Imogen; Or, Only Eighteen. Mrs. Molesworth

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;