THE FIRST EVENING
“Oh, what a cool, pleasant place! I shall like it here!” Rena exclaimed,
her spirits rising as they drove up to the house with the big
maple-trees in front, the honeysuckle climbing up the lattice, which
shut off the rear of the house, the few roses still in bloom, with here
and there a clump of peonies, which had not fallen to the ground, and
tall stalks of tiger-lilies flaunting their gay colors in the sunshine.
Irene said nothing. She was accustomed to old country houses. She was
born in one with a slanting roof and she cared nothing for climbing
honeysuckle and wild clematis and peonies and tiger-lilies. They were
common and old-fashioned. The brick walls of a city suited her better,
with the noise and traffic and heat. That was life; that was progress,
and made her blood move faster than the finest rural scene. But Rena
loved the country and everything pertaining to it. Even the ledge of
rocks in the pasture opposite Mrs. Parks’, where the low huckleberry
bushes were growing, was lovely in her eyes, which sparkled with
excitement, as she sprang from the carriage and looked around. Irene
alighted leisurely, assisted by Sam, while through the half-closed blind
of my room Lottie and I watched the strangers and made our comments.
There was no doubt in our minds that the tall, graceful blonde, carrying
herself so proudly, was the Miss Burdick. Everything about her led to
that conclusion.
“She’s handsome, isn’t she?” Lottie said in a whisper, “and where in the
world did they pick up Sam? and won’t you see him bringing Miss
Burdick’s things up the walk just as polite as he can be? I wonder what
she thinks of him. He has on his good clothes, anyway.” She was
evidently proud of Sam, and proud that he was favored with the honor of
waiting upon Miss Burdick. “I wonder where their baggage is?” she
continued, and a moment after a truckman drove up with two large
Saratoga trunks, marked “I. Burdick,” and a smaller one marked
“Burdick.”
Naturally the larger ones belonged to Irene, and without questioning
they were ordered to her room, while the smaller one was taken to the
room intended for Rena, who had not yet attracted a great share of our
notice. We had seen Miss Irene take Mrs. Parks’ hand and hold it very
high, reminding me of a picture I once saw of some Congo women shaking
their clenched fists in token of their pleasure at meeting each other.
What Irene said we could not hear distinctly, except that it was
something about “being pleased to see you”; then, without a look at the
McPherson coachman, or Sam, who had sprung to his seat with Nixon, after
a glance around for a sight of Lottie, she came up the walk, followed by
Rena. Unlike her cousin, Rena had stopped a moment to speak to Nixon,
and as her voice was of that quality which is readily heard at a
distance, we heard her say, “Please tell Mr. McPherson that the Misses
Burdick thank him for his kindness in sending his carriage for them;”
then to Sam: “Good-by, boy. I don’t remember your name. It was nice in
you to help us and tell us the places.”
“Sam, a boy, and he nineteen! I like that!” Lottie said, her lip curling
scornfully, while Rena would have fallen in her estimation, if there had
been any estimation to fall from.
She was so overshadowed by her stately cousin that we had scarcely
thought of her except that she was short and slight and plainly dressed,
compared with Irene, who, if she had had Paris, and London, and New York
placarded on her back, could not have advertised them better than she
did with her attire. They were in the house by this time, coming up the
stairs, and were soon in their rooms, where Mrs. Parks, who was with
them, hoped they would find themselves comfortable.
“I shall like mine,” Rena said, “and such lovely roses. Did they grow in
your garden? I smelled them the moment I came in.”
She had her face close to the fruit-jar in which I had put a cluster of
the finest roses from my room.
“No, they came from Mr. McPherson. He sent ’em with his compliments,”
Mrs. Parks replied, and instantly Rena’s cheeks were like the flowers
whose perfumes she was inhaling.
“Mr. McPherson,” Irene repeated, beginning to notice the flowers, for
which she did not really care as Rena did. “What a delightful old man he
must be. I hope we may see him, and perhaps we ought to send him a note
of thanks.”
Rena did not respond. There was a strange feeling of unrest stirring in
her heart as she thought of the attention which was unquestionably
offered because of herself.
“I almost wish I were myself,” she was thinking, when Mrs. Parks, who
was standing in the door between the two rooms, asked if there was
anything she could do.
She spoke to Irene, who replied:
“No, thanks; or, yes, if your maid would be so good as to bring me a
glass of ice-water. I am very thirsty.”
At the mention of maid Mrs. Parks looked flurried a moment, then in her
straightforward way, she said:
“Certainly, yes; I have no maid. I do my own work, Charlotte Anne and
I—Charlotte Anne is my daughter. I don’t know where she is, not to come
and be introduced. I will get you some water—not ice. We don’t have it
here in the country, but our well is the coldest and best in town.”
She left the room for the water, and the moment she was gone, Rena
exclaimed:
“Irene, for pity’s sake, drop your fine-lady airs, and don’t go to
calling for maids and ice-water. You might have known there were none
here.”
Irene laughed and said:
“I must be a fine lady if I play the rôle you have assigned me, and
don’t you go and spoil everything because of Tom’s letter. Let’s have
some fun a little while. It is not my fault that Mrs. Parks has
evidently mistaken me for you. She has asked no questions and I have
told no lies, and we are not supposed to know what she thinks. So,
_soyez tranquille, ma chère cousine_.”
At this point Mrs. Parks returned with the water, wondering again where
Charlotte Anne was that she didn’t come to be introduced.
“There’s a Miss Bennett from Albany boarding here—not as young as you
be, but a very nice woman. I’m sure you’ll like her,” she said, again
addressing herself to Irene, who bowed, but did not manifest any desire
to be presented to either Miss Bennett or Charlotte Anne, the latter of
whom stole quietly down the back stairs, while I stayed in my room
wondering how I should like the newcomers and if life at the farmhouse
would be as pleasant with them as it had been without them.
Meanwhile the young ladies were discussing whether it was worth the
trouble to change their dresses; deciding finally that is was not, as
they were very tired and there were only Mrs. Parks, Charlotte Anne and
Miss Bennett to see them. In the midst of their discussion there was a
knock at Rena’s door. This time it was Charlotte Anne, who held a note
in her hand directed to Miss Rena Burdick.
“Mr. McPherson’s man brought it. I suppose it’s for you,” she said,
passing it to Rena, who recognized Tom’s handwriting.
“It is for me—yes,” she said, taking the note in which were only a few
lines to the effect that Tom and Reginald would call that evening about
eight, or half-past.
“Then I shall change my dress,” Irene said, when the note was read to
her, and she began at once to unpack her trunk.
Rena, however, stood by her first decision. She was tired and her head
ached, and she didn’t care for Tom anyway and less for Mr. Travers. She
would put on a clean shirt-waist, with fresh collar and cuffs, and that
was all. But Irene proceeded to make an elaborate toilet, taking a great
deal of pains with her hair, which, with the help of a false braid, was
piled higher than usual upon her head and made her seem as tall as an
ordinary man.
“I think I shall wear this,” she said, selecting a sheer light organdy,
with frills and bertha of lace, and knots of ribbon here and there, tied
and placed as only French fingers could place and tie them.
Before commencing operations she had looked for a bell and finding none
had called over the banister to Mrs. Parks, whose voice she heard in the
hall:
“Will you please show me the way to the bath-room?” she said.
In a state of great agitation, Mrs. Parks went up the stairs after a few
moments with a pail of hot water in one hand, a foot-tub in the other,
and a bath towel over her arm.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she said, “but we haven’t a real bath-room. We
or’to have one, I know, and mean to sometime, but I’ve brought you
this,” and she put down the pail of hot water and the foot-tub. “There’s
more in the range, and I hope you can make a sponge do. Miss Bennett
does.”
Irene looked surprised, and said:
“No bath-room! How do you live without one, especially in summer? Yes, I
suppose I can make that do. Please, what time do you dine?”
Again poor Mrs. Parks looked distressed. To dine at night was not on her
programme, and she replied, apologetically and confusedly:
“We don’t dine in the country—nowhere except at the McPherson’s. We have
tea at six, and dinner at noon sharp. We are particular about that on
account of Miss Bennett, whose digester is out of kilter and has to have
her meals reg’lar. Will the t’other one have a sponge, too?”
She nodded toward Rena, who was dashing cold water over her face and
neck and arms, and who replied:
“No, thanks. I am doing very well.” To Irene, as soon as they were
alone, she said: “Are you crazy? asking for a bath-room and dinner at
night! When all your life at home you have had your dinner at noon and
bathed in a tin basin or pail. Don’t drive that woman wild, or I shall
certainly shriek out some day, ‘I am the Miss Burdick and she is only
Irene!’”
She spoke lightly and laughingly, but Irene, who felt that she was in
earnest, decided to come down from her stilts and conform to the customs
of the house. She could not, however, divest herself of the _grande
duchesse_ manner, which was in a way natural to her, and no one would
ever have suspected that the tall, queenly girl, who at about half-past
five sailed into Mrs. Parks’ best room, looking as fresh as if she had
bathed in the sea instead of a foot-tub, was not to the purple born and
always accustomed to every luxury money could buy. Mrs. Parks was in the
kitchen and Lottie and I were left to introduce ourselves, which we
might have done awkwardly enough, if it had not been for Rena, who came
up to me at once and said:
“I am sure you are Miss Bennett and this is Charlotte Anne,” turning to
Lottie. “I hope we shall be friends.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I am Miss Bennett, and this is Lottie, Mrs. Parks’
daughter, and you are both Miss Burdick.”
I glanced at Irene, who smiled and bowed her head, while Rena replied:
“Yes, both Burdicks, and both Irene, but I am called Rena, for short.”
I think her conscience felt easier after she had given her real name,
which, however, made no impression either on myself or Lottie. Our minds
were made up as to the identity of the two young ladies. The tall blonde
was “the” Miss Burdick; the little dark-haired girl was Rena, a poor
relation, probably. But how she won upon me during the half hour before
supper was announced, and how beautiful I thought her large, lustrous
eyes with the heavy brows and long lashes, and how sweet her smile,
which brought the dimples to her cheeks, which were rather pale than
otherwise. In a short time I came to think her more attractive than her
cousin, with all her queenly beauty and her many little graces of
manner. At the supper-table Irene was very gracious, praising everything
and finally declaring herself more than delighted with her surroundings.
“Just the place for a quiet summer after the fatigue of Europe and the
gaieties of Paris,” she said, and then Mrs. Parks remarked:
“You have never lived much in the country, I suppose.”
There was a peculiar look in Rena’s eyes as they turned toward Irene,
who, under the fire of those eyes, replied:
“Oh, yes, I have. I was born in the country, and know all about it, but
cannot say I like it as well as the city. I shall like it here, though.
Have you many neighbors—visitors, I mean?”
“Quite a few,” Mrs. Parks replied. “There’s Mrs. Ephraim Walker—next
door—would run in any time and bring her work, if it weren’t for her
husband, who dislikes me because I object to his hens and to his having
his line fence two feet on my land. His boy, Sam, rode home with you
from the station. He comes here pretty often. And there’s Miss Staples
and Upham—nice folks, all of ’em. Then, there’s Mr. McPherson—different
from the rest of ’em, and the young man visiting him, Mr. Travers. Maybe
you know him?”
This was said to see what effect the mention of Mr. Travers would have
upon Irene, who replied: “I have not that pleasure,” while Rena’s face
was scarlet for a moment; then the bright color receded, leaving it pale
as before.
When supper was over, I went with the ladies out upon the piazza, where
I usually sat, and tried to entertain them, finding that Irene was more
ready to talk than Rena, who seemed abstracted, with a troubled look in
her eyes which I could not understand. At every sound of wheels she
started and looked anxiously down the road as if expecting some one,
while Irene chatted on as composedly as if her ear, too, were not
constantly strained and her eyes on the alert. As it began to grow dark
a lamp was brought into the parlor where I seldom sat, it was so stiff
and dreary, with its large-patterned, oldtime carpet, its haircloth
rocker, which threw your body forward instead of back, its long, black
sofa and six chairs standing in a straight line against the wall, its
centre-table with a red cover, and its mirror, ornamented with peacock
feathers on the sides and top. It was not a room in which to stay on a
hot night when there was the cool piazza with its comfortable seats and
the scent of the honeysuckle and roses in the air. Irene, however,
seemed to prefer it, and as soon as the lamp was lighted, arose, saying
to me:
“I think I’ll go in; it is getting damp.” Then to Rena, who began to
protest, she said in a low tone not designed for me to hear, “Don’t you
know we can’t see how he looks out here? Come in.”
“You can go. I shall stay with Miss Bennett,” Rena replied, and Irene
went in alone, trying the rocking-chair first, but leaving it at once as
altogether too uncomfortable and too ill suited to the graceful attitude
she meant to assume.
One chair after another was tried until a choice was made and a position
chosen where the lamplight would fall fully upon her, while she could
see herself in the mirror opposite. She knew she could bear the
strongest light and that she was as near the perfection of youth and
beauty and grace as one well could be, as she sat fanning herself and
waiting, while outside the darkness deepened and I sat talking to Rena,
who was waiting and listening quite as intently as Irene.
“It must be nearly nine,” she said at last; then started suddenly to her
feet and sat down as quickly, as up the walk two gentlemen came, pausing
a moment at the foot of the steps to take out their cards.
We were in the shadow where they could not see us, but I could see them,
and knowing that Lottie had stolen out with Sam and that Mrs. Parks was
busy with some domestic duty in the kitchen, I went forward to meet the
strangers.
“Are the ladies—the Misses Burdick in, and yes, Miss Bennett, too?” Mr.
Travers asked, adding me to the list as he saw who I was.
He had only two cards in his hand, for he had forgotten me entirely, but
it did not matter. I meant to be present when he first met his intended
bride, and I answered:
“We are all in, or rather Miss Burdick is in the parlor, and Miss Rena
and I are on the piazza, but we will come in.”
Rena was sitting in the shadow, with her hands clasped tightly together,
but as I turned toward her she came forward very slowly, until the light
streaming from the window fell upon her and upon the other gentleman,
now a little in advance of Mr. Travers, who had fallen behind as if
loath to go in first. Rena had meant to be very cool toward Tom, whose
letter was still rankling, and there was a slight upward tilt of her
nose and chin, as she said.
“O Tom! is it you? How late you are. I had nearly given you up, and was
thinking of going to bed!”
She was expecting him and knew him then, and I, who knew nothing of the
contents of the note, or in fact that one had come, stood back in
surprise, while Tom, without replying directly to Rena’s greeting, took
her hand and presented her to Reginald Travers as “My cousin, Miss Rena
Burdick.”