are lots older, I suppose?”

“Two, if not three, married, and three at home,” Mrs Helmont said. “In her letter this morning you see she speaks of Florence as hoping to do all she can to make your visit pleasant. Florence – can that be the youngest daughter? I have such a remembrance of the baby being Beatrix, because I thought it such a pretty name; and when you were born I wanted to call you by it, but your dear father would have Imogen. I’ve always thought it rather an eccentric name, but some people like it. I always forget who Imogen was exactly, and it looks so foolish. I must read up about it, or her, again.”

“Oh, bother, never mind about my name, mamsey. Go on about the Helmonts. I daresay Florence is the youngest. You often muddle about people’s names, you know, mamsey dear. And there are lots of sons, too, I suppose?”

“Oh dear, yes; but remember, dear, I don’t think I want you to fall in love with any of them. They won’t be particularly well off, except the eldest one, and he, of course, not till his father’s death.”

“How horrid!” said Imogen. “I can’t bear counting on people’s fathers and mothers dying. But I don’t care about being rich a bit, mamsey. You have such funny ideas sometimes. We’re not rich, and we’re very happy – now especially that I’ve left school, and we’re not obliged to live all the year round at that stupid old Eastbourne, but can go visits – lovely, delightful visits! And oh, mamsey, do you think you’ll let Thorn Bush and take a dear little house in London, anyway for a year or two?”

“We must see. I think very likely the Helmonts will be able to give me some practical advice, as they are so cordial and friendly. Nothing could be kinder than her letter, and you see she says a fortnight at least, Imogen; though she adds that the house is full already, and will be overflowing by next week.”

“How lovely!” said Imogen again. She was at a loss for adjectives this morning. “Just fancy, mother, how the girls at Miss Cotton’s will envy me. I must write to one or two of them from ‘The Fells’ to tell them of my adventures.”

“Ye-es, perhaps,” said her mother. “But you are not obliged to keep up those schoolgirl friendships too closely, darling. You may find yourself in such a different sphere before long, and then it becomes just a little embarrassing sometimes.”

“Not with Dora Barry,” said Imogen. “I don’t care awfully for any one else, but I have perfectly promised Dora that she is to be my bridesmaid – ” She stopped suddenly, blushing as she did so.

“Ah, Imogen,” said her mother, “I have caught you. I thought you were never going to marry! But seriously, dear, you should be a little careful now; even Dora, though she is a nice girl, she is not – not exactly in the same position. I should have much preferred your never going to school at all, you know; only everybody said it would have been so very lonely for you;” and Mrs Wentworth sighed – a simple and unaffected sigh.

“Of course it was good for me to go to school,” said Imogen. “I was as happy as possible there. And, mother, I’m not going to give up all my friends there, whatever you say,” she maintained stoutly, with the slight want of deference in her tone which sometimes bordered rather nearly on disrespect in her way of speaking to her mother. “Above all, not Dora; she’s every bit as much a lady as I am, every bit, even though her father’s only a country doctor.”

She glanced up with a touch of half-saucy defiance in her merry eyes.

“How pretty she looks!” thought Mrs Wentworth; and in her gratification she forgot to feel any annoyance at Imogen’s persistency.

Then a good deal of talk and consultation on the absorbing and inexhaustible subject of “clothes” ensued – talk which demonstrated the absolute necessity of an immediate shopping expedition. Indeed, in shopping expeditions, and instructions endless, minute, and contradictory to the somewhat tried, but patient Colman, promoted pro tem, from the post of house-and-parlour-maid to that of the Wentworth ladies’ personal attendant, passed the next few days, till the eventful Thursday which was to see the little party en route for Grey Fells Hall.

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?”

“If you knew how he speaks of us behind our backs,” said Beatrix, mysteriously. “I’ve promised not to tell; but Jim let out something the other day that he’d heard in the smoking-room.”

“I wonder what it was,” said Mab. “You might as well tell me. You’re so absurd about promises like that; they’re never meant to be kept between friends like us. However, it doesn’t matter. I hate Major Winchester about as much as I can hate, and that’s pretty bad.”

“And I’m not going to tell you; there are some things we should never agree about, you see,” said Trixie. “But what was I going to say. Oh! about showing my colours; no, indeed, I hid them pretty completely. I opened my eyes and stared at papa, and asked him what could make him think so poorly of me; it really distressed me. I knew I had high spirits, but that was a Helmont peculiarity, and would probably cure with time; but as for disregarding the duties of hospitality, etc, etc, when had I ever done so? I didn’t know I could have spoken so well, and I looked so innocent – poor old dad, it ended in making him feel rather foolish, I do believe. But he said some nasty things – things I shan’t forget in a hurry;” and the girl clenched her hands.

“Don’t be theatrical,” said Mab, scornfully. “Keep to the point. Tell me about this girl, and why you’re so excited about her.”

“I’m not excited about her, I tell you. She’s a fool. I would probably never have noticed her if they had let me alone; it’s Rex I’m boiling at.”

“Ah yes, I see, and there I sympathise,” said Mabella. “And I have a good fund of dislike to silly little bread-and-butter misses at all times which may come in handy. So the plot thickens, Trixie; it’s quite exciting, upon my word. We must be cautious and watchful; first get to know our materials thoroughly. They are arriving to-day, you say, about the usual time?”

“Yes, the four o’clock train; that gets them here for tea in the drawing-room. There are several people coming. The young Girards, newly married, you know; but no nonsense about them, and up to any fun. They were both engaged to other people, you remember, and threw them over in the neatest way. And Gerty Custance and her brother, etc, etc.”

“When is Gerty going to retire; she must be nine-and-twenty?” said Miss Forsyth. But Trixie took no notice beyond an interjected “She’s Alicia’s friend, not mine,” and went on with her list. “So that you see, among so many, it will not be difficult to feel our way. The girl will be frightened out of her wits, and ready to cling to the first that offers. She’s never been anywhere, and thinks herself a peerless beauty; and they’re not rich, or clever, or anything. Fancy mamma asking such sticks of people!”

“And does Major Rex know anything of them? Why is he taking them up in this way?” asked Miss Forsyth.

“For no reason in the world except spite – spite at me, and priggishness,” said Trixie.

Mabella smiled. Her smile was not a pleasant one, and did not, as some smiles do, lighten up or soften her undeniably plain face.

“Spite at you, Trixie,” she said. “Excuse me; you like straightforward speaking, you always say. I scarcely think Major Winchester would give himself the trouble of going out of his way to spite you; he doesn’t think you worth it.”

“Thank you,” said Beatrix.

“It’s more likely priggishness, as you say, or contradiction,” pursued Miss Forsyth. “I wouldn’t even flatter him by calling it quixotry. It’s all conceit and love of meddling and thinking himself a saint. Oh, I do detest him, cordially!”

“After all, he’s my cousin,” said Trixie; “you might as well be civil when you speak of him, and if you know so much about his motives, why do you ask me what they are?”

Her tone was snappish, but her friend did not seem to notice what she said. Her eyes – Mabella had rather good dark eyes, they were her one “feature” – were fixed on vacancy, but her lips moved, though no words were audible. Suddenly she moved to Beatrix.

“I have it!” she exclaimed; “or I’m beginning to have it. No! I’m not going to tell you yet. I must know my ground and my puppets better first. But something I must say to you, my dear; you’re too clumsy for anything; you’ll be overdoing your part, I’m certain. Now, oblige me by telling me how you are intending to receive Miss Wentworth and her adoring mamma.”

“Oh, of course, very nicely,” said Beatrix, opening her eyes. “I shall be particular how I speak, and I shall try to seem – well, rather more of an ingénue than you consider me. And I’ll trouble you, to keep out of my way, if you please, Mab, and not come out with any of your agreeable, ladylike, little remarks or reminiscences.”

Miss Forsyth looked at her calmly.

“I always knew you were a goose,” she said, “but I never thought you quite such a goose. Don’t you see that if you take up that rôle, your people – Florence for certain, and even the others; one wouldn’t need to be very sharp in such a case – would see there was mischief brewing, especially if you kept me at a distance, and the whole thing would collapse.”

“I don’t know, in the first place, what ‘the whole thing’ is,” said Trixie, sulkily. “But if I’m not to do as I propose, what am I to do? Remember, I must behave decently, or father will be down on me in hot earnest. There’s a limit to his patience, especially if he began to think I had been humbugging him this morning.”

“Of course you must behave decently, and more than decently,” said Mabella. “You must look rather snubbed, if you can manage it; and if I tease you a little, you must bear it in a good-girl sort of way, as if you were turning over a new leaf, and it was too bad of me to make it harder for you. Oh, I could do it to perfection! I only wish I could be you and myself too.”

“But I don’t see that that style of thing will attract Miss What’s-her-name to me,” objected Trixie.

“Oh, you can come round her if you try. Confide in her that you’ve been very self-willed, and wild, and rackety, but that you see the error of your ways, and would like to make a friend of her. I’ll give you a helping hand when I can. I’ll hint that Florence is rather down on you – that you’re not a bad sort after all. You can take them all in if you like. Major Winchester will be quite hoodwinked – it will be delicious.”

Trixie’s face cleared.

“I must say you’re not a bad ally, Mab, when you give your mind to it,” she said. “But I wish I knew what it is you’re planning.”

“Wait a bit,” said Miss Forsyth. “It’s first-rate – I can tell you that much.”