THE DINNER-PARTY
“There’s a girl with a head on her, and as handsome as they make ’em,”
Colin soliloquized on his way home. “Appreciated Glasgow! About the
first American I ever met who didn’t begin at once to talk about the
dirty people in some of the streets, as if that was all there was of
Glasgow. I don’t believe she saw ’em. If she did she had the good taste
not to mention ’em. Yes, she has a head on her, and such a head and
face. Rex is in luck to have such a wife made to hand, and nothing to do
but to take her. I wonder he didn’t tell me how handsome she was. But
that’s his way, not to talk. I don’t believe he takes very kindly to the
will, at least to the girl there is in it. Isn’t a marrying man. Guess
I’ll have to give him a little boost and tell him what I think of her.”
He found Reginald reading alone in the library, Tom having gone for a
stroll which he meant should take him by Mrs. Parks’, where he hoped to
see Rena.
“By George! Rex,” the old man said, bustling in, “I’ve seen a girl with
a head on her; yes, I have.”
Rex looked up and asked:
“Did you ever see a girl without a head on her?”
“Of course not, but you know what I mean,” Colin answered. “A girl with
no nonsense, and such a face and such an air and manner. I congratulate
you, my boy; yes, I do. Sandy did well for you.”
Rex began to feel damp again as he had the night before, but he closed
his book and said:
“You mean Miss Burdick?”
“Certainly. Whom should I mean?” Mr. McPherson replied. “The other one!
What is her name?”
“Rena,” Rex said, and he went on: “Yes, Miss Rena is a nice little girl,
with wonderful eyes like Nannie’s, but she can’t hold a candle to Irene.
Didn’t like Glasgow, and told me so, but you ought to hear the other one
talk about Scotland and what she saw there. You’ll have a chance
to-morrow, for she is coming to dinner.”
“Oh,” and Rex felt the cold chills run down his back. “She is not coming
alone?”
“Alone, no! I have asked Rena and that Miss Bennett, who seems a
sensible woman and does not talk. That will make six—just enough for the
small round table which I will have laid in the breakfast-room as more
cozy than the big dining-room. As Irene is the guest of honor I
naturally must take her in to dinner, and you and Mr. Giles will suit
yourselves with the other two.”
Colin was full of his dinner-party, asking Reginald which he supposed
would suit Irene most, green turtle soup or ox-tail, and failing to gain
any information from him he hurried away to consult his housekeeper,
Mrs. Fry, as to what he ought to have and how it should be served,
deciding finally upon green turtle, his favorite soup. Rex tried to seem
interested, and the next morning fortified himself with a plunge in the
sea, although the waves were rolling high and the undertow carried him
farther out than seemed safe to Tom, who was looking on and did not feel
the need of a bath in that dangerous surf. It was enough for him that
Rena was coming and he was to take her in to dinner, for so Rex had
arranged it, appropriating Miss Bennett to himself with a great wrench
of self-denial, but planning to have Rena on his left. The bath did him
good, bracing up his nerves, and by the time he went to his room in the
afternoon to dress, he was outwardly composed, though inwardly shaking
like a leaf. He said to Tom, who was whistling cheerily in his
dressing-room as he made his toilet:
“Do I look as if I were all in a tremble at the thought of meeting three
ladies?” Rex asked, standing a moment in Tom’s door and trying to button
his collar.
“Not a bit of it,” Tom answered, and Reginald continued:
“But I am. It’s lucky my trousers are so wide, or you’d see my legs
wabbling around in them. I’ve tried that new fad, you know—denying
things. I’ve said I hadn’t any nerves, nor any legs, nor any trousers,
and couldn’t have, but, by George, I seem to have all three. Did you
ever see such a fool?”
“Never! and I’m ashamed of you,” Tom answered so decidedly that Reginald
began again to pull himself together with such success that by the time
the carriage, sent at five for the ladies, was driving into the yard, he
was wondering at his own calmness and self-possession.
Perhaps it was the contempt in Tom’s voice as he said, “I am ashamed of
you,” which wrought the change and perhaps it was the thought which
repeated itself over and over in his mind: “There is no hurry. No one
can make me marry against my will, and I have a year or more if I choose
in which to decide. I may get accustomed to thinking of a wife by that
time, though the Lord knows I never wanted one; and possibly the girl
may not want such a stick as I am. I hope she won’t. I am not at all
like her.”
Thus reassured, he became quite himself, rather shy, but a courteous,
polished gentleman, as he went forward to meet their guests. Naturally
Irene was the first to alight. There was a feeling with us all that she
was the guest of honor and she accepted the situation gracefully.
Yesterday she had been all in black, to-day she was all in white, with a
few pink roses nestling in the fluffy folds of her waist, and nothing
could be more modest than her manner as she stepped from the carriage
and shook hands with Mr. McPherson, then with Tom and last with
Reginald. She could blush when she chose to do so, and she blushed now
very prettily as she looked up at him and then let her eyes fall coyly
and modestly as she stood aside for Rena. Of the two girls Rena had been
more nervous about the dinner-party than Irene. She was anxious to see
the place and Nannie’s picture, but she was feeling herself more and
more an impostor and wishing she had never tried to deceive Reginald
Travers, who, because she was deceiving him, interested her more than he
would otherwise have done. With her whole heart she loved Tom, but she
pitied Reginald, and her manner toward him was like that of one who
feels he has done a wrong and is seeking to redress it. She, too, was
looking her best, in a soft cream-colored cashmere, with red roses on
her bosom and an exquisite pin of pearls and turquoise at her throat,
and Reginald felt the charm in her manner, and a smile of genuine
pleasure broke over his face as he greeted her and said he hoped she had
suffered no inconvenience from her visit to the pines two nights before.
“Not the least,” she said, “I’d like to go again.”
A close observer would have seen Irene’s eyes glance quickly around at
the house and grounds, of which she seemed a fitting mistress, as she
went up the stone steps, past the Ionic pillars, to the wide piazza; to
which Mr. McPherson had brought rugs and chairs, and where was a small
table, with silver urn and the daintiest of china cups from which we
were to have coffee after dinner. Here we sat down to enjoy the view of
hills and meadows and a strip of woods, through which an opening had
been cut, showing a glimpse of the sea in the distance. Taking a seat by
Irene, Mr. McPherson plunged at once into his favorite theme, Scotland
and Glasgow. Irene was ready for him to a certain extent and discoursed
of the places in Glasgow in which she had become posted, while Tom
listened open-mouthed and Rena open-eyed, with a recollection of the one
rainy day in Glasgow and the one fair day, and Irene’s disgust with the
city and haste to get out of it. When it came to the picture-gallery and
Irene was asked which picture of all she preferred, she found herself
stranded, but said their stay was so limited that they had not given the
gallery as much time as she could wish and she could hardly recall any
one picture better than the other where all were so fine, and then,
knowing she was at the end of her Glasgow rope, she gave a most natural
turn to the conversation and swooped down on the Highlands and the
Trossachs, where she felt more at home, growing very eloquent over Lochs
Lomond and Katrine and quoting a line or two from the “Lady of the
Lake,” which she said she believed she knew by heart and had since she
was a child.
Tom, who was sitting by Rena, whispered to her:
“How many lies is she telling? A pile of them, I’ll wager.”
“Hush-sh!” Rena answered, fascinated by Irene’s eloquence, which also
interested Reginald.
He had no suspicion of lies and only thought what a wonderful command of
language Irene possessed and how well her animation became her. When the
Trossachs were exhausted, Tom, who had had enough of it, began to talk
of something else, while Rena wondered if they were never going to see
Nannie’s picture and that of her great-grandmother. The hands of the
long clock on the stair-landing in the hall pointed to six and at the
first stroke a maid appeared, courtesying to the guests, and saying to
her master, “Dinner is served.”
“And, by George! I am ready for it. We didn’t have much for lunch,”
Colin said, offering his arm to Irene, who seemed more erect and taller
than usual as she walked beside him, and on whose train, which spread
out far behind her, Tom inadvertently planted his foot. No woman likes
to feel her skirt pulled back suddenly, and Irene was not an exception.
Ordinarily she would have been angry, but now she was on her good
behavior, and to Tom’s “I beg your pardon; I had no business to be so
careless,” she answered, sweetly: “No matter, it ought to be stepped on.
It is quite too long.”
With a graceful sweep she gathered it up and we moved on to the
breakfast-room and the elegantly appointed table, with damask and cut
glass and silver and flowers and two servants—a man and a maid—to serve
us. Mr. McPherson was in a joking mood, and when the soup was brought
in, said to Irene:
“I hope you like green turtle, Miss Burdick? I had to chance it, as I
didn’t know your taste. Neither did Rex when I asked him. But he’ll
improve; he’ll know it by and by.”
Pleased with his own joke the old man shut one of his eyes and with the
other winked at Irene, whose blushes were genuine and whose face for a
moment was scarlet, for she felt the bad taste of the insinuation and
knew that Reginald was displeased. If there was one soup more than
another which she detested it was green turtle, but she declared that
nothing could have suited her better, while taking it down in gulps,
each one of which nauseated her frightfully. After this the dinner
proceeded quietly and we were again upon the piazza, where Irene
presided at the tea-table and poured coffee, which Reginald and Tom
handed to us, and all the time Rena was chafing for a sight of the
pictures, fearing it might get too late to see them distinctly. It was
near sunset when Tom, who knew Rena’s anxiety, said to our host: “Excuse
me, Mr. McPherson. It is delightful out here, but the young ladies want
to see Nannie.”
“Why, yes, bless my soul!” Mr. McPherson exclaimed, starting up. “I came
near forgetting it, I am enjoying myself so well. Come this way. Rex,
I’ll let you have Miss Burdick a while.”
Rex bowed and gave Irene his arm, thinking as he did what a fine-looking
woman she was, but wishing she were not quite so tall and wondering if
she wouldn’t look shorter if she did not wear her hair coiled in so many
braids around her head like a coronet, which added to her height. He had
noticed her hair when he first saw her, and thought of it again while
taking his coffee, wondering in a vague kind of way, as he had once
before, how long and thick it was and if it did not take her more time
to arrange it than it took Rena to twist her brown tresses into the flat
knot low in her neck, which he liked better than Irene’s crown. They
were now in the drawing-room, standing before the three portraits ranged
side by side on the wall, Nannie between the two Mrs. McPherson’s, with
their caps and puffs of hair. Nannie’s hair was in curls, as she wore it
when Sandy first knew her, and in her low-necked dress and short sleeves
she looked as if she might have been the daughter of either of the prim
ladies beside her.
“This is Nannie,” Mr. McPherson said, addressing himself to Irene, “and
this Rex’s great-grandmother, Sandy’s first wife, you know, and this
your great-grandmother, Sandy’s second wife.”
The consciousness of the part she was acting kept Irene silent, while
Mr. McPherson went on: “You don’t look like her, as I see, nor like
Nannie, either, though Sandy said you did. He saw you on the beach, you
know. You don’t remember him, of course.” Irene still kept silent, while
Colin continued: “Your cousin is more like Nannie. The eyes are much the
same,” he added, as he turned to Rena, who was gazing into Nannie’s
beautiful eyes, which seemed to smile a recognition upon her.
“You are like her,” Reginald said, coming to Rena’s side and looking at
her so earnestly that she found herself blushing, and moved nearer to
Tom.
She, too, was feeling uncomfortable, and wishing more and more that she
had never entered into the deception.
“I can’t tell now,” she thought. “I must wait and consult Tom. I wonder
how Irene can seem so composed.”
Irene had recovered from her little pricks of conscience, and was
looking quite unmoved at the portrait supposed to be her
great-grandmother’s and listening to Mr. McPherson’s question as to what
her maiden name was.
“My memory is so bad it has slipped my mind,” he said.
Irene had forgotten, too, if she ever knew, which was doubtful, she
said, as she feared she had not been as anxious about her pedigree as
she ought to be. Then, lest she should be asked more troublesome
questions, she turned from the portraits to other pictures in the room,
the originals of some of which she had seen abroad and about which she
could talk fluently.
“Perhaps you’d like to see the rest of the house?” Mr. McPherson said to
her at last, as if she were the only one present interested in it.
If she were to live there, or spend her summers there, she must be glad
to see her future home, and he led the way through the rooms of the
first floor, and then to the second, where he stopped at the door of a
large, airy chamber, with a fine outlook over the grounds and down to
the sea.
“This was Sandy’s room,” he said. “Here he sat a great deal with his two
wives, both of whom died in that bed,” and he pointed to a high poster,
with a lace canopy over it. “His first died on the right side, and his
second on the left, he told me. Sandy died in it, too,” he added, very
reverently; while Irene stood with her head a little bent and eyes cast
down, like one praying, while in reality she was trying to repress a
smile at the idea of Mrs. McPherson the first dying on the right side of
the bed, and Mrs. McPherson the second on the left, and Sandy probably
in the middle, she thought.
Tom was thinking the same and whispering it to Rena, when Colin pointed
to the large bay window at the extremity of the long room.
“The window is kept sacred to Nannie,” he said. “That low rocker was
bought for her, but she never sat in it, nor saw it, nor the silver
tea-set on the table by it—her work-table it was to be—nor the piano
crosswise in the window. He had them all brought to his room after she
died, and his two wives let him keep them here. The second one, though,
put a curtain across the alcove to shut them off when she felt like it.
Nobody ever sat in the chair, that I know, or used the tea-set, or
touched the piano. That was Sandy’s fad. He said, though, that Rex’s
wife might try it. Shall I open it?”
He was standing by the spindle-legged instrument and Irene was close to
him. Just what answer she would have given was prevented by Rena, who
exclaimed: “No, oh, no, it would be sacrilege not to respect the dear
old man’s wishes. How he must have loved poor Nannie.”
There were tears in Rena’s eyes as she followed Colin to another part of
the room, while he went on: “That was Sandy’s chair over by the desk
where he wrote his will and that chair by the west window was his first
wife’s, and that by the south window was his second wife’s—your
great-grandmother, Miss Burdick. Sit down in it and see how you look!”
“No!” Rena said again, grasping Irene’s arm as she was seating herself
in the wooden rocking-chair, with its faded chintz-cover and frill.
Irene stared at her impatiently; then catching Mr. McPherson’s look of
inquiry, she said, with a laugh:
“I believe Rena is superstitious about sitting in chairs which have not
been used for so long.”
“It isn’t that,” Rena answered. “I hardly know what it is. I want to get
out of this room, which seems so full of the dead.”
She was very white and Reginald, who was near her, said to her:
“I think it is grewsome, too. Let’s go out.”
He put his hand on her arm and led her into the hall, followed by the
others, Mr. McPherson bringing up the rear with Irene. As he was a
little deaf himself he always talked rather loud, and as they were going
down the hall he said so distinctly that we all heard him:
“It was Sandy’s wish that his room should be kept as it is. I hope Rex’s
wife will respect his wishes. She can have any other room in the house.”
What Irene’s answer was I could not hear, but that it was satisfactory
was proven by Mr. McPherson’s hearty:
“Thank you, I was sure you would feel that way.”
Reginald, who still held Rena’s arm, clutched it so tight that she gave
a little cry and wrenched herself from him.
“I’ve hurt you,” he said, in great distress. “I am always doing
something stupid. I am so sorry.”
“It does not matter at all,” Rena replied. “Nothing matters but myself,
Mr. Travers.”
She was looking at him with such pleading in her eyes that he felt sure
there was something the matter, and said to her in a voice she had never
heard from him before:
“What is it? Can I do anything for you?”
She wanted to tell him the truth then and there without waiting to
consult Tom, but her courage failed her. She couldn’t do it, and it was
not the place either.
“No, thanks,” was her answer. “I am a little nervous with those chairs
and things which belonged to the dead. That is all, and I think it is
time we were going home. The sun is down, you see.”
Irene was not at all anxious to go, but Rena was so persistent that the
carriage was brought to the door and we were soon saying good-night to
the three gentlemen, who stood waving their hands to us as we drove down
the avenue, one of them, certainly, looking relieved that the affair was
over.