RENA’S LETTER TO TOM GILES
(With remarks by Tom, as he read it)
“New York, June 10, 18—.
“Dear Old Tom:
“It is an age since I have heard from you. Don’t you know we have been
home from Europe six weeks, and you haven’t been to see us. What kind of
a cousin is that, I’d like to know? Are you so busy in your office,
earning your bread, as you said you were when I tried to have you come
over to Paris and meet us? Well, by and by I may be in a position to
give you your daily bread, as you did me when I was a poor little waif
stranded at your mother’s door before Uncle Reuben left me some money
and Aunt Mary took me up.
“I have a tremendous matrimonial speculation on hand, with thousands and
thousands of dollars in it.”
(“The devil you have!” was Tom’s exclamation, as he wiped his wet face,
for the morning was hot and Rena’s letter made him hotter. Then he read
on:)
“I never knew about it till a little while ago when I got the queerest
letter from a Mr. Colin McPherson, enclosing a copy of the stupidest,
ridiculousest, absurdest, craziest will that was ever made. Did you ever
hear of old Sandy McPherson, of Oakfield, a little town on the New
England coast, with nothing in it but rocks and ferns and huckleberries
and sumac bushes? I never heard of it or him till I got his brother’s
letter. It seems Sandy was my great-step-grandfather, who was married
twice. His second wife was a widow, a Mrs. Somebody, who had a daughter
when she married him and she—the wife—was my great-grandmother. I never
knew I had a great-grandmother, though I suppose I must have had. I
certainly did not know that she married Sandy McPherson. But to return
to the will.
“Sandy McPherson’s first wife was also a widow, like the second. He was
great on widows, and his first wife had a son, not his, but somebody
else’s. That would make him a stepson just as my grandmother was a
stepdaughter. I hope you follow me. I had to read the letter over two or
three times before I understood it. Where was I? Oh, I know. I was
telling you about the first wife and her son, and along this line comes
Mr. McPherson’s great-step-grandson, Reginald Travers.”
(“Lord Harry!” and Tom nearly fell off his chair. Then straightening
himself, he read on:)
“Now what possessed Sandy McPherson to pick out Reginald Travers and
little, insignificant me to heir his property and marry each other, I
don’t know, but he did!”
(“The old idiot!” from Tom, down whose face the sweat was running in
streams, as he continued reading:)
“Aunt Mary has heard about him and says he had some kind of a love
affair before he married. I don’t know what, but he got a twist in his
head that he owed something to his two wives, or their relations on
account of that love affair, and this is what he did: He gave one
hundred thousand dollars to Mr. Travers and me in case we married each
other for love. He laid great stress on that. We must love each other.
If we do not, that is, if I love him and he does not me and draws back,
he is to have only twenty thousand and I eighty thousand. If, on the
other hand, he likes me, and I do not like him, he is to get eighty and
I twenty. If we are indifferent to each other and want somebody else,
each is to have ten thousand, and the rest goes to some missions and his
brother, who is to live with us if we marry, and he wishes to.
“Did you ever hear anything so insane? Of course I shall hate Reginald
Travers. That’s a foregone conclusion. I hate him now, but I want to see
him without his knowing who I am. I am great on trying experiments, and
this is my last, which promises a lot of fun. I have thought it all out
and am quite excited over it.
“You know my cousin Irene Burdick—your second cousin, just as I am—but
no relation to that great-grandmother who married Sandy McPherson. You
never liked her very well, but I do. She is so much cleverer than I am
and used to help me so much in school, and is so nice to me every way. I
persuaded Aunt Mary to let her join us in Europe for six months, and you
don’t know how much the travel did for her. She might have royal blood
the way she carried herself,—and was mistaken for a titled lady once or
twice. She is now in her own home in Claremont—that poky, stuffy
home—and is very unhappy—and why shouldn’t she be? I spent a week there
once, and nearly went crazy with homesickness—factories, and factory
hands—and ceilings so low I nearly bumped my head, and I am not tall.
Irene, who is tall, had to stoop in her chamber. I am very sorry for
her. Think of Claremont after Paris, will you?”
(“Don’t you know Irene makes a tool of you for her own purposes?” Tom
growled, and read on:)
“Now this is my plan. I am going to change places with Irene. Aunt Mary
has heard that Mr. Travers is to visit Colin McPherson in Oakfield, if
he is not there now—going, perhaps, to spy out the goodly inheritance
which may be his, and I mean to go there too!”
(“To Colin McPherson’s! Great Scott! Rena mustn’t do that! I won’t allow
it!” Tom exclaimed; but Rena’s next sentence enlightened him as to her
meaning:)
“Quite providentially I saw an ad. in a paper, saying that a Mrs. Parks
in Oakfield would take a few summer boarders, and the description of her
big old house was so alluring that I said at once ‘I’ll go there.’ I am
not supposed to know that his excellency is to be in town. I go for
quiet and rest. I am tired of Saratoga and Newport and all those places
Aunt Mary likes so much, and then I spent such a lot in Europe that I
must retrench, and Oakfield is the very place in which to do it. Aunt
Mary is willing. I think she wants me to meet Mr. Travers, hoping I will
marry him, but I won’t! So you see it is all right. I shall take Irene
with me and let her pass as the head of the firm. She will be Miss
Burdick, and I just Rena, a poor relation, if you please. She is older
and so much taller than I am and handsomer and grander looking every way
that people will naturally think her the girl intended for Mr. Travers
if they have heard of the will, as I dare say they have. I shall not say
so, of course. I would not tell a lie for anything; you know I would
not. I shall hold my tongue, and let Irene take the lead, and if any one
is rude enough to ask which is which I shall be rude enough to say ‘That
is for you to find out.’ Mr. Travers, of course, will not ask. If he
does, we shall wriggle out somehow, or Irene will. I can trust her. I am
really getting greatly interested in the matter. It will be such fun to
watch Mr. Travers thinking Irene is the one he must marry. When he finds
his mistake, if he does, I shall rise to the occasion and make it all
right, trusting in Providence and Irene to help me out of the scrape. Of
course he can’t fall in love with me, with Irene in the way, and if he
takes to her I shall be glad. What do you think of my project? Write and
tell me, but don’t try to dissuade me from it. My mind is made up, and
you know I’m a stubborn little mule.
“Did you ever hear of Reginald Travers? Colin McPherson wrote that he
was a graduate of Princeton. That’s where you were. Maybe you know him.
If you do, write at once and tell me what manner of man he is, and if
you ever heard of his great-step-grandfather, Sandy McPherson.
“Your loving cousin Rena.”