The Rosary
Chapter I
Enter The Duchess
The peaceful stillness of an English summer afternoon brooded over the park
and gardens at Overdene. A hush of moving sunlight and lengthening shadows lay
upon the lawn, and a promise of refreshing coolness made the shade of the great
cedar tree a place to be desired.
The old stone house, solid, substantial, and unadorned, suggested unlimited
spaciousness and comfort within; and was redeemed from positive ugliness
without, by the fine ivy, magnolia trees, and wistaria, of many years' growth,
climbing its plain face, and now covering it with a mantle of soft green, large
white blooms, and a cascade of purple blossom.
A terrace ran the full length of the house, bounded at one end by a large
conservatory, at the other by an aviary. Wide stone steps, at intervals, led
down from the terrace on to the soft springy turf of the lawn. Beyond — the
wide park; clumps of old trees, haunted by shy brown deer; and, through the
trees, fitful gleams of the river, a narrow silver ribbon, winding gracefully in
and out between long grass, buttercups, and cow-daisies.
The sun-dial pointed to four o'clock.
The birds were having their hour of silence. Not a trill sounded from among
the softly moving leaves, not a chirp, not a twitter. The stillness seemed
almost oppressive. The one brilliant spot of colour in the landscape was a large
scarlet macaw, asleep on his stand under the cedar.
At last came the sound of an opening door. A quaint old figure stepped out on
to the terrace, walked its entire length to the right, and disappeared into the
rose-garden. The Duchess of Meldrum had gone to cut her roses.
She wore an ancient straw hat, of the early-Victorian shape known as
"mushroom," tied with black ribbons beneath her portly chin; a loose brown
holland coat; a very short tweed skirt, and Engadine "gouties." She had on some
very old gauntlet gloves, and carried a wooden basket and a huge pair of
scissors.
A wag had once remarked that if you met her Grace of Meldrum returning from
gardening or feeding her poultry, and were in a charitable frame of mind, you
would very likely give her sixpence. But, after you had thus drawn her attention
to yourself and she looked at you, Sir Walter Raleigh's cloak would not be in
it! Your one possible course would be to collapse into the mud, and let the
ducal "gouties" trample on you. This the duchess would do with gusto; then
accept your apologies with good nature; and keep your sixpence, to show when she
told the story.
The duchess lived alone; that is to say, she had no desire for the perpetual
companionship of any of her own kith and kin, nor for the constant smiles and
flattery of a paid companion. Her pale daughter, whom she had systematically
snubbed, had married; her handsome son, whom she had adored and spoiled, had
prematurely died, before the death, a few years since, of Thomas, fifth Duke of
Meldrum. He had come to a sudden and, as the duchess often remarked, very
suitable end; for, on his sixty-second birthday, clad in all the splendours of
his hunting scarlet, top hat, and buff corduroy breeches, the mare he was
mercilessly putting at an impossible fence suddenly refused, and Thomas, Duke of
Meldrum, shot into a field of turnips; pitched upon his head, and spoke no more.
This sudden cessation of his noisy and fiery life meant a complete
transformation in the entourage of the duchess. Hitherto she had had to tolerate
the boon companions, congenial to himself, with whom he chose to fill the house;
or to invite those of her own friends to whom she could explain Thomas, and who
suffered Thomas gladly, out of friendship for her, and enjoyment of lovely
Overdene. But even then the duchess had no pleasure in her parties; for, quaint
rough diamond though she herself might appear, the bluest of blue blood ran in
her veins; and, though her manner had the off-hand abruptness and disregard of
other people's feelings not unfrequently found in old ladies of high rank, she
was at heart a true gentlewoman, and could always be trusted to say and do the
right thing in moments of importance: The late duke's language had been
sulphurous and his manners Georgian; and when he had been laid in the unwonted
quiet of his ancestral vault — "so unlike him, poor dear," as the duchess
remarked, "that it is quite a comfort to know he is not really there" — her
Grace looked around her, and began to realise the beauties and possibilities of
Overdene.
At first she contented herself with gardening, making an aviary, and
surrounding herself with all sorts of queer birds and beasts; upon whom she
lavished the affection which, of late years, had known no human outlet.
But after a while her natural inclination to hospitality, her humorous
enjoyment of other people's foibles, and a quaint delight in parading her own,
led to constant succession of house-parties at Overdene, which soon became known
as a Liberty Hall of varied delights where you always met the people you most
wanted to meet, found every facility for enjoying your favourite pastime, were
fed and housed in perfect style, and spent some of the most ideal days of your
summer, or cheery days of your winter, never dull, never bored, free to come and
go as you pleased, and everything seasoned everybody with the delightful "sauce
piquante" of never being quite sure what the duchess would do or say next.
She mentally arranged her parties under three heads — "freak parties," "mere
people parties," and "best parties." A "best party" was in progress on the
lovely June day when the duchess, having enjoyed an unusually long siesta,
donned what she called her "garden togs" and sallied forth to cut roses.
As she tramped along the terrace and passed through the little iron gate
leading to the rose-garden, Tommy, the scarlet macaw, opened one eye and watched
her; gave a loud kiss as she reached the gate and disappeared from view, then
laughed to himself and went to sleep again.
Of all the many pets, Tommy was prime favourite. He represented the duchess's
one concession to morbid sentiment. After the demise of the duke she had found
it so depressing to be invariably addressed with suave deference by every male
voice she heard. If the butler could have snorted, or the rector have rapped out
an uncomplimentary adjective, the duchess would have felt cheered. As it was, a
fixed and settled melancholy lay upon her spirit until she saw in a dealer's
list an advertisement of a prize macaw, warranted a grand talker, with a
vocabulary of over five hundred words.
The duchess went immediately to town, paid a visit to the dealer, heard a few
of the macaw's words and the tone in which he said them, bought him on the spot,
and took him down to Overdene. The first evening he sat crossly on the perch of
his grand new stand, declining to say a single one of his five hundred words,
though the duchess spent her evening in the hall, sitting in every possible
place; first close to him; then, away in a distant corner; in an arm-chair
placed behind a screen; reading, with her back turned, feigning not to notice
him; facing him with concentrated attention. Tommy merely clicked his tongue at
her every time she emerged from a hiding-place; or, if the rather worried butler
or nervous under- footman passed hurriedly through the hall, sent showers of
kisses after them, and then went into fits of ventriloquial laughter. The
duchess, in despair, even tried reminding him in a whisper of the remarks he had
made in the shop; but Tommy only winked at her and put his claw over his beak.
Still, she enjoyed his flushed and scarlet appearance, and retired to rest
hopeful and in no wise regretting her bargain.
The next morning it became instantly evident to the house-maid who swept the
hall, the footman who sorted the letters, and the butler who sounded the
breakfast gong, that a good night's rest had restored to Tommy the full use of
his vocabulary. And when the duchess came sailing down the stairs, ten minutes
after the gong had sounded, and Tommy, flapping his wings angrily, shrieked at
her: "Now then, old girl! Come on!" she went to breakfast in a more cheerful
mood than she had known for months past.