REX AND RENA
He was very quiet when I entered the room, but his eyes bright with
fever, were rolling restlessly around as if watching something. His face
was red and his head hot when I put my hand upon it and asked how he
felt. He manifested no surprise at seeing me, but made no direct reply
to my question except to say:
“I wish it would go away; it troubles me! Can’t you drive it out? It
came in at the window.”
“What is it?” I asked, and he replied:
“That eye keeps floating round and round, and once it settled on my
pillow, and I brushed it off. Don’t you see it on the curtain over there
staring at me?”
I was accustomed to the vagaries of delirious patients and tried to
soothe him with the assurance that the eye should be removed, but it was
not in my power to do it. He saw it in the dark quite as well as in the
light, and would cover his face with his hands to shut it from his
sight.
“Whose eye is it?” I asked him, and he answered:
“Why, hers. It is big and blue with heavy brows and lashes, and mocks
and laughs at me for the fool that I was; but I know better now. It was
flesh and blood I saw and not a phantom. I don’t see why her eye is
haunting me unless it is because I broke the glass. I am glad I did.”
I had no idea what he meant. Mr. McPherson had said something about an
eye and a glass being broken, when he came to Mrs. Parks’, but in our
excitement we had not asked him what he meant, and when I did so now he
answered evasively, having thought it better not to betray Rex’s
weakness in looking in the well. All that night I sat up with my
patient, whose fever increased steadily, but whose mind seemed clearer
toward morning. He knew me and why I was there and that he had the fever
which he said must have been coming on for days, but he still complained
of the hornets, and the eye constantly floating in the air before him.
The weather had changed and it was cooler, which was a great help; and I
had gotten him into a quiet state and was sitting in the hall outside
his room, when there was the rustle of skirts on the stairs. Some one
was coming up rapidly and to my surprise Rena appeared, her face flushed
and a look of determination in her eyes which I could not understand.
“Miss Rena!” I exclaimed. “I did not know you were here. How did you
come?”
“I walked,” she said. “I could not wait another minute. I should have
gone crazy if I had. I never slept a wink all night thinking what if he
should die before I told him, and I’ve come to do it. I thought once I’d
wait for Tom to help me, but I can’t. Please let me see him. Nixon, who
passed the house, told me he was rational this morning and so I came at
once.”
I had no idea what she meant. One thing, however, was plain. Rex must
not be excited and I told her so, but it made no difference. She was
determined.
“I must see him. I will not excite him,” she said. “I have more power
than you suppose. I’ll hold his hands in mine and he’ll be quiet. You’ll
see. Is this his room?”
She was in it before I could stop her, and Rex, who heard her voice,
welcomed her with a glad smile and put up his hand which she took in one
of hers, while the other she laid upon his forehead.
“Oh,” he said, in a tone of relief. “That is good. It stops the hornets
and frightens the eye. I don’t see it now, with you looking at me. Sit
down. I like to have you here. Why didn’t you come before?”
He was not quite himself, and I trembled every moment for the effect
Rena might have upon him. But he was very quiet as she stroked his hair
and let her fingers move gently across his forehead.
“You will leave me with him a while,” she said to me. “It will not take
long and I cannot get my courage up again. I’ll tell you and everybody
when it is over why I came.”
The look in her eyes conquered me; and going out, I closed the door and
left her alone with Rex. Rena had fully made up her mind to confess her
fault and had gone over and over with what she meant to say, until it
seemed very easy. But now that the time had come, and she was with him
face to face, her wits left her and she was dumb, but kept on rubbing
Rex’s head and hands and creating little electric thrills which he felt
in every nerve. At last when she knew that she must speak she drew her
hands away and sinking upon her knees covered her face and burst into a
paroxysm of sobbing.
“Oh, what is it?” Rex asked, in alarm.
“Mr. Travers,” she began at last, lifting up her face, down which the
tears were pouring, “I have come to tell you something dreadful and ask
your forgiveness. I am not what you think I am, I am the girl Sandy
McPherson saw on the beach and the one mentioned in his will. My name is
Irene it is true, but I am always called Rena. It has been a wretched
mistake, a deception, a lie from the beginning.”
She stopped, startled by the expression of his face. He understood
perfectly what she had said and the shock was very great, taking away
the little strength she had given him. For a moment he neither spoke,
nor stirred, but looked at her with an eager, questioning gaze, then
said:
“Tell me while I can understand. Things are going from me again.”
He seemed to feel that the films of delirium were weaving their webs
across his brain, which would soon be shrouded in darkness, and wished
her to hurry while his sense remained.
“It was this way,” Rena began, checking her sobs so as to speak more
distinctly. “I had never heard of Sandy McPherson, nor of you, until
Colin sent me a copy of the will which astonished me and at first made
me very angry with both Sandy and you, although I knew you were no more
to blame than I was. I did not like the idea of being disposed of in
that way and made over to some one I had never seen just for money. I
had, however, a curiosity to see you, and when I heard you were here and
saw Mrs. Parks’ advertisement for boarders, I planned to come to
Oakfield and bring Irene, and let you and the rest find out which was
which. If you or anybody had asked I meant to tell, but you didn’t. No
one did, and I went on and on, acting a lie. Tom called it that and
tried to stop me, but I would not be stopped, and I am so sorry. Oh, Mr.
Travers, you don’t know how sorry.”
Here she broke down entirely and cried like a child. Then dashing away
her tears she went on with her story very rapidly, if not very
connectedly, taking all the blame herself and exonerating Irene and Tom,
the latter of whom had tried to dissuade her from it.
As Rex listened there were great drops of sweat on his forehead and
about his lips and on his hands, which lay helpless on the bed. For an
instant a feeling of resentment had swept over him that he should have
been made the subject of a joke like this and that Tom should have aided
and abetted it, or at least kept quiet. But the rain of tears from
Rena’s eyes swept the hard feeling away, and he only asked:
“How could you do it?”
“I don’t know, except I thought it might be fun to see you and others
mistaking Irene for me,” Rena said, and for a moment the hot blood
flamed over Rex’s face and then left it deadly pale, with the sweat
gathering faster and faster on his forehead and lips and he no power to
wipe it away.
“Did you find it fun?” he whispered, and Rena answered:
“No, oh, no, and every hour after I saw you I wanted to confess it, but
couldn’t, and then you seemed to admire Irene and I hoped you would like
her so well that you would not care when you knew the truth.”
Something like a spasm of pain contracted Rex’s features, and he closed
his eyes wearily, while the sweat was now like drops of water rolling
down his face. Once he tried to lift his hand but could not, and he said
feebly:
“Wipe it away, I can’t.”
She knew what he meant and very deftly and gently wiped his face and
hands with her handkerchief, while her tears kept dropping fast.
“Don’t cry,” he said. “It will not make it any better. I am glad you
have told me. I wish I had known it at first, and I don’t quite see what
pleasure there was in making fun of me, and Tom in it, too.”
“There was none!” Rena cried, “and it was not to make fun of you. It was
wrong and wicked. But Tom was not to blame. He wanted to tell you and I
would not let him. I made him promise not to. I am the guilty one. Can
you forgive me?”
His eyes were closed and he did not answer her nor see the tear-stained
face so close to his that he felt her hot breath on his cheek. He was
thinking of possibilities and finally said abruptly:
“You did not like Sandy’s will, you say, nor wish to abide by it!”
“No, I couldn’t, because, you see, there was Tom, whom I have known ever
since I can remember,” Rena answered.
“And if there had been no Tom?” was Rex’s next question, put he scarcely
knew why, except that he felt a desire to know if this little girl could
have cared for him under any circumstances.
There was no hesitating in Rena’s answer as she again wiped the sweat
from his face. She meant to be truthful now, if the heavens fell, and
she said:
“I told you I was angry about the will, and I did not wish to be
disposed of that way. I did not know you and did not suppose you would
care for me, except for the money, and if that influenced you I should
hate you. I don’t think you are that kind, now, and I don’t know what
might have happened if there had been no Tom. I guess I have always
loved him, but I like you very much and want you for my friend.”
She was very frank and Rex smiled faintly and said: “It’s some comfort
to know that you like me and might possibly have cared if there were no
Tom.”
He seemed very tired and Rena knew she ought to leave him, but could not
go without his forgiveness.
“Miss Bennett will be coming for me, I have stayed so long,” she said,
“but I cannot go until you forgive me.”
“I must,” he answered. “There is nothing else to do. It has hurt me
some; for no man likes to be the subject of a joke like that, but I am
glad you have told me and wish you had done so before.”
“I wish I had. I have wanted to so many times,” she said, and again
wiping the drops from his face and hands she left the room and came to
me, her voice shaking and her eyes full of tears as she said: “I have
told him and I am going to tell you. I am the girl in the will, and have
been acting as bad a lie as Ananias and Sapphira ever acted, and ought
to be killed.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, and she repeated the story to me as she had
to Rex, giving no blame to any one but herself.
I was too much surprised to speak at first, nor had I time, for seeing
Mr. McPherson entering the house she darted from me exclaiming:
“I must tell him, too. I mean to make thorough work.”
She was gone like the whirlwind and following Mr. McPherson into the
library she began at once, talking so rapidly that he could scarcely
follow her, and some things she repeated twice before he understood her.
His first impulse was to swear when he fairly got it through his head
that a big joke had been played upon them. He didn’t like practical
jokes, and this least of all, and said so rather emphatically, asking
what excuse she had, while Rena sobbed piteously.
“I’ve no excuse,” she said, “and it was all my fault. I persuaded Tom
and Irene. She is not to blame.”
“Irene,” the old Scotchman growled, growing more and more indignant.
“She is as deep in it as you. Yes, deeper,” he continued, as his
thoughts went over the past and he recalled Irene’s manner whenever he
met her. “Didn’t she let Rex make love to her, knowing he thought she
was somebody else, and didn’t she make a fool of me, who paid her all
sorts of attention because I thought she was to be Rex’s wife? I tell
you, I don’t like it!”
Colin’s was rather a fierce nature when roused, and remembering his warm
championship of Irene on the supposition that she was the girl, he now
experienced a revulsion of feeling with regard to her, knowing that she
had done more to deceive him than Rena had. He had been very attentive
to her as the prospective mistress of his house and she had not only
received his attentions, knowing what he meant, “but egged me on,” he
said, “yes, by George! egged me on and carried herself as if she owned
the ranch, making me ridiculous to you and Giles and making a fool of
Rex, who never seemed to hanker after her much, but who fell into her
trap at last, looked in the well and thought he saw her face and broke
the glass all to smash. I’m glad of that, and I’ll have the cussed well
covered up. Yes, I will. Saw her! By the great horn spoon, saw me just
as much! Lord Harry! to think she is just Irene from Claremont; and I
made him write her a letter which he went to post in the heat and so got
a sunstroke, or something worse. What does he think of it all, I
wonder?”
He did not wait for Rena to answer, but strode toward the door of the
sick-room, which he entered, and before I could stop him, burst out to
Rex:
“A fine brace of fools we are and I made you send that letter and helped
compose it; but I’ll go and get it back and tell her that was a joke, if
you say so. Why, she lives in Claremont, a little out-of-the-way factory
town, with rocks as thick as huckleberries. I’ve been there—went into
one of the mills to see a feller who once worked for me. And, yes, by
George! I remember the overseer was a little crusty about my calling off
the man from his work. His name was Burdick. I thought I’d heard it
somewhere before Sandy hunted up the girl, or I hunted her for him. That
was her father, I know—tall and fair like her, and I’ll bet she has
worked there, too, and I wanted you to marry her! Oh, Lord, what a fool
I have been to make you send that letter, but I’ll stop it.”
Rex looked, at first, as if he did not comprehend, then he said, very
feebly:
“I didn’t send the letter. I didn’t know the address.”
“Thank the Lord!” Colin exclaimed, while I motioned him from the room.
Returning to Rena, the old man continued:
“Yes, thank the Lord for one mercy, the letter didn’t go. If it had,
she’d accepted double quick, fraud as it was. Yes, a fraud. But I’d have
straightened it. Yes, I would. I’d have told her Rex did not care for
her only as I egged him on. Yes, sir, thinks he saw her face in the
glass. Saw mine just as much. By the great horn spoon, what a fool! I
feel like fighting.”
Rena did not understand what he meant by the well and the face and the
letter, but she felt that in a way he was unjust to her cousin, who was
not there to defend herself, and remembering his admiration for Irene
was surprised that the most of his wrath should fall upon her.
“See here,” she said at last, “listen to me. Irene was no more to blame
than I. From the very first you fell down and worshiped her, without
asking a question as to who was who. She didn’t tell you she was the one
in the will. You assumed it. We are cousins, both Burdicks, both Irenes,
only I am called Rena; and wouldn’t it have looked well in me to say to
Mr. Travers, when I met him, or to you either, ‘I’m the girl!’ He never
mentioned the will to Irene, as it was his place to do, if he thought
she was the one—neither did you. If you had, we were prepared to tell
the truth. There are two sides to the affair, mine the wicked, foolish
one, and yours the credulous one for taking things for granted. And why
do you assume that Mr. Travers could not fall in love with Irene from
Claremont, as if it were not a respectable place. She is a beautiful
woman and I don’t think it nice in you to be so hard upon her and she
not here to speak for herself. I tell you I am the one to blame. Fight
me, if you must fight somebody.”
Rena was splendid in her defense of Irene. The tears on her flushed
cheeks were dried and only one or two stood in her eyes, making them
very bright as they flashed defiance upon the old Scotchman, whose anger
was not proof against this little girl standing up so bravely for her
cousin.
“Great guns!” he said, beginning to cool down. “There’s a heap of sense
in what you say, and I believe you’ve as level a head as Irene. I did
admire her and supposed she was the one. We all did. And because Rex
held back I tried to push him on, and when you told me she wasn’t the
one, I was mad as a March hare. No man likes to be fooled as Rex and I
have been, and I believe my soul I take it harder than he does. I don’t
think he was hit bad. Now, if you had been you—”
“No, no, no,” Rena cried vehemently, guessing what he meant. “There was
Tom—always Tom—before I saw Mr. Travers. It could never have been.”
“Then Sandy made a confounded mistake and muddle. The will was a queer
one any way, and now how is the money to go? I’d like to know,” Colin
asked.
Rena neither knew nor cared. She had confessed everything, and her heart
was lighter than it had been since she came to Oakfield. Colin did not
seem very angry now, and went with her to the door, offering to send her
home in his carriage. But she preferred to walk, as the day was fine and
she wanted time in which to collect herself before encountering Mrs.
Parks, to whom she went with her story the moment she reached home,
telling it in a straightforward way and taking all the blame to herself.
That lady was horrified at first, then incredulous, and finally declared
that she suspected all the while that there was something she could not
get hold of and that Irene was not the real stuff a lady should be. Like
Rex and Colin, she was not proof against Rena’s penitence and tears and
the little sinner was forgiven, while Irene went far down in the scale
as the chief offender, inasmuch as she was the poor relation after all,
and had received Mr. Travers’ attentions as a matter of course.
“Yes, and courted ’em, too, and put on as many airs as if she was the
Queen of Sheba, askin’ for maids and bath-rooms and dinner at six,
taking the best chamber and everything, and we lettin’ her. I am so mad
at myself?” Mrs. Parks confided to Lottie, when talking the matter over
with her.
And Lottie, being a girl, thought the whole a lark, in which she would
liked to have had a hand; and looked upon Rena as the heroine of a
romance acted before her eyes. Rena, however, felt like anything but a
heroine, and the letters she wrote that afternoon to Irene and Tom,
telling what she had done were full of contrition and blotted with
tears. She did not then realize how very ill Rex was, and she merely
said to both that he had the fever and Miss Bennett was nursing him;
while to Tom she added, “I wish you would hurry back. I want you so
much, and feel so ashamed of myself.”
Tom’s answer came the next day, commending her for what he called her
pluck, and saying he should be with her soon. Irene’s was longer in
coming, and when it did arrive it brought the news that Johnnie was dead
and Irene heart-broken, and her mother so prostrated with grief and care
that she could not be left alone.
“So, I’ll have to stay,” Irene wrote, “but my thoughts are constantly
in Oakfield, where I suppose I am looked upon as an impostor. I hope
you did your best for me with Mr. Travers and convinced him that I
was not to blame. He has done almost everything a man like him can
do, except propose in so many words, and I think he would have done
that if I had not been called home. Give him my, not exactly love,
but tell him how sorry I am for him and if I can be any comfort or
help I’ll try to come. Life here is almost unendurable, with Johnnie
gone and mother good for nothing, and all the work on my hands. On
second thought I believe I will enclose a note for Mr. Travers which
you can give or withhold as you see fit. I trust you as I have
always done, and you have never failed me. Lovingly,
Irene.”
The note to Rex was as follows:
“My dear Mr. Travers:
“I am so sorry you are ill and wish I were there to do something for
you. I hope you are not judging me too harshly for the deception of
which Rena has told you and of which I was a very foolish tool. I am
exceedingly sorry for my part in it, and I was always wanting to
confess it, fearing lest any interest you seemed to have in me might
arise from the fact that you believed me the heroine of Mr.
McPherson’s will. Can you forgive me? It will be very hard to lose
your friendship now when my heart aches so for little Johnnie. How I
miss him; and how my thoughts go back to the pleasant days in
Oakfield, the walks and talks, and all of which made life a holiday.
Hoping you will soon be well and that you will not think less of
Irene of Claremont than you did of the supposed Irene of New York, I
am your very sad and sorry Irene.”
This note Irene read two or three times before deciding to send it.
There certainly was no harm in it, she thought, and possibly good might
come of it. She could not lose the hold she had on Rex without a
struggle and this would keep her in his mind. If she could only go back
and be on the spot and see him occasionally during his illness she might
accomplish her purpose yet, but this was impossible. The duties of home
were imperative, even to her selfish nature. Her overworked mother gave
up when Johnnie died, and Irene was compelled to take the helm, which
she did unwillingly, rebelling against her fate and sending her thoughts
constantly to Oakfield where Rex Travers lay burning with fever and
talking constantly of the will, of the broken mirror, the half face and
the eye, which troubled him more than all the rest.