Imogen: or, Only Eighteen. Molesworth Mrs.

at once. It is some miles from the post-office I fancy, but that won’t signify; I can settle about the porterage when I get there,” said Mrs Wentworth airily, though not without some internal tremors. “Mrs Helmont will be all the more pleased to have us sooner than she expects.” Blissful ignorance! The Fells was a good seven miles from the telegraph office, and there was a standing order that unless telegrams were doubly dubbed “immediate,” they were to be confided to the groom who rode over to fetch the afternoon letters – an arrangement known of course to the habitués among the Helmont guests, as belonging to which Mrs Wentworth gave herself out.

      Thus and thus did it come to pass that, as already described, a forlorn group of three shivering women was to be seen on the uncovered platform of the little wayside station that dreary, drizzling November morning.

      “There must be a carriage for us,” said Mrs Wentworth; “there has been heaps of time for the telegram to reach them. You may be sure they would send a man on horseback with it.”

      “All the same there just isn’t a carriage nor the ghost of one. I told you how it would be, mamma,” said Imogen, unsympathisingly.

      Mrs Wentworth felt too guilty to resent the reproach. Suddenly came the sound of wheels. “There now!” she exclaimed, “I believe it’s coming. Can you see,” she went on anxiously, peering out from the very inefficient shed-like roof, which was the only shelter at that side of the station; “can you see,” to the station-master, or porter, or station-master and porter mixed together, who was the only visible functionary, and whose good offices and opinion she had already sought, “if that is the carriage for us?”

      “It’s from The Fells, sure enough, but it’s naught but a dogcart,” he replied, disappearing as he spoke to reconnoitre the dogcart and inquire its errand.

      “A dogcart!” ejaculated Mrs Wentworth aghast. Imogen could scarcely help laughing at her horrified expression.

      “Well, mamma,” she was beginning, “you know you – ” But she was interrupted. The station-master returned, followed by a tall, a very tall man – a gentleman; of that there was no doubt, notwithstanding the coarseness and muddiness of his huge ulster and his generally bespattered appearance. Who could he be? Mrs Wentworth jumped to one of her hasty conclusions; he must be the agent or bailiff. She was profoundly ignorant of English country life, and was not without a strain of the Anglo-Indian arrogance so quickly caught by the small-minded of our country-folk in the great Eastern Empire – yes, that was it. They had doubtless sent him on quickly to say that the brougham, or omnibus, was on its way.

      “Are you,” she was commencing; but the new-comer had begun to speak before he heard her.

      “I’m very sorry,” he said, lifting his rough cap as he spoke, “I’m afraid there’s some mistake – that is, if I am speaking to Mrs Wentworth?”

      “Yes, of course I am Mrs Wentworth. Is the carriage not coming? I thought they – Mrs Helmont, I mean – had sent you to say it was coming. I telegraphed quite early this morning from Maxton. It’s really too – ”

      “Mamma,” whispered Imogen. Her young eyes had detected a slight, though not unkindly, smile stealing over the stranger’s face at her mother’s tone. “Mamma, I – ”

      “No,” he replied, interrupting again, though so gently, that one could scarcely have applied to the action so harsh a word. “No, I was not sent, indeed I could not even have volunteered the office, for I happen to know no telegram had reached the Fells this morning. I came out on my own account to have a battle with a young horse.” He glanced in the direction of his dogcart and groom. “It’s all right now, he is thoroughly mastered; and, as far as safety is concerned, you would both be quite safe if you would let me drive you to the Fells. Upon my word, I think it would be the best thing to do.” Imogen all but clapped her hands.

      “Oh yes, it would be delightful,” she said.

      “How good of you! Do say you will, mamma.” Mrs Wentworth looked both frightened and undecided.

      “Are you sure it would be safe?” she said. “And, may I ask who you are?” she added with some hesitation, for that she had been on the verge of some rather tremendous mistake was beginning to be clear to her, “and it is so raining.”

      The stranger glanced upwards.

      “Not quite so heavily now,” he said. “I think we shall have a fine afternoon. And, after all, shall you not be better off under mackintoshes and umbrellas for half an hour or so, and then safe and warm in the house up there, than shivering down here in that wretched little waiting-room for two or three hours?”

      “But, if they knew, would they not send down to fetch us at once?” said Mrs Wentworth feebly.

      Major Winchester considered.

      “Not within two hours,” he said. “The stable arrangements at my uncle’s are, to say the least, complicated. I think the wagonette that was to fetch you was bringing some ‘parting guest’ to the station to go on by the two o’clock train and then wait for you, so you see – ”

      “Of course,” cried Imogen. “Mamsey, you must; only – there’s the luggage, and – your groom?”

      “He can come up on the wagonette, and see that the luggage comes too. The more important question,” he went on, smiling again, “is your maid. But Smith can look after her: he’s a very decent fellow, and I daresay he knows the station-master’s wife.”

      “Oh, Colman will be all right,” said Imogen. “She’s not at all stuck-up, and very good-natured.” Colman had very discreetly retired a few paces. “Mamma, you must see it’s by far the best thing to do, as Mr – ” She stopped short.

      “Of course, I have not introduced myself; my name is Winchester,” said their new friend. “I call Mr Helmont my uncle, or rather, I should say, Mrs Helmont is my aunt à la mode de Bretagne.”

      Mrs Wentworth’s face cleared.

      “I must have heard of you,” she said. “You are really very kind, and, perhaps – ”

      Imogen had run off; in an instant she reappeared.

      “The back seat of your dogcart, or whatever it is – it’s larger than a dogcart, isn’t it?” – she said, “is a very good size, larger than usual. You would be quite comfortable in it, mamma, and then,” she went on, turning confidingly to Major Rex, “she wouldn’t see the horse whatever he did. Then you’d be all right, wouldn’t you, dear? You know we should be really safe.”

      And so it was arranged. Imogen’s first care, it must be owned, was for her mother; to Mrs Wentworth were appropriated the best of the wraps and rugs and mackintoshes disinterred from their own travelling gear, or extricated from some mysterious inner receptacle of the “trap,” by the obliging Smith. And as the rain was evidently clearing, the prospects in every sense grew brighter, as Imogen stepped back a pace or two to contemplate admiringly the result of their joint efforts in the person of Mrs Wentworth, so swathed and packed that really, as her daughter said, she “couldn’t get wet if she tried, and certainly couldn’t fall out.”

      “And what about yourself, Miss Wentworth?” said Major Winchester kindly, as he seconded Smith in his efforts to tuck up the young lady, if not so completely as her mother, yet sufficiently to keep her dry. “Have you no objection to watching Paddy’s antics?” for a dance or two and a playful plunge showed that the “old man” was not as yet entirely exorcised from the young horse. But he was well under control. No sooner had they started than it became evident that Paddy knew who held the reins. They went fast but steadily; notwithstanding the cold, and the rain, and the mist – now slowly rising on all sides, for the freshening breeze to chase it away – the sensation was exhilarating and exciting.

      “I,” replied the girl, after a moment’s silence, given to watching Paddy gradually settling to work like a child after a feint of resistance; “I! no, of course I’m not frightened – It’s delightful,” and her glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes showed that she meant what she said.