IRENE
She came at last, but the McPherson carriage was not waiting for her;
Colin would not have sent it if he had known she must walk and Rex did
not know she was coming. Tom and Rena, however, were at the station to
meet her. Rena was glad to see her, while Tom seemed to be, and made her
feel so comfortable that by the time the house was reached she was quite
herself, without the air of superiority she had assumed when she first
came to Oakfield. Then she was the Miss Burdick, claiming precedence
everywhere.
Now she was in a back seat, Mrs. Parks said to me, when getting her room
ready and wondering if she’d better change the rocker and toilet-set or
not. When Rena was just Rena, a plain white bowl and pitcher were good
enough for her, while Irene had the sprigged set. She had also a Boston
rocker and white bed-spread, and Rena had a wooden rocker and
pink-and-white spread, pieced and quilted herring-bone pattern by Mrs.
Parks’ mother and valuable for its antiquity, but not first cut like the
Marseilles, Mrs. Parks said. Now, the sprigged set was in Rena’s room
with the Boston rocker and Marseilles spread and Irene had the
herring-bone and wooden chair and white pitcher with a chip gone from
its nose, and Beatrice Cenci was removed to her place over the mantel in
the parlor. If Irene noticed the changes she gave no sign, and took her
place gracefully as what Mrs. Parks called “second fiddle.” She arrived
at four in the afternoon and immediately after tea which on her account
was served at five she announced her intention to call at the McPherson
place, if Rena would go with her. This was an ordeal from which Rena,
who had not seen Rex, since his lovemaking, shrank; but if Irene went
she must go too, and as Tom, who had stopped for supper at Mrs. Parks’,
was to accompany them she felt that with them both it would be
comparatively easy to meet him. As yet Irene had had but little chance
to talk, but out in the field her tongue was loosened and she asked
innumerable questions concerning Rex’s illness, with the air of one who
had a right to know. It was Tom who answered the most of her questions,
telling her first that Colin had covered up the well after he heard of
Rex’s adventure and the broken mirror.
“How did he know that?” Irene asked. “Did Mr. Travers tell of it?”
“Why, no,” Tom answered. “Murder will out, you know, and Sam Walker was
asleep behind some bushes and awoke just in time to see you scare Rex
out of his wits and make him drop the glass into the well, and nearly
fall in himself. You played the trick more successfully on him than I
did on Rena.”
Irene’s voice was very unsteady as she said:
“Mr. Travers was frightened at something and fortunately I was there and
caught him in time to keep him from falling. Did the fright bring on his
fever? Surely he saw nothing.”
“She is at her old tricks, as I knew she would be. I don’t want to
quarrel with her.” Tom thought, “but by George, I’ll tell her the whole
when I have a chance!”
Irene did not ask any more questions. Something warned her that her
influence over Reginald was probably gone. Still she would not abandon
all hope. There might yet be a chance and nothing could have been more
sympathetic than the expression of her face, or sweeter than her voice
when she was admitted to his room. It was so late in the day that I had
doubts about letting her see him, but when I told him she was there with
Rena, he said very eagerly, “Let them come in.”
“You two girls go without me; three are too many at one time,” Tom said,
motioning Rena toward the door, while she held back and made Irene go
first.
Rex was sitting up in his invalid chair, as he did now a part of every
day, and his face flushed when Irene appeared and came toward him. He
was paler and thinner than she had expected to find him, and the pity
she felt was genuine as were the tears which came to the eyes which
recalled to Rex’s mind the one which had troubled him so much. It was
looking at him now with so much sympathy that he was moved a little and
he smiled up at her as he gave her his hand which she kept and smoothed
as she said: “O, Mr. Travers! I was so sorry to hear of your illness and
wished I might do something for you, but I could not come.”
“You are very kind,” he replied, “and I was sorry for you when I heard
of your little brother’s death. I hope you are well. You are looking
so.”
Nothing could have been more formal than his words and manner, and Irene
felt it and saw the difference when he turned to Rena, asking why she
had stayed away so long and saying to Irene: “You don’t know what a
capital nurse your cousin is. I believe she did more to pull me through
than Miss Bennett or the doctor.”
Rena’s face was crimson as she protested that she had done little, but
Irene detected something in her and Rex both which she could not define
and which made her uneasy. But she would not give up yet and she must
speak to him of the deception in which she had taken part. She would
rather have been alone with him, but Rena was there and she heard Tom’s
voice in the hall and knew he might come in at any moment.
“Mr. Travers,” she began, “Rena has told you of our foolishness in which
I played a part.” She would like to have said unwilling part, but Rena’s
presence prevented her, and she went on: “I told you how sorry I was, in
my note which you received?”
“Yes, but I was too ill to answer it. There is nothing to forgive,” he
said. “It is all past and gone and made square. Let us forget it.”
Just then Tom entered the room, saying Miss Bennett’s orders were that
Rex must not talk any longer.
“I hope I have not tired you, have I?” Irene replied, turning upon Rex a
look so full of entreaty for some sign that the old relations between
them were not entirely ended that he could not misunderstand her.
Neither could he answer her as she wished, and he only said:
“Miss Bennett knows how weak I am still and keeps close watch lest I get
too tired. Perhaps you will come again. Do you stop long?”
Without directly answering him Irene said good-night and left the room
with a growing feeling that any chance she might have had with Rex was
lost. She was sure of it when after their return to Mrs. Parks’, Rena,
who had a headache, went to her room, leaving her with Tom. She made no
move to follow Rena, for she wanted to see Tom alone and learn, if
possible, how she stood with Rex, who, she said, seemed greatly changed.
“He is very weak, I know, but he did not seem a bit glad to see me, and
he was rather fond of me once—you know he was. What has happened? Do you
think it is because I am Irene of Claremont, instead of Irene of New
York, which has changed him?”
Tom hesitated a moment, then he said:
“Rex is not that kind of man. If he had really loved you nothing would
have changed him.”
This was not very encouraging to Irene, but there was worse to come as
Tom continued:
“I may as well tell you the whole. I have told you that Sam Walker saw
you steal up behind Rex when he was at the well and look over his
shoulder. It seems Rex was foolish enough to think it was really an
apparition, as you did not explain. He never suspects a joke, but Sam
Walker told him the truth, which must have surprised him. His fever was
coming on and the half face and eye seen in the mirror impressed him so
much that they were with him in his delirium, making him so wild that
nothing quieted him except Rena, who had the faculty of dissipating his
fancies.”
Then Tom went in to describe the eye, which sometimes danced before Rex
and again alighted here and there and everywhere, until even he and
Colin began to feel crawly when Rex said it was on them. Tom stopped a
moment as he saw how agitated Irene seemed; then he continued:
“Sometimes the room was full of eyes, winking and blinking at him, while
he used both hands to brush them away. It was awful to see him. That
braid of hair he foolishly thought was growing on your head when he
pulled it off troubled him, too,—winding itself round his neck and arms
until Rena threw it from the window and made him think it had gone out
to sea, but the eye stuck.”
“Oh, Tom! please stop. I can’t bear any more,” Irene exclaimed, and
there was a sob in her voice as she began to understand that all hope
was swept away if Rex knew the whole of that episode at the well and had
carried the memory of it in his delirium.
Tom was sorry for her, she looked so distressed, but he had not finished
all he meant to say, and continued:
“Rex would not know how to deceive any one and cannot understand
deception in another. As to matrimony, he never cared for girls, and
Sandy’s will troubled him. Still he meant to do right, and if the girl
mentioned in it liked him he would compel himself to like her. Excuse
me, Irene, for speaking so plainly. You did seem to care for him, and he
tried to care for you, and if he had never been undeceived he might have
proposed to you as he has to Rena since he learned the truth.”
“Proposed to Rena!” Irene exclaimed springing up and going towards the
door, saying as she did so, “Come out with me, Tom, I cannot breathe in
this close room.”
They went out upon the piazza where the wind was blowing cool and where
Irene could breathe more freely. Tom’s news had stunned her for a
moment, but she would not let him see how she was hurt.
“Tell me about it,” she said. “Why should he propose to Rena when he
knew she was engaged to you?”
Tom did not choose to enlighten her as to the real reason, and he
answered: “That is rather queer, especially as he told me he was going
to propose and that he loved her.”
“Was he in his right mind?” Irene asked, and Tom replied:
“He seemed to be.”
Then for a time there was silence while Irene sat with her hands clasped
and her heart beating in her throat with throbs which told how hard her
ambitious hopes were dying. She was a woman of quick perception, and
after she could speak she said:
“Tom, Reginald Travers is a mercenary wretch. I know the conditions of
the will, I saw the copy sent to Rena, and it is money he is after. He
knew Rena would refuse him and that by her doing so he would get eighty
thousand dollars. With me, if I had been the girl, he would have gotten
the whole on the principle that what is the wife’s is the husband’s. I
am fortunate to be rid of him.”
Tom laughed to himself, wondering how she could be rid of what she never
had, and still he pitied her, for he knew how she was writhing with
humiliation and disappointment. She was very white and there was a drawn
look about her mouth, and Tom noticed that she shivered as a stronger
gust of wind than usual swept across the piazza. She was cold, she said
at last, rising, and giving her hand to Tom:
“I am glad you told me and I know now it was not I that he cared for,
but what he might get with me. I shall go home to-morrow, wiser than
when I came. Good-night.”
She was gone before Tom could detain her, and a moment after was in her
room sobbing so loudly that Rena heard her, and stepping out of bed came
to her side, asking what was the matter. Irene never forgot the main
chance. If she had won Rex, Rena’s friendship would not be as necessary
to her, but she had lost him and Rena, must be retained. Very rapidly
she repeated what Tom had told her.
“It was horrible about that eye,—my eye,—and I can see it myself and
always shall. He is not very bright, or he would have seen the joke,”
she said; “but I did care for him and I thought he cared for me. I know
better now, and there is nothing left me but you, Rena. You will not
desert me. You will be the same after you are Tom’s wife that you always
have been.”
It is needless to say that Rena’s soft heart melted at once and she
assured her cousin that her friendship would never fail. There was
comfort in this, opening up visions of frequent visits to Newton and the
material good which always came from intercourse with Rena. And Irene’s
spirits began to rise.
Once, as she lay awake that night, there came to her the thought that it
might not be a bad scheme to try her hand with Colin, who had been far
more gracious to her than Rex, but she soon gave that up. She had met
him as she was leaving his house, and his manner, though civil, had not
been very cordial.
“Bless my soul, Miss Burdick, you here?” he had said and with some
commonplace remark had passed on.
Remembering this, she knew that he, too, had changed, and concluded to
abandon her attack on him; nor would she see Rex again. He had deceived
her. He cared only for money, and she believed she hated him. She was
nobody now, where she had been so much; even Miss Parks’ manner was
different, and she would leave the next day. This resolution she carried
out in spite of Rena’s efforts to detain her. She only came for her
trunks, she said, and was needed at home.
Tom and Rena went with her to the station, and when that evening Tom saw
Rex, he said to him, “Irene left a good-by for you; she has gone.”
“Gone so soon? I thought I might see her again,” Rex replied; then after
a moment, he added; “Better so, perhaps,” and that was all the mention
he made of her.