“It’s all Tom’s work,” she said, “and I dislike him as much as he dislikes me and always has. Acting a lie! Of course it is, if one chooses to give it that harsh name, but are not all our lives a lie? Do any of us declare our inner thoughts and motives upon the housetops, or issue daily bulletins with regard to what we intend to do? If I am to act the part of the Miss Burdick, the prospective bride of Reginald Travers, I shall do it well, or not at all. There is nothing half-way about me, and if I can win Reginald Travers, I shall do it. Rena will never care for him. She is in love with Tom, much as she says she hates him. I am glad Mr. Travers’ antecedents are all right. Family is something, when one has none to boast of.”
On the receipt of Rena’s first letter she had set on foot inquiries concerning Mr. Travers, and learned more of him than Rena herself knew. He belonged to a fine Virginia family, which became impoverished during the war. He had, however, inherited something from his parents, both of whom were dead. There was a house in Richmond, where he was born, a plantation in tolerably good condition a few miles from the city, and a small income, sufficient for him to lead the life of a gentleman of leisure, if he kept his wants within his means. With this knowledge Irene was ready to take Mr. Travers without Sandy McPherson’s money, if he proved at all desirable. She had the matter fully in hand and was only anxious to commence operations. As to Mr. Travers’ character she had not inquired, nor did she particularly care. An F. F. V. must be correct, and Rena’s description of him did not disconcert her in the least, but rather raised her spirits. A bashful man who had no small talk and did not care for ladies’ society, would be easier to manage than one up to all the tricks of women, she argued, and she had little fear of the result. If she succeeded in interesting Reginald in her for herself she knew exactly the pretty devices she would use in explaining the mistake when he learned who she really was. She had rehearsed it more than once in the privacy of her room. She knew the words she would use, the gestures she would make in her distress, and even the expression of her eyes, which could look unutterable things when she willed to have them. Her mirror showed her all this and she practised before it daily, arguing that it was just as much one’s duty to educate and train the expression of the eyes and face and smile as to walk and speak correctly. She had met a good many gentlemen, but they were either too small fishes for her net, or they saw through her little deceits and tired of a beauty behind which there was so much that was not real. Now, however, she meant to succeed, and laid her plans accordingly. She was twenty-three; she was poor; she hated her humble home. She wanted to marry, and if she could win Reginald Travers she would do so and lay all the blame of the deception on Rena, who had persuaded her to it.
There were a few days spent in New York with Rena, whom she thought a little mopish and stupid and not at all like the bright, sunny girl she had always known. Rena was beginning to wish she were not going to Oakfield, and that she had written frankly to Mr. Travers that she withdrew from the marriage proposition, leaving the field to him. Mingled with this was a thought of Tom, whose good opinion was everything to her. She had displeased him and he had scolded her. “Called me a liar,” she said often to herself; “and I hate him, and sometimes I don’t care whether his bosom friend is wronged or not.”
This was Rena’s attitude and feeling when with Irene she took her seat in the train which was to take her to Oakfield, the last place in the world she would have chosen for her summer outing, if it had not been for that wretched will. Irene was in high spirits. Her two large trunks were full of foreign dresses and a number of articles bought in New York with Rena’s money. She wore a tailor-made suit from Redfern’s, London. Her tall collar and shirt-waist and boots were up to date. The feather, or quill in her hat was exquisite in its kind; her manner was à la duchesse to perfection, and had a stranger been told that here were a grand lady and maid he would have had no hesitancy in identifying Irene as the lady and Rena as the maid, in her travelling-dress of dark-blue serge, her sailor hat with only a plain band of ribbon upon it, and her modest and quiet manner.
Rena was not very happy. The experiment did not look to her as it did before she received Tom’s letter. The word liar kept sounding in her ears, and but for Irene she would have ended the farce. But Irene’s influence was over her, keeping her silent and rather moody until the train stopped before the little way station where the McPherson carriage was waiting. When “Oakfield!” was shouted at the door of the car a young man arose and came forward, offering to take their parcels. It was Sam Walker, who was returning from a neighboring town. He had heard from Lottie of the expected arrivals that day and the moment he entered the car and saw the two young ladies he said, under his breath, “That’s them, and gewhitaker-whiz, ain’t she a stunner!” the “she” referring to Irene, whom he singled out as the Miss Burdick about whom Lottie was so curious.
There was no doubt in his mind as to which was which, and he barely glanced at Rena, who chose to carry her own umbrella and bag, but whose eyes, as she declined his services, flashed upon him a smile which made him think “she ain’t bad, neither; but, my! what a swell t’other one is!”
He had Irene’s belongings and helped her from the car, and when he saw her looking at the McPherson carriage, he said: “That’s the McPhersons. I’ll bet it has come for you, if you are Miss Burdick. There’s nobody else on the train.”
“Oh,” Irene exclaimed, “look, Rena!” and she nodded toward the handsome turnout and the highly respectable-looking coachman advancing toward her and touching his hat as he came.
“Miss Burdick?” he said, without looking at Rena, and Irene answered:
“I am Miss Burdick—yes.”