to say as much of her.” He glanced at her involuntarily, with a certain look of anxiety in his kind eyes.
“I’m all right, thank you,” said Imogen, detecting the glance. “I’m not getting a bit wet.”
“It wasn’t – ” he began, then stammered, and broke off, for he felt himself colouring a little. Imogen’s face expressed some surprise. “It would almost be better for those girls to be uncivil and unkind to her, to the verge of endurance, than for them to ‘take her up,’ and make her like themselves,” had been the parent thought of the misgiving in his face. He turned round to Mrs Wentworth. “I do hope you are not too uncomfortable?” he said. “That back seat, as Miss Wentworth discovered, is a degree better than is often the case, but still it must be rather wretched.”
“No, truly; I am very fairly comfortable,” she replied, “and I almost think you are right, and that the rain is going off.”
Mrs Wentworth had a sweet voice, suggesting the possession of a sweet temper. Major Winchester began to like her better than he had done hitherto. “I should not think her the wisest of women, but a good creature all the same, though the daughter strikes me as having the more character of the two. Poor souls, I do trust they will never have cause to repent their expedition to The Fells. I will do what I can to make their visit pleasant,” he said to himself, with short-sighted chivalry.
And he outdid himself in little kindlinesses of talk and manner during the remainder of the drive, pointing out any objects of interest which they passed, amusing them with little descriptions of the guests and the family at The Fells, into which he endeavoured, so far as loyalty to his hosts permitted, to infuse some slight touches of warning.
“Yes, Beatrix Helmont, my youngest cousin, is the baby – at least, the youngest sister – and as is often the case, I suppose, very fairly spoilt. I don’t fancy you will take to her as much as to Florence, Miss Wentworth. There is a great deal of good in Florence, though she requires knowing.”
“But she is twenty-three or twenty-four – ever so old, isn’t she?” said Imogen, in a disappointed tone.
“Ye-es, quite that; but still, that is not very old, is it?” and he looked round to Mrs Wentworth to have his opinion endorsed.
Mrs Wentworth, however, had not caught his last remarks.
“Are we close to The Fells now?” she asked, eagerly. “I fancy I remember this part of the way. Don’t we come to the lodge at a turn up that hilly road?”
“Yes,” Major Winchester replied. “What a good memory you have! We are regularly on the Fells now. Take care your wraps don’t blow off.”
They were just turning as he spoke. The road came right out on the moorland, and the wind met them straight in the face – the two in the front, that is to say – Mrs Wentworth was protected.
“Oh, how splendid!” said Imogen. “What delicious air! And what a great stretch of country, and those grim rocks. Are those what you call the Fells, Mr – are you Mr – Winchester?”
“Major,” Rex corrected, smiling. “Yes, Grey Fells Hall is just in front of those rocks, but on the other side. You will see in a minute. The gardens and lawn are over there.”
“Oh, I think it’s delightful! Mamma, you didn’t tell me it was half so nice,” the girl exclaimed.
And as they passed through the lodge gates and up the long and rather steep drive, her face grew increasingly radiant.
“What a dear old house! I should love to explore it from top to bottom,” she said. “I do hope the girls won’t be out. I am longing so to see them. Of course, they can’t be looking out for us, as we have come so much too early.”
Chapter Four
As Ill-Luck would have it
Major Winchester did not reply. He appeared engrossed with Paddy, for as Imogen uttered the last words, they had driven to the front of the house, and he was preparing to draw up.
“I don’t quite know how best to manage,” he said, after a moment or two, glancing round him doubtfully. “Paddy has been very good, so far; but he will probably begin now to be fidgety, and to long for his stable. So I must not get down to ring. Can – ?”
“Oh yes,” said the girl, starting up as she spoke, and very nearly precipitating herself to the ground, “I’ll jump down in an instant.”
“Get down, please, but don’t talk of jumping. There now, very cautiously. It needs an apprenticeship to get out and in of vehicles like this. Yes, that is the bell, the chain at your right;” and a ponderous resounding clang told that Miss Wentworth’s vigorous pull had taken effect. Imogen looked round half alarmed.
“What a noise!” she said.
It was not too quickly responded to, nevertheless, and when a footman at last made his appearance, he raised his eyebrows with an expression of surprised inquiry, which would not have conduced to the two ladies’ equanimity had they been alone and unprotected by Major Winchester’s presence.
“Quick, Thomas,” he said, with a touch of imperiousness. “Call some one, or catch hold of his head yourself. Don’t you see the horse won’t stand, and the lady has to get down?”
Thomas bestirred himself to the extent of hallooing to an assistant gardener, who happened to be passing; then, when Paddy’s impatience was perforce calmed, he himself condescended to approach the back of the cart in a gingerly fashion. But Major Winchester was before him.
“I will help Mrs Wentworth down,” he said.
“Go at once and tell your mistress, or – or Miss Florence – no, unluckily, she’s out – Miss Helmont, if you can find her, that Mrs and Miss Wentworth have arrived by an earlier train. And tell Brewer to speak to me before he goes to the station; there’s some luggage to come up.”
Most of The Fells domestics liked “the Major,” as he was dubbed in the servants’ hall; but Thomas, lazy and conceited, was an exception. He disappeared, however, as he was told, but not without some inaudible mutterings.
“Queerish ladies,” he said to himself, “arriving before lunch and no luggage, nor maid, nor nothing. The luggage won’t be much to show when it do come, I’ll take my – ” But here he was interrupted, and by no less a person than Trixie. Thomas’s face cleared: he wasn’t going to scour the country in search of Mrs Helmont, nor Miss neither. Here was one of the ladies; it did not in the least signify that Miss Beatrix was a byword for never doing anything she was asked to do, or being of any use to any one. She would serve his purpose, which was to get back to his morning paper and glass of beer “comfortable” in the pantry without delay.
“If you please, ma’am,” he began, “the Major’s at the hall door with two ladies, arrived unexpected, and I was to tell you.”
To his delight and rather to his surprise, instead of telling him to hunt up her sisters, Trixie stopped short with evident interest.
“Two ladies?” she inquired. “Did you hear their name? And did Major Winchester tell you to find me?”
Thomas was obliged to equivocate.
“Not – not exactly yourself persinly, ma’am, but one of the ladies.”
“All right, I’ll go at once,” and Beatrix, enchanted at the first act in the drama opening so auspiciously, rushed off.
“Of course it’s the girl and her mother, I’m sure of it, just because Rex evidently didn’t mean me,” she said to herself. “Mab shan’t be able to say I’m stupid; I won’t tell her how it happened, and she’ll be all the more impressed by my cleverness when she sees me hand and glove with the little fool at the very first go.” She looked very handsome and attractive as, moderating her rate of progress, she approached the front hall. It was a large square room, with corners screened off, containing couches and tables invitingly grouped. There were two fireplaces, in which for many months in the year great logs were always to be seen in glowing cheeriness. There