Mrs. Molesworth - Imogen - or, Only Eighteen

“I was just thinking that, perhaps, Mrs Wentworth and Miss – No?” In response to a smiling gesture of deprecation from her new friend, “am I really to call you Imogen; that is sweet of you.” This was going a little too far. An undisguised frown on her cousin’s face startled Trixie a little. “I was thinking,” she repeated in a more natural tone, “that, perhaps, they would like to see their rooms.”

“Very decidedly so, I should say,” replied Major Winchester sharply.

Beatrix turned to her mother.

“Which rooms, mamma?” she said in a low tone. But Imogen overheard it. “Fancy,” she thought, with a little thrill of disappointment, “fancy her not knowing. Why, if they had been coming to stay with us, I would have been running about to get flowers for their toilet-tables, and all sorts of things like that. But, I suppose, it is different when people have so many visitors.”

The momentary feeling, however, was visible, as were most of the girl’s feelings to quick observation at least, on her transparent countenance. As she raised her sweet eyes, she caught Major Winchester’s fixed on her with a curious expression. She felt herself flush a little.

“I do believe he knows what I am thinking,” she said to herself, with a strange mingling of pleasure and annoyance, “and I have not known him two hours!”

But the sound of Mrs Helmont’s voice recalled her to practical matters.

“The brown room and the little pink room beside it; you know, Trixie, in the corner by the west staircase. Only – I am really so vexed – I am afraid your room is not quite ready, Mrs Wentworth, you see – ”

“Mrs Wentworth,” repeated the owner of the name reproachfully, “am I not to be ‘Lucy’ to you, dear Mrs Helmont?”

At another time the good lady would probably have been touched and would have responded kindly, but just now she was thoroughly put out.

“It is twenty years, if not more, since we met, and then only for a couple of days. I really had not the least idea what your name was; but the question is your room. – Trixie!” glancing round despairingly.

Mrs Wentworth put a brave effort on herself; she was determined that Imogen should not suspect she was feeling mortified.

“What does it matter about my room?” she said, laughingly. “I can’t allow you to treat me as quite a stranger, even though you had forgotten my name. Can’t I take off my wraps in – ” “In Beatrix’s room,” she was going to have said, but she was interrupted.

“In mine,” said a new-comer. “It is Mrs and Miss Wentworth, is it not? I heard of some arrival, and knowing Florence was out, and you busy, dear Mrs Helmont, mayn’t I be of a little use for once ?” and Miss Forsyth – for she it was – drew near her hostess with an air of half-timid deprecation. Mrs Helmont felt completely bewildered. She had little presence of mind at any time, and this extraordinary metamorphosis was too much for her. Major Winchester, be it observed, had before this taken his departure.

“I – I am sure I have never refused to let you be of use, Mabella,” said the elder lady, rather stiffly.

Miss Forsyth drew still nearer, and whispered a word or two in her ear. Mrs Helmont’s face softened.

“Now, Mrs Wentworth, do come with me,” said the young woman. “My room is next to Trixie’s, where I know she is dying to take your daughter. I can lend you anything – slippers, brushes, combs – even a tea-gown if your dress is damp, and if you would so far condescend?”

Mrs Wentworth looked at her. Miss Forsyth was undeniably plain, almost coarse-looking. Her features were large, her complexion swarthy; the only redeeming point, as not infrequently is the case with otherwise ugly people, was her eyes. They were large and dark, and therefore supposed to be beautiful.

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