“MAN PROPOSES, BUT GOD DISPOSES”
“Claremont, August ——
“To Miss Irene Burdick, Oakfield, Mass.
“Johnnie is very low with malignant diphtheria. Come at once.
James Burdick.”
This telegram was brought to Mrs. Parks’ house on the morning after
Irene’s adventure at the well, and was received by her just as she had
finished her breakfast and was taking her seat upon the piazza, where
she believed she should soon welcome Mr. Travers, or hear from him. Her
success at the well had put her in high spirits, and although she felt
annoyed that Mrs. Parks should have disturbed what seemed almost like
lovemaking, by her call to dinner, she had been very gracious to that
lady when she reached the house, and very profuse in her apologies for
her tardiness; and she seemed so happy that Rena said to her when they
were alone in their room:
“Has Mr. Travers proposed, and have you told him everything? What did he
say? Tell me.”
Irene tossed her head airily and answered:
“I’ve nothing much to tell except that he never seemed so loverlike as
he did this morning, and I know he was about to speak when that horrid
old woman’s scream came down to us saying the steak was cold as a stone.
That broke the spell, but he is to see me to-morrow, and his manner was
so different from what it has ever been that I am sure he means
business, and I shall depend on you to help me and take your share of
the blame. I’ll confess I am rather nervous and do not like to meet it
alone, especially as it is not my fault.”
If Irene was nervous Rena was more so, wishing Tom were there and
wondering what she could say to Rex which would excuse the deception in
his estimation if Irene called upon her to explain. She hoped that he
cared for Irene for her own sake and not for anything relating to the
will, as this would make matters easier. There was comfort in this
thought, and still she had a dread of what to-morrow might bring, if, as
Irene believed, Rex had made up his mind to speak. Irene, too, was
anxious, but very happy, and had arranged in her own mind, as she had
many times before, exactly what she would say to him by way of
explanation, and how much she would blame herself and how much Rena. On
the whole she could not see how she was in fault. She had nothing to do
with the will, nor was it her place to speak of it. She had received Mr.
Travers’ attentions, such as they were, as she would have received the
attentions of any man. She had not encouraged him and she was not
supposed to know that he believed her to be the girl intended for him by
Sandy McPherson. He had never asked any questions. No one had;—they had
made a mistake with regard to her identity, and it was not her place to
set them right, and if any one was to blame it was Rena. Satisfied with
this reasoning, she slept soundly, and came to breakfast brighter and
handsomer than I had ever seen her. There was a softness in the
expression of her face and a gentleness in her manner which made me
think I had been mistaken in her character, and I looked after her
admiringly as she left the table and went out upon the piazza to the
chair she usually occupied, the most comfortable one there.
Coming through the gate was a messenger-boy with one of those yellow
missives, the sight of which always makes one’s heart beat expectantly
with hope or fear. Rena saw him first and with a thought of Tom went
forward to meet him.
“Is it for me?” she asked, holding out her hand.
“It’s for Miss Irene Burdick,” was the reply, as the boy gave her the
envelope.
Her letters from her aunt had always been addressed to Miss Rena
Burdick. Tom’s letter would be directed that way and the telegram must
be for Irene, to whom she gave it.
“Who could have sent it?” Irene asked, knowing that her family was not
given to the extravagance of telegrams, and with no thought of what this
contained.
If there was any living thing in the world beside herself which Irene
loved it was her little three-year-old brother Johnnie, the darling of
the household, on whom she lavished all the unselfishness and affection
of which she was capable. It was Johnnie whom she cared to see when away
from home, Johnnie, who, in her mother’s letters to her, sent pencil
scrawls as his contributions, with love and kisses for his “booful
Reene,” as he called her. And now he was ill—dying, perhaps, and she
must go to him. Every other consideration was forgotten. She must go to
him.
“What is it, Irene?” Rena asked, as she saw how white her cousin grew.
Irene gave her the telegram, while the tears rained down her face.
“Johnnie is dying,” she said, “and I must take the first train for home.
There is one at eleven. I must catch it.”
She started upstairs, followed by Rena, who said:
“I am sorry for you, and hope we may find him better.”
“We,” Irene repeated. “You are not going with me.”
“Yes, I am,” Rena replied, beginning to fold one of her dresses.
“But you must not,” Irene continued. “The telegram said ‘malignant
diphtheria.’ You had it once and came near dying. You must not run the
risk again. You are not needed. Our house is small. Tom and your aunt
would not like it, and you must not go.”
Very reluctantly Rena hung up her dress, with a feeling that Irene was
right—that Tom and her aunt would not like her running into danger and
that very likely she would be in the way, and might again contract the
disease which had nearly ended her life a few years before.
“Mr. Travers is coming up the lane,” Mrs. Parks said, putting her head
in at the door and adding that Sam Walker, who happened in, had offered
to take Miss Burdick to the station with Black Beauty and had gone to
harness and would be there in a minute.
In her excitement Irene had scarcely thought of Rex and the call she had
felt so sure he would make and its probable result.
“O Rena!” she groaned, sitting down upon the hat-box in which she had
put the few articles she might need. “This is very hard upon me—to miss
the goal just as I thought I had reached it. Mr. Travers is coming, and
I must tell him where I am going and why—and what will he think? I have
not time to explain. You must do it for me after I am gone. There is Sam
now, stopping at the gate.”
There was not a great deal of time if she would catch the train, and
Irene was glad of it, as it would prevent Rex from asking questions she
would rather have Rena answer for her. Putting on her sacque and hat she
started to go down just as Rex came into the hall. He had not slept
well. The eye seen in the mirror had troubled him in his dreams and was
looking at him the moment he awoke making him wonder if it would follow
him after he had talked with Irene. A cold bath had toned him up
somewhat and Colin’s cheerfulness toned him more.
“Go right over and have it done with,” Colin had said. “Maybe she won’t
have you. I wouldn’t if I was in her place, shilly-shallying as you have
been. If she won’t, all right. You have done your duty. On the whole
you’d better begin with the will. Ask her what she thinks of it and if
she is willing to carry it out. Tell her you are if she is and make some
kind of a love demonstration. Giles would know how to do it. I wish he
was here. Act as you must have seen him act with the other one. Keep a
stiff upper lip and take her hand. I know that is right and proper—the
way I should do. Just the touch of it will make you feel kind of all
over, or ought to. Such a hand as she has!”
There was a good deal more advice of the same nature, some of which Rex
heard and some he didn’t. One fact, however, was clear to him. He was
going to have it out with Irene, and about a quarter past ten he started
for Mrs. Parks’ house, walking slowly and not at all as an ardent lover
walks when going to woo his mistress. He did not feel very ardent,
although he tried to work himself up to a proper state of mind and to
remember what Colin had told him to say and do. But nothing came to him
except that he must take her hand, which would make him feel kind of all
over. He had held her hand and he didn’t feel all over, the way Colin
meant. It was usually rather cold and he never cared to hold it long. It
made him sweaty and nervous.
“And yet it is a handsome hand, well shaped and white and large—large as
mine, I do believe,” he said, holding up both his rather small hands for
a moment and remembering suddenly the little ones he had seen picking
pine-needles from Tom’s coat. “Happy Tom and fool me!” he said aloud,
quickening his steps until he reached the gate just as Sam came dashing
up with Black Beauty who, not having been driven for a day or two, pawed
the ground impatiently, anxious to be off.
“Good-morning, Mr. Travers,” Sam said. “If you are going in won’t you
hurry Miss Burdick up. We haven’t much time to catch the train.”
“Hurry Miss Burdick,” Rex repeated. “What do you mean? Where is she
going?”
“To New York, I s’pose. She’s had a telegraph,” Sam answered, while Rex
went rapidly to the house where he met Irene and Rena coming down the
stairs with Mrs. Parks bringing the hat-box.
Irene was crying—partly for Johnnie and partly for what she felt she was
losing by being compelled to go home.
“What is it?” Rex asked. “What has happened? Sam tells me you are going
to New York.”
At the mention of New York Irene caught eagerly. Her mind always worked
rapidly, and if Rex thought she was going to New York it was not
necessary to undeceive him and tell him she was going to Claremont—a
place he had probably never heard of—so she answered:
“My brother is very ill and I must go to him.”
“Your brother! I did not know you had one,” Rex said, in some surprise.
“Yes, I have, and he is dying,” Irene answered, with a sob, while Rex
looked puzzled, as we all were with the brother business, but had no
time to ask questions.
“And are you going with her?” Rex said to Rena, who replied:
“Only to the station.”
“But she must not go alone. I shall go with her if you do not,” Rex
continued. “I can telegraph Mr. McPherson.”
They had reached the gate by this time, and Rex, who was carrying the
hat-box he had taken from Mrs. Parks, offered his disengaged hand to
Irene to help her into the buggy, while Sam held the impatient Beauty.
Irene knew he must not go with her to that low-roofed house in the
factory village among the hills. It would be madness to suffer it, and
she exclaimed, “No, no! I shall not allow it. He has malignant
diphtheria. It is dangerous. I can take the journey alone. I would not
let Rena go, and certainly not you, but I thank you for your kind offer.
Good-by.”
She smiled at him through her tears, which made her seem more womanly
than she ever had before.
“But I really ought to go. I am not afraid,” Rex said, while she
answered, again:
“No, you must not,” and sprang into the buggy, followed by Rena, the
movements of both accelerated by Sam’s imperative “You must hurry, or
lose the train.”
If there had been room for him in the buggy Rex would have gone to the
station. But there was not, and while he was still protesting Black
Beauty dashed from the gate and soon disappeared from view, while Rex
stood looking after him, surprised and bewildered and relieved, he did
not know why.
“Come in, Mr. Travers,” Mrs. Parks said to him. “Come and have a glass
of root beer. I’ve got some fresh brewed yesterday. I see you are all
upset, and so am I with the suddenness of it. You could knock me down
with a straw. I didn’t s’pose she had a brother. Did you? And I have not
had time to ask Miss Rena.”
She looked at him for some explanation, but he had none to give. He was
as much mystified as she, and declining the beer he walked away,
thinking to himself: “I supposed she was an orphan, living with her
aunt,” then it occurred to him that she might be an orphan and still
have a brother, and he at once conjured up the image of a very tall and
fair-haired young man as Irene’s brother. He knew he must be
fair-haired, Irene was so fair, and he must be tall, because she was so
tall. And he saw her in fancy bending over him with tears in her eyes
and on her long lashes, just as there had been when she said to him: “My
brother is dying.” She had never seemed so attractive, and he found
himself pitying her greatly and wishing he had insisted upon going with
her, while there crept into his mind a thought that he would like to see
her brother and her home before he committed himself. He was by nature
and training an aristocrat, and the woman to whom he gave his name must
not be below him in position. Nor did he believe that Irene was below
him, but if the chance offered he would like to be sure, though it did
not matter much what her brother or surroundings were. She was to be his
wife. Sandy McPherson had settled that, and still he was conscious of
being glad that the plunge, as he called it, had not been made, and he
had yet a little time of probation left.