Imogen; Or, Only Eighteen. Mrs. Molesworth

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       Mrs. Molesworth

      Imogen; Or, Only Eighteen

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066127275

Table of Contents

       Chapter Two.

       Chapter Three.

       Chapter Four.

       Chapter Five.

       Chapter Six.

       Chapter Seven.

       Chapter Eight.

       Chapter Nine.

       Chapter Ten.

       Chapter Eleven.

       Chapter Twelve.

       Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Two.

       Table of Contents

      “The Girl” and her Mother.

      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;