“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.”