THE CALL
Reginald had been very nervous all day. He had played billiards awhile
with Tom and been badly beaten, had gone with him to the stables and
through the grounds, sitting down often in the latter as if he were
tired and wanted to rest.
“The day is very hot, isn’t it?” he said, wiping the sweat from his
face, which was red and pale by turns.
Tom said the day was hot, but thought:
“Not hot enough, old fellow, to keep you sweating as you do. What a fool
you are, if you did but know it; and what a charming wife old Sandy
picked out for you; but I hope she will keep as far from you as you seem
now to be from her.”
They took a long drive before lunch and on their return passed the Parks
house, the doors and blinds of which were closed to keep out the heat.
Reginald, who was driving, said casually, without turning his head:
“That’s Mrs. Parks’ place.”
Tom knew perfectly well what he meant, but feigned ignorance.
“Mrs. Parks,” he repeated; “who is she?”
“Why—er—you know. You asked about her, and I told you. She is to board
the—your cousins—you know.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” and Tom looked back at the house, and wondered
which was to be Rena’s room, and if he would ever sit with her on the
circular seat under the big maple, and if Reginald would fall in love
with her, or would pretend that he did in order to get the money. “That
isn’t like Rex,” he said to himself. “There isn’t a deceptive hair in
his head, and mine is bristling with them.” Then he remarked:
“It must be pleasant for Mrs. Parks to have two young girls with her.”
“Yes, I dare say—and she has an oldish kind of young lady there now,
whose name has slipped my mind,” Reginald replied, adding after a pause,
“I promised to call upon her, but have not done so. My sins of omission
are very great.”
“You can ask for her to-night when we call upon the Misses Burdick,” Tom
suggested, and he could see Rex’s hands grow limp and his head droop
between his shoulders, as he said:
“Yes. O Tom! must we call? I believe I’d rather jump into the sea. I
don’t know what to say to ladies, especially these from New York.”
“Rex, you are a fool! Yes, an everlasting fool!” was Tom’s outspoken
answer. “Why, there isn’t a more beautiful girl in the State than Irene,
nor a sweeter, lovelier one than Rena; and as for talk, you needn’t
worry. Irene is a steam-engine and will probably walk right into you,
while Rena—well, she will listen and not talk so much.”
“I believe then I shall like her the better,” Reginald said, touching up
his horse.
“No, you won’t; you mustn’t,” Tom answered, almost fiercely, while
Reginald looked curiously at him a moment; then burst into a laugh and
replied:
“Oh, I see. I remember; you used to be writing Rena on bits of note
paper, and once you put her name instead of your own to an exercise.
That was at school before we went to college, and Prof. ——, who was
sometimes guilty of mild profanity, thought it a joke played on him, and
asked who the d—l Rena was? I know who she was now and will not trespass
on your preserves. I’m not the trespassing kind. I don’t care for women.
I never did. I don’t believe I ever shall. Rena may be well enough for
you, but, Tom!” he exclaimed vehemently; but if the intention to confide
in his friend had entered his mind, it left it quickly, and he said no
more, until Tom, after laughing at the reminiscence of his school-days
when Rena’s name had figured at the end of one of his exercises, asked:
“Well, Rex, what is it? You said Tom, as if there were something you
wanted to tell me.”
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Reginald answered, “only I am a fool, that’s
all.”
Tom had called him one two or three times that morning, and he did not
dispute it, and as they had now reached home the conversation ceased.
Tom, who was full of life and activity, found Reginald rather a stupid
companion that afternoon. His head ached, in fact it ached most of the
time, he said, and if Tom didn’t mind he would lie down after lunch, and
Tom advised him to do so and rest, by all means, so as to be fresh for
the evening. There was a hunted look in Reginald’s eyes as they met
those of Tom, who began to pity him, while mentally calling him weak and
a coward.
“He can’t help it, though,” he thought, “any more than I can help
feeling happier with a woman’s skirt in sight than I am when alone. He
was born that way. Poor Rex! I wonder what the outcome will be. Not
Rena; no, not Rena, for whom I am acting a lie, and am actually feeling
a good deal of interest in the drama, having this advantage that I know
both sides of the story.”
What Tom had denounced to Rena as a deception did not seem quite so
black now that he was in it, and he began to anticipate the evening with
a good deal of interest, anxious to see Rena, and anxious to witness the
meeting between her and Rex.
About four o’clock Reginald left his room and went down to the piazza,
where he sat listening for the first sound that would herald the
approach of the train at the station, and then watching for Nixon’s
return. Sam Walker was with him when he came. He had found his father
near the road and been sent on by him with a message for Mr. McPherson.
As the carriage came up Reginald did not speak, but Tom, who was with
him, asked:
“Did the ladies come?”
“Yes, sir!” Sam answered, “and you bet she’s a buster!”
“Which she? There is more than one,” Tom said, and Sam replied:
“The tall, fair one, who carries herself so grand.”
“And what of the other?” Tom asked, and Sam rejoined:
“The little one? Oh, she is some, too, and her eyes are like stars when
she laughs and the holes show in her cheeks. I b’lieve I liked her best
after all, she was so friendly, while the other held herself so stiff
and proud like; but she’s a stunner, and no mistake.”
This last he said because of something he saw in Reginald’s face which
reminded him of the possible relation in which the stunner stood to him.
When Sam was gone in quest of Mr. McPherson, Reginald complained again
of a headache and went to his room until dinner was announced, when he
appeared looking paler than before, and more unstrung.
“Better take some brandy to brace you up,” Colin said, with a twinkle in
his eyes as he guessed the cause of Reginald’s discomposure.
Reginald declined the brandy; said he was hot enough without it and
would be all right when it was cooler. Tom was in high spirits, and when
dinner was over said cheerily, as they were going upstairs to make some
little change in their toilets:
“Now for the stunner and the girl with holes in her cheeks and eyes like
stars.”
Reginald did not answer, and Tom fancied that he shut the door with a
jerk, as he disappeared in his dressing-room. Tom was one who scarcely
needed any accessories of dress to add to his personal appearance, he
was so tall and straight and square-shouldered, with a kind of military
air about him, which made strangers think he belonged to the army.
“If I am half-way in the fashion I am satisfied,” he was wont to say in
college, where he was always singled out as the best-looking man in a
crowd, while Reginald was the most aristocratic-looking, and best
dressed.
On this occasion he was immaculate in his attire when he came down to
the hall where Tom was waiting for him. He had taken a bath—in fact he
had taken two that day, hoping to cool the fever in his veins, and was
literally clean without and within, as Tom had written of him to Rena.
He had also taken a good deal of pains with his toilet and looked as if
fresh from the hands of his laundress and tailor as he stood trying to
pull on a new glove which stuck at the thumb.
“Going to wear gloves?” Tom said, in some surprise, “I am not. It is too
hot, and my hands are too sweaty to get them on if I tried.”
“You think she won’t care?” Reginald asked, removing the obstinate
glove.
“I am sure she won’t; but hurry up. Rena is an early bird, and I should
not be surprised if we found her in bed,” Tom said.
To hurry Reginald was never an easy matter, and now he was worse than
ever, and lagged so on the way that Tom stopped once and said:
“What’s the matter, old fellow? You act as if you were going to be
hung.”
“I feel as if I were,” Reginald replied. “You know I never could talk to
ladies, and this _buster_, as that boy called Miss Irene, takes my
breath away. If it were only Rena——”
“Hang Rena!” Tom said, involuntarily, and with a twinge of jealousy.
“She’s a little spitfire when she tries to be. She is angry with me just
now, and maybe will be sulky, but the other is all amiability and will
be very gracious to you.”
Something in Tom’s tone, as he said “you,” struck Reginald with sudden
alarm. Did Tom know what he was trying to keep from him and what he
hoped the girl would keep to herself until her mind was made up?
“Tom,” he said at last, taking his arm. “How long since you saw your
cousin Irene? The _buster_ I mean.”
“Two years—yes, nearer three,” was Tom’s answer, and Reginald continued:
“You correspond, of course?”
“Never! Her royal highness does not like me. We used to fight when we
were children, and I teased her unmercifully. Cut off the head of her
rag baby, or was it Rena’s? Anyway I once put an angle worm on Irene’s
neck and she never forgave me. We are friends, of course, but nothing
more. There’s a free field for you, if you wish to go in.”
“Oh, I don’t want to, or, I beg your pardon. I do not mean any
disrespect to your cousin!” Reginald exclaimed, “but I am not a marrying
man like you—never meant to marry—never thought of it till lately.”
Here he stopped short with a feeling that he might be giving himself
away, but Tom did not seem to notice, and Reginald’s spirits rose a
little and he was conscious of a better feeling toward Irene, who had
not told Tom, who replied, “I don’t know what that has to do with your
calling upon two girls. You are not obliged to marry them because you
call. Don’t be such a coward. Irene won’t hurt you, or Rena either.”
“That’s so—that’s so. I am a coward where women are concerned,” Reginald
said, trying his best to keep up with Tom.
They were in sight of the house by this time and could see the light in
the parlor, and as they drew nearer they could see the graceful figure
sitting with her elbow on the table and her head upon one hand, while
with the other she gently fanned herself.
“That’s she. That’s Irene,” Tom said in a whisper. “Come on.”
“Oh, yes; hold on a minute till I get my breath and wipe my face. I was
never so hot in my life. You’ve run me here at a race-horse speed in
your haste to see Rena,” Reginald gasped, stumbling a little in the dark
and then stopping short, while Tom laughed softly, knowing how slowly
they had come and what hard work it had been to get Rex along at a
snail’s pace, let alone a race-horse’s.
If he had dared he would have liked to roar at the ridiculousness of the
whole affair, but he was too near the house for that. Waiting a minute,
while Reginald wiped his face, and mentally cursing himself for not
having given the whole thing up, he said: “Brace up, there’s nothing to
fear, I tell you.” And Reginald braced up, and was the first on the
piazza and the first to ask if the ladies were in; then he fell back and
stopped, while Tom presented Rena to him. She was very pale and there
was a wistful look in her eyes which she lifted to Tom as if for help
and then turned full upon Mr. Travers, who took her slim, white hand in
one almost as white and slim and “horribly cold and clammy” she
afterward confided to Tom, when telling him how Mr. Travers scarcely
looked at her in his eagerness to get to Irene. That young lady had
heard the sound of footsteps and voices on the piazza, but knowing that
her attitude was perfect she did not move except to push her loose
sleeves a little further up so as to show more of her round, white arm.
She was a born actress and would have made a success on the stage with
very little training. She was there to win Reginald Travers, and no art
of which she was mistress would be left undone to secure the desired
result; and she sat waiting for the first move in the game she was
playing.
As I entered the room, followed by Mr. Travers, Rena and Tom, the latter
of whom had Rena’s hand and was squeezing it rather hard, while she was
trying to disengage it, Irene exclaimed:
“O Miss Bennett! is that you?” then, with a pretty gesture of surprise,
she rose to her feet and bowed gracefully as I presented her to Mr.
Travers. She did not offer him her hand, thinking a certain amount of
reserve was befitting her introduction to him.
“I am very pleased to meet you,” she said. “Pray be seated. Oh, not in
that dreadful chair; they are all bad enough, but that is the worst of
all,” she added, with a laugh, as Reginald dropped into the haircloth
rocker, saying:
“Thanks, this will do very well.”
He was glad of any haven and did not mind the poise of the back which
threw him forward rather awkwardly. With his whole soul he was looking
at Irene, who stood so near him that her organdie skirt just touched his
knees and he detected the faint perfume she always had about her. He
hated perfumes as a rule, and heliotrope the most of all, but he forgot
it in his surprise at the girl’s beauty.
“Tom didn’t tell me more than half the truth,” he thought, as she
greeted Tom in a most cousinly manner.
Evidently she had forgotten the angle worm on her neck, a part of which
was bare in front. Reginald didn’t like bare necks, but this was so much
like a piece of polished marble that he rather admired it, and watched
her while she chided Tom for never writing to her, or coming to see her
for so long a time. Tom returned her banter playfully, but was looking
at Rena, who was sitting where the lamplight fell upon her as it did
upon Irene, bringing out her delicate features in profile and showing
her beautiful eyes which rested very often, but very furtively, upon the
man in the rocker. He was ill at ease, fidgeting a good deal, and acting
as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands or his feet, the latter
of which were stretched out in front of him so far that it seemed as if
he were in danger of slipping to the floor. To add to his discomfiture
Mrs. Parks came bustling in from the kitchen, pulling down her sleeves
as she came, and exclaiming:
“For the land’s sake, company and only the one lamp! Where’s Charlotte
Anne! Let me light the reflector.”
She held a match to the lamp on the wall, and the room was at once
flooded with light which showed more perfectly the people in it—Tom
Giles, with a comical expression on his handsome face; Mr. Travers,
looking as if he wanted to get out of sight by sliding down into the
cellar; Rena, with a look I could not understand in her eyes; and Irene,
the central figure, wholly self-possessed, but with an air of very
becoming shyness about her whenever she looked at Mr. Travers and caught
him looking at her. She and Tom did the talking at first, and when he
saw nothing was expected of him, Mr. Travers gradually came out of his
shell and straightening up looked more like the elegant gentleman I had
seen in church. He did not talk much, nor was it necessary, for when
Tom, in response to Irene’s question as to what there was to do or see
in the neighborhood, replied that he had been there too short a time to
know, she must ask Mr. Travers, or better yet, Mrs. Parks, that lady who
had seated herself as if the call included her, began volubly to descant
upon the different points of interest to be visited. The drives, the
pond, the sea, where there were two or three bath-houses, the old mine,
where a burglar was once hidden for a week, and at last—Nannie’s Well! I
felt sure she would reach it in time and wondered if Mr. Travers had
heard of it.
“You know about it, of course, and maybe you don’t want to hear it
again,” she said to him, as she settled herself more squarely in her
chair.
Reginald bowed and said:
“I have heard of it, but don’t mind me if the rest would like it.”
“Oh, tell it, please!” Irene exclaimed, in the pretty way of a child
asking for a story.
“Very well; but where is Charlotte Anne? She or’to be here to keep me
straight. She knows the whole thing from A to Izzard, and I surmise has
looked in the well. Most everybody in these parts has,” Mrs. Parks said,
and going to the door she gave a shrill call for Charlotte Anne, who was
down in the pine-grove with Sam, and did not answer.
Resuming her chair, Mrs. Parks began the story of Nannie’s tragic death
and the superstition which had clung around the well ever since. She did
not say who the deserted bridegroom was, omitting his name out of
respect to Reginald and Irene, as his step-descendants. Without the
slightest change in the expression of his face Reginald listened to the
story which he had heard in substance from Colin McPherson, but not in
detail as he heard it now, for Mrs. Parks gave full particulars and grew
quite eloquent as she described the dead girl lying upon the
pine-needles, with her long, wet hair clinging to her white face, and
the man who was to have been her husband bending over her and saying,
“Poor little Nannie! if I had known, you needn’t have drowned yourself.”
“Oh!” Irene said under her breath, “it makes one feel cold and creepy
and afraid to be alone;” and she moved a little nearer to Mr. Travers,
who must also have felt cold and creepy, for he, too, hitched a little
nearer to Tom, who at once moved closer to Rena, shivering as if he were
afraid.
In Rena’s wide open eyes there had been a look of horror as Mrs. Parks
described the bringing of the body from the well to the pines, and the
lover’s lamentations over it. But when Tom feigned nervousness and fear
and clutched her arm as if for protection, the look changed and there
was a laugh in her eyes which made Reginald start, it was so like a look
in the eyes of the picture on the wall in the McPherson drawing-room.
Colin McPherson had told him that his brother Sandy had seen the same
look in the girl on the beach. That was Irene, of course, and he turned
toward her to see if in her eyes he could recognize the look. They were
not at all like Nannie’s nor like Rena’s. They were blue as the summer
sky and never could have laughed like Rena’s or looked like Nannie’s.
“Sandy was mistaken,” he thought, and then turned his attention to Mrs.
Parks, and listened patiently while she finished her narrative, dwelling
at some length upon the superstition which clung around the well, of the
many young people who tried the charm, and of the mirror in the hollow
tree, said to be the same which poor Nannie had used, when her
disordered mind conjured up a face she did not wish to see.
“That’s jolly,” Tom said, when the story was ended; “not poor Nannie, of
course, but the well, and the mirror, and the trick—is that what they
call it? You wrote me something about it, Rex, don’t you remember? Have
you ever tried it?”
“I!” Mr. Travis replied in a tone of surprise. “Do you think me crazy? I
do not believe in such trash. Do you?”
“Believe in it? No,” Tom said, “but I’d try it for fun. What do you say,
Rena?”
“That I mean to try it sometime,” Rena answered. “I’ve heard of such
things before, and it’s no worse than eating a thimbleful of salt and
going to bed backward so as to dream of some one. I did that once and
had a horrid nightmare and woke myself up, calling for water which was
just in my reach and which I could not get.”
Everybody laughed except Mr. Travers and Irene, who, taking her cue from
him, smiled a kind of pitying smile that Rena could be so foolish. Rena
saw it, and in a spirit of mischief continued, “Irene did it, too, and
slept like a log till I woke her up screaming for water. You remember
it? We were at Miss Prentiss’ school, and you hurt your ankle against a
rocker, as you were going backward in the dark.”
She looked at Irene, who seemed annoyed, but laughed as she answered:
“Yes, I do now. There were a lot of us, and we did some foolish things,
as schoolgirls are apt to do.”
“And neither of you dreamed of the coming man?” Tom asked, while Irene
replied:
“Neither. Rena might, perhaps, if she had not been so thirsty, and I
might if she had not woke me up. I never tried it again.”
At this point Mr. Travers consulted his watch. He had heard enough about
looking in wells, eating salt and going to bed backward. He knew nothing
of girls and their tricks and did not care to know. Irene and Rena were
rather frivolous, he feared—Rena more so than Irene, and yet she pleased
him the more, he could not tell why. She was a dainty little body, whom
either he or Tom could hold in his arms, if he wanted to; and he didn’t
blame Tom for being in love with her, as he undoubtedly was. As for
Irene, she was very beautiful and graceful and bright, but too tall,
with all that hair piled so high on her head, he thought, as, when he
arose, saying it was time to go, she too rose and stood beside him. He
liked short women better than tall ones, and Irene’s height troubled
him, but he gave her his hand and said he hoped she would like Oakfield
and that he should see her again, and then he turned to Rena.
The moon had risen by this time and was lighting up the yard and road
and fields beyond.
“Oh, what a lovely night, and so cool now! I almost envy you your walk
home,” Irene said, as the party moved to the door and stood upon the
piazza.
“Why not go with us part of the way? and—by George, that’s just the
thing!—let’s go and have a look at Nannie’s Well. You know the way, Miss
Bennett. You’ll go and chaperon us,” Tom said, looking at me, who had
been but a figure-head, taking little part in the conversation.
I had only looked on and listened and watched Mr. Travers and Irene,
making up my mind that they were ill suited to each other, he was so
reserved and cold, and she so full of dash and push. Too much so, I
thought, but possibly contact with him would tone her down, while
contact with her might tone him up.
“Certainly, I’ll go with you,” I said to Tom, who repeated his question
as to whether I would show them the way to the well.
Mrs. Parks, who had left the room a moment in quest of Charlotte Anne,
whom she wished to present to the gentlemen, came back in time to hear
my reply, and began at once to protest.
“For the land’s sake, Miss Bennett, you don’t mean you are goin’ out in
the damp, with your digester. You’ll catch your never-get-over. You’d
better let the young folks go alone, though I warn them there’s a heavy
dew and they’ll get wet as sop.”
“I’ll wrap this around me,” I said, throwing a knitted shawl over my
shoulders, while Rena took her hat and jacket.
Irene declined Mrs. Parks’ offer of her cape.
“I never take cold,” she said, “nor need any one unless she chooses.
There’s no such thing as a cold. It’s only a mortal belief.”
“Oh, ho! Christian Science, are you? The last thing I heard, your fad
was Theosophy,” Tom said, “and the getting into an occult body.”
Reginald looked alarmed. What if Irene should take to Theosophy, and
Christian Science and Spiritualism, and all the other isms of the day!
He believed he should follow Nannie into the well, or do something
desperate. Well, he needn’t be in a hurry. The will distinctly gave them
time to know their own minds, and he meant to know his before he made
the plunge either into the well or into matrimony, or hinted at the will
to Irene, or any one.
As we left the house by the front door Lottie entered it by the back
door, and I caught sight of Sam vaulting over a low part of the board
fence which divided his father’s premises from Mrs. Parks’. They had
just returned from the grove to which we were going, I in advance, as I
knew the way, Tom and Rena behind me, he with his hand on her arm and
talking to her in tones I could not understand. At a little distance
from them were Reginald and Irene. There was no lagging on his part now.
He was trying to keep up with us while Irene was evidently trying to
hold him back. The opportunity was favorable for a tête-à-tête and she
meant to have it, if possible. Reginald, on the contrary, did not seem
disposed for it. Once as Irene stumbled over a stone it occurred to him
that he ought to offer his arm. He could not remember when he had
offered it to a girl; never, he believed, but he must do it now,
especially as Irene again struck a small stone in the path and exclaimed
against it.
“Take my arm,” he said; “the road seems rough.”
“No, thanks,” Irene answered. “I must have both my hands at liberty to
hold my dress and keep it from being draggled. I had no idea the grass
was so wet, or I would not have worn these thin boots. They are drenched
already, and if you do not mind waiting I’ll run back and change them
for something thicker. It will not take me long.”
“Certainly not,” Reginald replied. “Let me walk back with you, or can I
go for you?”
“And change my boots? No,” and Irene laughed merrily. “I shall be gone
no time, and we can easily overtake the others. Tell them not to wait.”
She was off like the wind, and when, as we missed the sound of her
voice, we looked around, she was not to be seen, and Reginald was
sitting alone on a flat boulder at the side of the lane.
“What has happened?” Tom said. “What’s the matter? Where’s Irene?”
“She found the grass too wet and has gone to change her shoes,” was the
reply, as Reginald arose and came toward us.
Just then Irene came flying down the lane, looking disconcerted when she
saw that we were waiting for her, thus spoiling her little manœuvre to
keep Reginald to herself far behind us.
“Had to change your shoes for fear of taking cold, did you?” Tom said,
as she came up. “I thought you never took cold.”
“Nor do I,” Irene answered. “It was not a cold I feared; it was spoiling
my boots. They were nearly soaked. All the science in the world couldn’t
keep them dry.”
She was holding her white skirts above the tops of her boots, which
looked much like the pair she had declared drenched with the dew which
lay so heavy upon the grass.
“Didn’t take you long to change them,” Tom said dryly, with a look Irene
understood and hated him for.
Her plan had failed, and there was nothing to do but keep with us until
the grove was reached. The moon had risen higher by this time and was
casting broad bars of light upon the trees and ground, and the well,
which Irene spied first, and darting toward it, exclaimed:
“So, this is the charmed well where Nannie drowned herself, and into
which foolish young people look, hoping to see their future mates. I
wonder if I could see mine by moonlight.” And standing on the projecting
stone she bent forward and looked into the well, while Rena called:
“Come away, Irene. You will certainly fall in.”
“Suppose I do, who would go in after me, I wonder,” Irene answered with
a laugh, and Tom replied:
“I suppose I’d have to, but I don’t crave the job. I should get my shoes
wet, too. Come away, Irene.”
She didn’t move, except to straighten herself up and turn her face
toward us and up to the moonlight; and such a beautiful face it was, and
such a lovely picture she made, standing over that dark water into which
she might at any moment fall, for the stones were wet and slippery with
the dew. “Is she crazy as Nannie must have been when she threw herself
into that well?” Reginald thought. She was a distant relative of Nannie,
there might be a taint of insanity in her blood, and it was his duty to
interfere. Going up to her and taking her hand, he said authoritatively,
rather than entreatingly:
“Come away, Miss Burdick. You make us all very nervous. Come with me.”
He held her hand in his as he led her to the bench under the pines,
where she sat down very docile and quiet. She had succeeded in rousing
in him some life and interest. He had held her hand even after he was
sitting on the bench beside her; he was looking curiously at her as if
frightened, or fascinated, or both, and Tom knew that this was one of
the little flank movements with which she had commenced her siege
against the citadel of Reginald’s heart.
“By George! I didn’t suppose she was going in so strong,” he thought. “I
understood she was to pass for Rena if people chose to make the mistake,
and here she is walking into Rex within an hour after she meets him, and
I am aiding and abetting her by my silence.”
Tom hated himself with great hatred for his part in the deception, but
he had given his promise to Rena and he would keep it until she released
him from it, as she would do soon, he was sure. She had tried to be cool
and distant at first, and on their way to the grove had managed to say
some sharp things, at which he had laughed, knowing by a certain tone in
her voice that it was the loss of his good opinion which had hurt her
most.
“I am not acting so big a lie as you seem to think,” she said. “We have
come as the Misses Burdick, as we are, and I am not obliged to say to
him, ‘I am your girl.’ It would be immodest, and I shan’t do it. If he
is at all bright he will find out which is which, if he cares to do so.”
“Never mind,” Tom said, soothingly, “I am in the experiment now, and the
partaker is as bad as the thief. We’ll see it through together for a
while. What do you think of him?”
“Nothing except that he is stiff and shy. I could never talk to him as I
do to you and could never like him as that will expects me to. Oh,
Tom!——”
Her voice was like a child’s cry for something it wanted, and Tom
answered by pressing her arm and bringing her a little closer to him as
they kept on their way to the pines, where, after Irene had left the
well, she sat beside him very silent, thinking of Nannie’s story and
trying to remember when or where she had heard something like it.
“Irene,” he said, at last, “did you ever hear that one of our ancestors
away back ever so many years ago, drowned herself in a well?”
“Mercy, no!” Irene replied. “I hope it isn’t so, for if she did she must
have been crazy, and her craziness has trickled down to me, who never
stand looking from a height, whether in doors or out, that I do not feel
a desire to jump, just as now there came over me a strong temptation to
throw myself into the well; and I might have done so but for Mr.
Travers, who deserves my thanks for breaking the spell.”
Reginald bowed, but said nothing. He was looking at Rena, who was now
talking to Tom about the mirror and wishing she could see it, and I was
asked if I knew where it was. I did know, and Tom soon had it in his
hands, examining it carefully, while Irene reached out for it, saying,
“And this is the famous mirror in which Nannie saw Sandy’s face. Please
let me take it and look in it over the well, to see how it seems.”
She made a movement as if to rise, but Reginald held her back, as she
meant he should.
“Sit still,” he said, in the same commanding tone he had used when he
bade her come away from the well. “You disturb me very much.”
He looked upon her acting as real, and did not care for any such
catastrophe as had happened to Nannie.
“What a softie he must be,” was Irene’s mental comment, as she yielded
gracefully to his command, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Travers, for caring
what I do. Few people except Rena have ever cared.”
“You are very fond of your cousin, I see,” Reginald said.
“Fond of her!” Irene replied, speaking truthfully. “I rather think I am.
How can I help it, when she is the sweetest, jolliest little girl in the
world?”
The word jolliest grated on Reginald’s ears. In his ignorance of girls,
a jolly one savored of a fast one, for whom he could have no liking. As
yet he had seen nothing approaching to fast, or jolly, in Rena, on whose
face the moonlight was falling, bringing out all its beauty and making
him wonder that he had not at first noticed how pretty she was. Irene,
who was watching him, followed the direction of his eyes and was herself
struck with the sweetness of Rena’s face. “I believe he is admiring her
more than me,” she thought, with a sharp pang of jealousy lest she
should find Rena a formidable rival in her path. This would never do,
and with her usual swiftness of action she said:
“Tom shares my opinion of Rena. See how happy he looks.”
“Yes,” Reginald answered, glancing at Tom, who did look supremely happy
with Rena beside him brushing some pine-needles from his sleeve; and for
a moment Reginald found himself wondering how he should feel with Irene
brushing his coat-sleeve.
On the whole, he would not care to have her, he thought, and lest such a
thing should happen he moved from under a pine branch which hung over
him. She was a superb creature, more beautiful than any woman he had
ever seen, and very likely she would be his wife, when he had made up
his mind, if he ever did. But he was nervous and tired and wanted to go
home, and at last asked Tom if he had any idea how late it was, and if
they were not keeping the ladies out in the damp air too long. Tom would
willingly have stayed there all night with Rena near him brushing the
pine-needles from his arm and once picking one from his neck where it
had fallen. He was sitting under the extreme end of a long branch of a
tree and thus caught the dead needles when they dropped. But he didn’t
mind, and the touch of Rena’s fingers sent the blood rushing through his
veins at a headlong speed, making him long to imprison the little hand
in his and cover it with kisses. He did take it as he rose in response
to Reginald’s question, and held it while he said:
“Is it late? I had not thought of the time. I was enjoying myself so
hugely—but, yes, by Jove, there’s the village clock striking eleven, as
I live! and we really must go.” Then he added: “This is a jolly place to
sit. Let’s come here often, and—” turning to Rena, “if you ever want to
look in the well, either by moonlight, or starlight, or sunlight, I am
the man to hold the glass and see that you don’t fall in, and Rex, I am
sure, will do the same for Irene; hey, Rex?”
“I? oh, excuse me,” and Rex started to his feet with a feeling that he
had been sitting in a pool of water. “I feel rather damp,” he said.
“This bench must have been wet with the dew. I hope you haven’t taken
cold.”
None of us knew to whom this last remark was addressed, for he did not
look at either of us, but Irene appropriated it and answered:
“Oh, no. I told you I never take cold. It is all in your mind, and like
Tom I have enjoyed being out of doors immensely.”
“I hope you don’t take cold either, Miss Rena—” Reginald continued. The
last word was spoken involuntarily, and with a start he exclaimed: “I
beg your pardon. I should have said, Miss Burdick; but, you see, there
are so many of you, it is rather confusing. I didn’t know there were two
until recently.”
He was talking at random and Tom thought he had lost his senses, while
Irene frowned and bit her lips with vexation. Rena, on the contrary,
laughed and said:
“Two Miss Burdicks and two Irenes are enough to rattle any one. Please
let me be Miss Rena, if you like. It will suit me perfectly and is what
every one calls me.”
“Thanks, I will,” Reginald said, keeping rather close to Tom and Rena as
we left the pines.
We had protested against the gentlemen accompanying us home, as the gate
in the lane where they would leave us for the McPherson place was very
near the house. But they persisted, and when we reached the yard Tom sat
down upon the bench under the maple as if he intended to spend the
night. Reginald was in a hurry and said so, and gave his hand to Rena to
say good-night, wondering why he felt such a sudden glow in his whole
body. No dampness now, no thought that he had been sitting in a pool of
water, no thought of anything except that he was very warm and the
warmth was communicated to him by the girl’s hand resting in his. With
the pressure of Irene’s hand which he took next the dampness returned
and he could have sworn that he had sat in a bucket of water all the
evening. Still he was very gracious as he said good-night, hoping to see
her again and asking if she was fond of driving. She was a coward,
afraid even of old farm-horses, but she answered promptly:
“Oh, so much! There is nothing I like better, especially in the
country,” while visions of a tête-à-tête with him and no Tom to look on
flitted through her mind. But Rex had no idea of a drive alone with her,
and her illusion was at once dispelled by his saying:
“I hope your cousin likes it, too. I know Tom does, and we will go
to-morrow, perhaps, if it is fine. Or, no, not so soon as that, perhaps.
You will wish to get over the fatigue of your journey.”
He was beginning to draw back, thinking he might be a little too fast in
his attentions, but Irene disclaimed all thoughts of fatigue.
“I am never tired, any more than I take cold,” she said. “Both are
fallacies.”
Reginald looked startled, wondering a second time if she were given to
new fads and isms and what he should do if she were—he, who was so
matter-of-fact that it took him a long time to believe anything out of
the ordinary. He was very anxious to get away, and in his anxiety came
near forgetting to bid me good-night. He remembered it, however, at
last, and lifting his hat to us all walked rapidly away.
“What’s your awful hurry?” Tom said, nothing loath to linger in the soft
night air, with Rena’s eyes shining on him.
Reginald did not answer, nor turn his head, and saying good-by to us Tom
started down the lane with long strides which soon brought him up to his
friend.