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.”