“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 such a 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 disgust with 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. The hands 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.”