American fiction -- 19th century; Dime novels; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Upper class -- Fiction
“After an absence of nearly twenty-three years, it will seem almost as
strange to me as to my daughter Reinette, who has never been in an
English-speaking country. She is as anxious to come as I am, and we
have engaged passage on the Russia, which sails from Liverpool the
25th. I have no idea whether the old house is habitable or not. All
important changes and repairs I prefer to make myself, after Reinette
has decided what she wants; but, if possible, I wish you to have a few
rooms made comfortable for us. The large chamber which looks toward
the town and the river I design for Reinette, and will you see that it
is made pretty and attractive. If I remember rightly, there used to be
in it a mahogany bedstead older than I am. Remove it, and substitute
something light and airy in its place. Reinette does not like
mahogany. Put simple muslin curtains at the windows, and have nothing
but matting on the floors; Reinette detests carpets. And if you know
of a pair of fine carriage horses and a lady’s saddle pony, have them
ready for inspection, and if they suit Reinette I will take them. If
you chance to hear of a trusty, middle-aged woman suitable for a
housekeeper at Hetherton Place, retain her until Reinette can see her;
and please have the conservatory and garden full of flowers. Reinette
is passionately fond of flowers—fond, in fact, of everything bright
and pretty. She has just come in, and says tell you to be sure and get
her some cats and dogs, so I suppose you must do it; but, for Heaven’s
sake, don’t fill the house with them—two or three will answer. I can’t
abide them myself. Reinette is waiting for me to go to dinner, and I
must close. Shall telegraph to you from New York as soon as the vessel
arrives, and shall follow on first train.
“Truly, FREDERICK HETHERTON.
“Spare no money to make the place comfortable.”
Arthur Beresford’s face was a puzzle as he read this letter from one
whose business agent and lawyer he merely was, and whom he scarcely
remembered at all except as a dashing, handsome young man, whom
everybody called fast, and whom some called a _scamp_.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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