DRIFTING
The next morning Tom came to the farmhouse and sat with Rena under the
great tree in Mrs. Parks’ yard. Irene was not feeling quite well, and
kept her room, leaving Rena alone with Tom. There had been a few words
between herself and Rena with, regard to the deception which the latter
wished to end and Irene had met the proposal with an insinuation that it
looked very much as if Rena was jealous of the attentions paid to her by
Mr. McPherson and wished to transfer them to herself. Rena was silenced
but not convinced, and when alone with Tom she opened her heart to him
and asked what she ought to do!
“Do you think you could care for Rex?” Tom asked, a great gulp in his
throat as he thought of the possibility.
“Not the way you mean,” Rena answered; “but I wish you would tell him I
am the Irene meant in the will, but can never care for him except as a
friend; then, everything will be honest and fair, and we can have such a
good time. I am miserable now. Will you tell him?”
She put her hand on Tom’s, and he felt every nerve quiver from the touch
of her fingers. Just for a moment he did not speak, while many
conflicting thoughts ran through his mind. Rex ought to be told, but he
had seen that in his friend which warned him of danger. Once let him
know the truth and he would turn to Rena, first as a duty, perhaps, and
then for the girl herself, while she—He was not quite so sure what she
might do under pressure, she was so impulsive, and he could not lose her
now.
“Rena,” he said at last, “let it drift for a while now we are in it. Rex
has taken Irene for you without asking a question. If he speaks to me of
the will I shall tell him the truth. Until he does better let him alone
unless you think you might care for him. You are sure you could not?”
“Only as a friend,” Rena replied, while for a moment there was silence
between them.
Then, taking her hand, Tom said:
“Is there any one you could care for—me, for instance?”
There was a look in Rena’s eyes like a startled fawn as she raised them
to Tom’s face, and her lips quivered as if she were about to cry.
“O Tom!” she said, “don’t ask me now. Everything is so mixed and wrong.
I don’t know what I want or who I am exactly. Wait ever so long, and
maybe I shall know.”
“I’ll wait for years,” Tom answered, with a heaving of his broad chest
and a feeling that Rena was as absolutely his as if her word had been
pledged to him.
After that it seemed easier to tell Rex.
“Let him give me his confidence and my way will be clear,” Tom thought;
and as just then Irene appeared in the door and came toward them the
conversation between him and Rena ceased. After that matters drifted as
matters usually do where four young people are concerned, two as good as
engaged, one trying her best to be engaged, and the other not knowing
what he wanted or ought to do. There were drives along the pleasant
country roads, rambles in the woods, calls at Mrs. Parks’, and five
o’clock teas at the McPherson place, where Irene was looked upon by
Colin as the future mistress of the house. Greatly to the disgust of the
old man, Reginald gave no special sign of coming to the point. He was
very polite to Irene, who in all the drives and rambles fell to him
naturally, and was never more fascinating and womanly than now when
trying her best to enslave him. Sometimes she thought she gained a
little, especially as he consulted her once with regard to some change
Colin thought of making in the greenhouse, and again about the removal
of a tree which obstructed the view from the window of his room. As a
whole, however, he was always a quiet, reserved and taciturn man,
following obediently where she led and leaving the most of the talking
to her. No allusion to the will was ever made, nor did she mean there
should be for the present, if she could help it.
“If he does speak of it I must either tell the truth, or feign entire
ignorance, and so exonerate myself from all blame, trusting that neither
Rena nor Tom will betray me,” she thought, and with this conclusion she
kept steadily on, bending every energy and every art to the
accomplishment of her purpose.
Just what Rex thought of her he hardly knew himself. He was far more at
ease with her now than he had been at first. Once he had perpetrated
some joke upon her, and once when a hairpin had fallen from her heavy
braids, he had picked it up and rather awkwardly fastened it in its
place, making some remark as he did so about the quality and quantity of
her hair and asking her how long it was.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, putting her hands to her head to see if
her false braids were in place and wondering what he would say if he
knew how much she took off at night.
Three or four times the young ladies had tried the sea-bathing near the
McPherson bath-house, but the surf was so heavy and the undertow so
strong that they never ventured far out unless Tom or Rex were near
them. One day, however, Irene, who was somewhat daring and liked to show
her skill, went out so far that the strong out-going tide took her with
it beyond her depth and was carrying her further and further away when
Rex, who was near to her, heard her cry, “O Rex, save me!” and struck
out swiftly for her. Exhausted and overcome with fright, she had sunk
once before he reached her, but just as she was going down a second time
he caught at the mop of hair and holding fast to it swam quickly to the
shore where Tom and Rena, who had not been in the water, received her
and took her to the bath-house. Returning to the beach Tom saw Reginald
holding in his hand a thick braid of blonde hair at which he was looking
curiously and turning it over as if greatly perplexed.
“Tom!” he gasped, “see what I have done, and she never gave a cry,
although it must have hurt her fearfully. I don’t quite understand it.”
“Rex, are you an idiot, that you know nothing of false hair and girl’s
toilets?” Tom said, as he took the braid and held it dripping with water
before Rex, who gasped:
“You don’t mean it wasn’t growing there?”
“I don’t mean anything else,” Tom answered. “Do you suppose any girl
could stand having her scalp pulled off and make no protest? You
certainly are a fool!”
“Yes, I am; but how should I know?” Rex said, “I, who have no sisters
nor mother nor near female relation, and have scarcely been near a girl
until this summer. Do they all—does the little one wear false hair?”
“No, sir!” Tom answered promptly. “Many girls do wear it, though. There
is no harm in it that I see. No girl has as much hair of her own as
Irene wears. You might know that with half an eye; but come on and
change your wet clothes, and not stand there staring at this hair as if
it were a live thing.”
“Yes,” Rex stammered, “but what shall we do with it?”
“Do with it?” Tom repeated. “Give it to Irene, of course. It is
valuable. False braids like this cost money.”
“But,” Rex began again. “Will she like to know that—that we know it?
Won’t it mortify her? Hadn’t we better throw it into the sea and say
nothing? That will save her feelings. She’ll think she lost it there.”
“Rex, you are a gentleman, if you don’t know anything! I should never
have thought of sparing Irene that way,” Tom said, tossing the hair far
out to meet an incoming wave which when it receded carried with it
Irene’s heaviest and most expensive braid which had given way under
Rex’s firm grasp.
“Yes, that’s better than telling her,” Rex said, standing a moment and
watching the hair as it drifted further and further away until it was
lost to view. “Yes, better be there than on her head; but I’ll confess I
am surprised. I have a great deal to learn about girls. Yes, a great
deal, and I don’t like it,” was the last Tom heard as they separated at
the door of Rex’s bath-room.
When alone, Tom bent himself double to smother his laughter, while
saying to himself:
“I’d like nothing better than to see Irene’s face when Rex gave her back
her hair, if he had done so; but then I’m a brute and Rex is a gentleman
through and through, but a good deal of a simpleton. I believe, though,
I’d be as big a one, to have his kindness of heart and delicacy of
feeling which prompted him not to mortify Irene needlessly.”
Meanwhile Irene had dried and dressed herself and was sitting out in the
sunshine, with little thrills of delight in her heart as she thought
that Rex had saved her. Just how or where he had seized her she did not
know, she was so frightened; by her arm, most likely, and she was
waiting for him to appear and thinking what she should say to thank him,
when Rena came to her side, bringing her hat and umbrella. In the
excitement of caring for her cousin she had not noticed her hair, but
she did now, and exclaimed:
“Irene, Irene, what has happened? Half your head is gone! Put up your
hand and see.”
Irene sprang to her feet, put her hand to her head, and realized her
loss, while like a flash came the thought, “Did he see it? Did he pull
it off? Does he know?”
“Oh, heavens!” she said, sinking back to her seat. “I’ve lost my
beautiful braid of hair, for which I gave so much. I must look like a
guy. Do you think he saw it? Mr. Travers, I mean. I don’t care for Tom!
Put on my hat, quick, before they come.”
She seemed in great distress, while Rena tried to comfort her, saying:
“He must have pulled it off, but I would not care.”
“I think you look better without it, and at least two inches shorter.”
Irene was proud of her height and proud of her crown, and that was
gone—where, she could not guess, but she hoped anywhere so that Reginald
did not see it, though that was unlikely. She was a good deal upset and
very nervous, and had intended to play the rôle of an invalid in order
to have him go home with her, but she changed her mind, and when he
appeared with Tom, he found her as erect as ever, declaring herself none
the worse for her fright, and thanking him very graciously for coming to
her aid, and saying she was beginning to see stars when he grasped her.
“You had a loud call, that’s a fact. Didn’t you lose your head, nor
anything?” Tom asked, with a twinkle in his eyes which made Irene
suspect at once.
“The wretch!” she thought. “I believe he knows something about it.”
Then, with her ready tact, she replied, “I didn’t lose my head, but I
did a switch which I sometimes wear. It was made from my hair cut when I
had fever and it began to come out. Did you see it? It does not matter,
though, for I only cared for it because it was a part of myself.”
Rena had never heard of the fever and looked astonished, while Tom
whistled softly and turned away to keep from laughing. Reginald,
however, felt relieved. In his ignorance of a lady’s toilet anything
false struck him unpleasantly. He had heard of powder and paint and
false hair, but had always associated them with actresses and second
class people, and never with people like Irene, who might, perhaps, be
his wife. This case, however, was different. The lost braid was a part
of Irene. It had once grown on her head and not on that of some frowsy
foreigner. He could forgive the falseness, especially as Irene had been
so frank about it, but inwardly he was glad that the thing was riding
the waves of the Atlantic. He was very attentive and insisted upon going
home with her, and made her take his arm, as he was sure she must feel
weak and the road was not very smooth, and he was so kind and thoughtful
that Irene would have felt repaid for her fright, if it were not for the
loss of her hair and wishing to know where it was. That troubled her,
and when they reached the house and Reginald stepped into the garden to
see a species of hibiscus just in blossom, of which Mrs. Parks was very
proud, she turned to Tom and said:
“Where is my hair? I am sure you know by your looks. Is it in your
pocket?”
“No, madam,” Tom answered, with a comical smile. “The last I saw it was
drifting out to sea. It is miles away by this time, if some mermaid has
not appropriated it.”