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.
