Imogen; Or, Only Eighteen. Mrs. Molesworth

sights. And Mrs. Wentworth pleased herself by taking credit for the pleasure she believed she was unselfish in giving; “it will brighten up poor dear Henrietta to hear of all we are doing, as well as to see Imogen,” she thought; not reflecting that the advent of a party of three in an already overcrowded parsonage would entail considerable trouble and, indeed, expense to their entertainers.

      She enjoyed it however, whether “Henrietta” and her husband did or not. And Imogen made herself very happy with the children, especially the big boys; though she disappointed her mother by not in the least posing as a “come-out” fashionable young woman, and gave Colman an hour or two’s unnecessary stitching by tearing the skirt of her pretty new travelling dress.

      So far, however, no great harm was done. That was reserved for the next morning, when, on consulting the time-table at the early breakfast for his guests’ benefit, worthy Mr. Stainer made the appalling discovery that the train by which they were expected at Cobbolds did not stop at Maxton, their present quarters!

      What was to be done?

      “No matter—stay till the next. It gets to—stay, let us see—yes, it gets there at six. Plenty of time to dress for dinner. I suppose these smart friends of yours don’t dine at soonest till half-past seven,” said the vicar.

      “Oh, not till eight, certainly,” said Mrs. Wentworth with a faint touch of reproach. “But I don’t know—the evenings are drawing in so, and it is so cold. No, I think we had better go by the earlier train you mentioned, reaching Cobbolds at—when did you say?”

      “Somewhere between eleven and twelve,” Mr. Stainer replied. “Well, as you like,” for a glance from behind the tea-urn had warned him not to press the guests to stay over another luncheon; “of course you know best. But you will have to hurry. Shall I telegraph them?”

      “You are very kind—yes please, 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,”