CHAPTER XTHE 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 smallround 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 sucha 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 disgustwith 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. Thehands 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 haircoiled 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 ofwhich 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.