REINETTE AND MR. BERESFORD.
Reinette slept heavily that first night in her new home—so heavily, that
the robins had sung their first song, and the July sun had dried the
dew-drops on the greensward and flowers before she awoke, with a very
vague perception as to where she was, or what had happened to her.
Through the window which she had left open came the warm summer air,
sweet with the scent of clover and the newly-mown hay, which a farmer’s
boy was turning briskly, not far from the house. And Reinette, who was
keenly alive to everything fresh and beautiful, inhaled the delicious
perfume and felt instinctively how much of freshness and beauty she was
losing. But when she rose and, going to the window, threw back the
shutters and looked for an instant at the lovely picture of the
Merrivale hills and valleys spread out before her, a sharp cutting pain
across her forehead and in her eyes warned her that her old enemy, the
nervous headache, was upon her in full force, and there was nothing for
her that day but pain and suffering in the solitude of her room. Then,
as she remembered what Mrs. Ferguson had said of an early visit, for the
sake of “talking over things,” she shuddered, and grew cold and faint,
and thought, with that strange feeling of incredulity to which she
clung:
“If I were only positive and sure, beyond a doubt that mother did once
pick huckleberries with Mrs. Jerry, and wear the cotton gown, I could
bear everything so much better. Mr. Beresford knows all about it; he
will tell me, and I must see him first, for _those people_ will not be
long in coming to pay their respects. I’ll send Pierre immediately with
a note asking him to come to me as soon as possible.”
What Reinette willed to do she did at once, and in spite of the blinding
pain in her head, she opened her desk and wrote as follows;
“MR. BERESFORD:—I must see you. Come without delay.
MISS HETHERTON.”
This done, she attempted to dress, but finding an elaborate toilet too
much for her, she contented herself with a cool, white cambric wrapper,
with rows of lace and embroidery down the front, and bows of delicate
pink ribbon on the pockets and sleeves. Over this she threw a dainty
Parisian jacket or sacque of the same hue, letting her dark wavy hair
fall loosely down her back. She always wore it so when she had a
headache, and she made a most beautiful and striking picture for Mrs.
Jerry to contemplate when, in answer to her ring, that lady presented
herself at the door to know what her mistress would have. Like most
women, Mrs. Jerry had a hundred remedies for the headache, but Reinette
wished for none of them. Nothing was of any avail until the pain ran its
course, which it usually did in twenty-four hours, and all she asked was
to be left in quiet in the library below, where she proposed going to
wait for Mr. Beresford, whom Pierre found in his office and with him
Phil Rossiter, the two talking together of the young lady at Hetherton
Place and comparing their impressions of her.
“Not so very pretty, but bright and agreeable, with a will of her own,”
Mr. Beresford said, guardedly, remembering what Phil had predicted with
regard to the immediate surrender of his heart to the foreigner.
“Yes, and proud as Lucifer, too, or I’m mistaken,” answered Phil. “Why,
I really believe she means to ride over us all. Odd, though, that she’d
never heard of a soul of us. That snob of a Hetherton must have been a
queer chap.”
At this moment Pierre appeared in the door, bowing and gesticulating,
and jabbering unintelligibly as he handed the note to Mr. Beresford, who
read it aloud, while Phil said laughingly, though in reality he secretly
felt aggrieved;
“You see, it is you for whom she has sent. She does not care for me.”
Strangely enough, notwithstanding his imperfect knowledge of English,
Pierre understood the last part of Phil’s speech, and his gestures were
more vehement than ever as he assured Phil that he was mistaken. Miss
Reinette cared for him very much indeed, and had asked much about him,
and noticed him at the grave, and when he went by on horseback. It was
business alone which had prompted her to send for monsieur; later she
would be most happy to see young monsieur, her cousin.
Phil could not follow the old man readily, but he thought he made out
that Reinette had sent this message to him, or something like it, and he
changed his mind about starting for Martha’s Vineyard that afternoon, as
he had half resolved to do. He would see Reinette first, and hear her
speak to him face to face.
“Tell her I shall be there some time to-day,” he said to his more
fortunate friend, the lawyer, who, nothing loth to meet the glance of
Reinette’s bright eyes once more, was soon riding rapidly toward
Hetherton Place.
Reinette’s head was worse than it had been earlier in the morning, but
she insisted upon seeing Mr. Beresford, who was admitted at once to the
room, which Mrs. Jerry had made as dark as possible, but which was still
light enough for him to distinguish distinctly the little figure in pink
and white, reclining in the easy-chair, with masses of long dark hair
rippling down its back, and a wet napkin upon the forehead, partially
concealing the eyes, which nevertheless, flashed a welcome upon him as
he came in, feeling a little abashed in the presence of this foreign
girl in her pretty dishabille, with her loose wide sleeves showing her
round, white arms to her elbows, and her little high-heeled
pink-rosetted slippers resting on the footstool. She, on the contrary,
was as composed and unconscious as if he had been a block of wood,
instead of a man, with all a man’s impulse to worship and admire.
“Oh, Mr. Beresford,” she began, offering him one wet hand, while with
the other she took the napkin from her head, and, dipping it in the bowl
of water on the stand beside her, wrung it lightly and replaced it on
her forehead, letting a little of the fringe hang over her eyes while
drops of water ran down her face and fell from the end of her nose. “Oh,
Mr. Beresford, it was so kind in you to come so soon when you must have
so much to do, but you see I could not wait, even though I have this
headache. Mrs. Jerry said it was hardly the thing to receive you in this
way, but a girl with the headache cannot be expected to dress as for a
dinner, and I can’t bear my hair bound up, though I might fix it a
little,” and with a dexterous, quick movement, Reinette took the whole
mass of wavy hair in her hand, and giving it a twist and a sweep
backward, wet the napkin again, and spatting it down on her forehead,
went on:
“I must see you this morning, because father said I was to ask you every
thing—trust you with everything—and I want to know—I want you to tell
me—those peo—those ladies—my grandmother said she was coming to-day to
talk over matters, and how can I talk if I don’t know what to say?”
Mr. Beresford was sure he didn’t know, and she continued:
“It may seem strange to you, who did not know father intimately, to knew
how little he talked of his affairs to any one. Even with regard to
mother, he was very reticent, and never told me anything, except that
she died in Rome, when I was born, and that her name was Margaret
Ferguson. I always thought she was English, and built many castles about
her and her relatives, and so, you see, I was a little surprised
yesterday when they claimed me—such a number of them, it seemed. Were
there many?”
“Only three,” Mr. Beresford replied, knowing that she had no reference
to Phil when she talked of “_those people_.”
“Yes, three,” she continued, “and I fear I was not as gracious as I
might have been, for I was so astonished to be claimed when I did not
know for sure that I had a relative in the world. Mr. Beresford, would
you mind telling me all you know about my mother? Did she ever live in
Merrivale? Did father find her here? Did she pick huckleberries with
Mrs. Jerry, and cut up bits of calico for the sake of sewing them
together again?”
The napkin went into the water with a great splash, and then back to her
forehead as she said this, but her eyes were fixed on Mr. Beresford,
who, not knowing what she meant by the bits of calico, said he did not,
but continued, laughingly:
“I dare say she did pick berries; for almost every girl born in
Merrivale does so at some period of her life.”
“Then she _was_ born here, and you have seen her, and there is no
mistake, and these people, they are—they are my grandmother?”
This was the second time Reinette had put her questions in this form,
and this time Mr. Beresford laughed heartily, as he replied:
“Yes, they _are_ your grandmother decidedly; but,” he added, more
quietly, “it is strange your father never told you.”
“Not strange at all if you knew him,” Reinette said, resolved that no
blame should attach to her father. “But tell me,” she went on, “tell me
all about it—the marriage, I mean, and who are the Fergusons—nice
people, of course, or my mother would not have been one. Who are they,
Mr. Beresford?”
The lawyer could not look that proud, high-bred girl in the face and
tell her of Peggy Ferguson’s beer shop under the elms, of the Martins,
or of the wonder and surprise when Fred Hetherton made Margaret Ferguson
his wife. But he dwelt upon the honesty and respectability of John
Ferguson, and the great beauty of his daughter Margaret, whose
loveliness had attracted the heir of the Hethertons.
Reinette saw he was evading her questions, and with an impatient stamp
of her little slipper, she said:
“Mr. Beresford, you are keeping things from me, and I will not bear it.
If there is anything wrong about the Fergusons I wish to know it. Not
that I shall turn against them,” she said, with a flash in her eyes
which made her visitor wince. “They are mother’s people, and if they are
thieves and robbers I am a thief and robber, too. I see by your face
that there _is_ something—that you don’t fancy these people of mine, but
I tell you I do. If they are _mine_ they are _mine_, and I won’t hear a
word against them!”
What a strange contradictory creature she was, one moment insisting that
he must tell her something, if there was any thing to tell, and the next
warning him that she would not listen to a word. What could he do but
stare wonderingly at her, as, dropping the napkin into the bowl of
water, she leaned back in her chair and holding him with her bright
eyes, said, imperiously:
“I am waiting, go on; father made a _mesalliance_, I suppose.”
“Yes, that’s about the fact of the case,” Mr. Beresford replied, feeling
compelled to speak out. “Your mother’s family did not stand as high
socially as your father’s. They were poor, while Mr. Hetherton, your
grandfather, was rich, and that makes a difference, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” she replied. “I thought nothing made a difference in
America, if you behaved yourself. But go on. How poor were they? Did
they beg? What did they do?”
The look in her eyes brought the answer promptly:
“Your grandfather built chimneys and laid cellar walls.”
“Well, that’s dirty, sticky, nasty work, but no disgrace—people must
have chimneys and cellar walls, and I’ve no doubt he built them well.
What did _she_ do—grandmother, I mean? Was she a bar-maid?”
She had almost hit it, but not quite, and Mr. Beresford replied:
“She sold gingerbread and beer; kept a kind of baker’s shop.”
Reinette drew a quick, gasping breath, put the wet napkin again on her
head without wringing it at all, and said:
“Yes, I see—I understand. They were unfortunate enough to be born poor;
they did what they could to get their living; but that is nothing
against them; that is no reason why you should despise them. They are
mine, and I won’t have it, I say.”
“My dear Miss Hetherton,” Mr. Beresford began, puzzled to know how to
treat this capricious creature, “what _can_ you mean? I do not despise
them.”
“Yes, you do,” she answered; “I see it in your face. I saw it there
yesterday when they claimed me. But I won’t have it; they are mine. Who
was that young man with them? Why don’t you tell me about him, and not
of _them_ all the time? _He_ is not a Ferguson, sure?”
No, Phil was not a Ferguson, and Mr. Beresford launched at once into
praise of Phil, and the Rossiters generally, dwelling at length upon
their handsome house at the Knoll, the high position they held in both
town and country, the accomplishments of the young ladies, Ethel and
Grace, the sweetness and dignity of Mrs. Rossiter, and, lastly, Phil
himself, the best-hearted, most popular fellow in the world, with the
most exquisite taste in everything, as was shown in what he had done to
make Hetherton Place attractive.
It was strange how Reinette’s whole attitude and expression changed as
she listened. The Rossiters were more to her liking than the Fergusons,
and she became as soft and gentle as a purring kitten, forgetting in her
interest to wipe the drops of water from her face, as the napkin made
frequent journeys to the bowl and back.
Mr. Beresford felt that he deserved a great deal of credit for thus
extolling Phil, feeling, as he did, a horrible pang of jealousy when he
saw the bright, eager face flush, and the dark eyes light up with
pleasure and expectancy.
“And cousin Philip will call on me soon—to-day, I hope. I am so anxious
to see him. It is so nice to have a real flesh and blood cousin, to whom
I can talk more freely even than to you. Tell him, please, how I want to
see him,” she said; and again a pang, like the cut of a knife, thrilled
Mr. Beresford’s nerves, as he felt that his kingdom was slipping away.
Reinette was growing tired, and as there was no necessity to prolong the
interview longer, she gave a little wave of her hand toward the door,
and said:
“Thank you, Mr. Beresford; that is all I care to ask you now. You will,
of course, continue to look after me as you did after papa until I am of
age, and then I shall look after myself. Until then I wish you to see to
everything, only stipulating that you let me have all the money I want,
and I give you warning that I shall ask for a great deal. I mean to make
this place the loveliest spot in the world. You accept, of course? You
will be my agent, or guardian, or whatever you choose to call it but you
must let me do exactly as I please, or you will find me troublesome.”
She smiled up at him very brightly, while he bowed his acceptance,
thinking to himself that he might sometimes find it hard to deal with
this spoilt girl who warned him so prettily, and yet so determinedly,
that she must have her way.
“I will serve you to the best of my ability,” he said, “and if I am to
look after your interests it is necessary that I fully understand how
much your father died possessed of, and where it is invested. I know, of
course, about affairs in this country, but he must have had money, and
perhaps lands, abroad. Do you know? Did he have any box where he kept
his papers; and will you let me have that box as soon as possible; not
to-day, of course, but soon?”
For an instant Reinette looked at him fixedly, while the remembrance of
what her father had said to her with regard to letters which might come
to him flashed upon her, and with the instincts of a woman who scents
danger there came to her mind the thought that if there were letters no
one must read, there might be papers which no eye but hers must see. She
would look them over first before intrusting them to the care of any
one, and if there were a secret in her father’s past life, only she
would know it.
“Yes,” she said at last, “there are papers—many of them—in a tin box,
and when you come again I will give them to you. Father had houses in
Paris, and Avignon, too, I think. Pierre knows more of that than I do.
Ask him anything you please. But hush! Isn’t that a carriage driving up
to the door? It may be cousin Philip. I hope so. I am quite sure of it;
and now go, please, and send Mrs. Jerry or Susan to me. I must do
something with all this hair, or he’ll think me a guy;” and gathering
her long, heavy hair in a mass she twisted it into a large flat coil,
which she fastened at the back of her head with a gold arrow taken from
her morning jacket.
It was not very complimentary to Mr. Beresford to know that while she
was willing to receive him _en dishabille_, as if he had been a block,
the moment Phil came she was at once alive to all the proprieties of her
personal appearance. Nor was it very gratifying to be thus summarily
dismissed to make way for another, and that other the fascinating,
good-for-nothing Phil, whom every woman worshipped; but there was no
help for it, and bidding good-morning to the little lady who was
standing before the mirror with her back to him, fixing her hair, he
went out in the hall to meet—not Phil, but Grandma Ferguson and Anna.
They had entered without ringing, and as Mr. Beresford opened the door
of the library grandma caught sight of Reinette, and went unannounced,
into her presence.