CHAPTER III
THE SURPRISE PACKET
The sun-dial pointed to half past four o'clock. The hour of silence
appeared to be over. The birds commenced twittering; and a cuckoo,
in an adjacent wood, sounded his note at intervals.
The house awoke to sudden life. There was an opening and shutting of
doors. Two footmen, in the mulberry and silver of the Meldrum
livery, hurried down from the terrace, carrying folding tea-tables,
with which they supplemented those of rustic oak standing
permanently under the cedar. One, promptly returned to the house;
while the other remained behind, spreading snowy cloths over each
table.
The macaw awoke, stretched his wings and flapped them twice, then
sidled up and down his perch, concentrating his attention upon the
footman.
"Mind!" he exclaimed suddenly, in the butler's voice, as a cloth,
flung on too hurriedly, fluttered to the grass.
"Hold your jaw!" said the young footman irritably, flicking the bird
with the table-cloth, and then glancing furtively at the rose-
garden.
"Tommy wants a gooseberry!" shrieked the macaw, dodging the table-
cloth and hanging, head downwards, from his perch.
"Don't you wish you may get it?" said the footman viciously.
"Give it him, somebody," remarked Tommy, in the duchess's voice.
The footman started, and looked over his shoulder; then hurriedly
told Tommy just what he thought of him, and where he wished him;
cuffed him soundly, and returned to the house, followed by peals of
laughter, mingled with exhortations and imprecations from the angry
bird, who danced up and down on his perch until his enemy had
vanished from view.
A few minutes later the tables were spread with the large variety of
eatables considered necessary at an English afternoon tea; the
massive silver urn and teapots gleamed on the buffet-table, behind
which the old butler presided; muffins, crumpets, cakes, and every
kind of sandwich supplemented the dainty little rolled slices of
white and brown bread-and-butter, while heaped-up bowls of freshly
gathered strawberries lent a touch of colour to the artistic effect
of white and silver. When all was ready, the butler raised his hand
and sounded an old Chinese gong hanging in the cedar tree. Before
the penetrating boom had died away, voices were heard in the
distance from all over the grounds.
Up from the river, down from the tennis courts, out from house and
garden, came the duchess's guests, rejoicing in the refreshing
prospect of tea, hurrying to the welcome shade of the cedar;--
charming women in white, carefully guarding their complexions
beneath shady hats and picturesque parasols;--delightful girls, who
had long ago sacrificed complexions to comfort, and now walked
across the lawn bareheaded, swinging their rackets and discussing
the last hard-fought set; men in flannels, sunburned and handsome,
joining in the talk and laughter; praising their partners, while
remaining unobtrusively silent as to their own achievements.
They made a picturesque group as they gathered under the tree,
subsiding with immense satisfaction into the low wicker chairs, or
on to the soft turf, and helping themselves to what they pleased.
When all were supplied with tea, coffee, or iced drinks, to their
liking, conversation flowed again.
"So the duchess's concert comes off to-night," remarked some one. "I
wish to goodness they would hang this tree with Chinese lanterns
and, have it out here. It is too hot to face a crowded function
indoors."
"Oh, that's all right," said Garth Dalmain, "I'm stage-manager, you
know; and I can promise you that all the long windows opening on to
the terrace shall stand wide. So no one need be in the concert-room,
who prefers to stop outside. There will be a row of lounge chairs
placed on the terrace near the windows. You won't see much; but you
will hear, perfectly."
"Ah, but half the fun is in seeing," exclaimed one of the tennis
girls. "People who have remained on the terrace will miss all the
point of it afterwards when the dear duchess shows us how everybody
did it. I don't care how hot it is. Book me a seat in the front
row!"
"Who is the surprise packet to-night?" asked Lady Ingleby, who had
arrived since luncheon.
"Velma," said Mary Strathern. "She is coming for the week-end, and
delightful it will be to have her. No one but the duchess could have
worked it, and no place but Overdene would have tempted her. She
will sing only one song at the concert; but she is sure to break
forth later on, and give us plenty. We will persuade Jane to drift
to the piano accidentally and play over, just by chance, the opening
bars of some of Velma's best things, and we shall soon hear the
magic voice. She never can resist a perfectly played accompaniment."
"Why call Madame Velma the `surprise packet'?" asked a girl, to whom
the Overdene "best parties" were a new experience.
"That, my dear," replied Lady Ingleby, "is a little joke of the
duchess's. This concert is arranged for the amusement of her house
party, and for the gratification and glorification of local
celebrities. The whole neighbourhood is invited. None of you are
asked to perform, but local celebrities are. In fact they furnish
the entire programme, to their own delight, the satisfaction of
their friends and relatives, and our entertainment, particularly
afterwards when the duchess takes us through every item, with
original notes, comments, and impersonations. Oh, Dal! Do you
remember when she tucked a sheet of white writing-paper into her
tea-gown for a dog collar, and took off the high-church curate
nervously singing a comic song? Then at the very end, you see--and
really some of it is quite good for amateurs--she trots out Velma,
or some equally perfect artiste, to show them how it really can be
done; and suddenly the place is full of music, and a great hush
falls on the audience, and the poor complacent amateurs realise that
the noise they have been making was, after all, not music; and they
go dumbly home. But they have forgotten all about it by the
following year; or a fresh contingent of willing performers steps
into the breach. The duchess's little joke always comes off."
"The Honourable Jane does not approve of it," said young Ronald
Ingram; "therefore she is generally given marching orders and
departs to her next visit before the event. But no one can accompany
Madame Velma so perfectly, so this time she is commanded to stay.
But I doubt if the 'surprise packet' will come off with quite such a
shock as usual, and I am certain the fun won't be so good
afterwards. The Honourable Jane has been known to jump on the
duchess for that sort of thing. She is safe to get the worst of it
at the time, but it has a restraining effect afterwards."
"I think Miss Champion is quite right," said a bright-faced American
girl, bravely, holding a gold spoon poised for a moment over the
strawberry ice-cream with which Garth Dalmain had supplied her.
"In my country we should call it real mean to laugh, at people who
had been our guests and performed in our houses."
"In your country, my dear," said Myra Ingleby, "you have no
duchesses."
"Well, we supply you with quite a good few," replied the American
girl calmly, and went on with her ice.
A general laugh followed; and the latest Anglo-American match came
up for discussion.
"Where is the Honourable Jane?" inquired someone presently.
"Golfing with Billy," said Ronald Ingram. "Ah, here they come."
Jane's tall figure was seen, walking along the terrace, accompanied
by Billy Cathcart, talking eagerly. They put their clubs away in the
lower hall; then came down the lawn together to the tea-tables.
Jane wore a tailor-made coat and skirt of grey tweed, a blue and
white cambric shirt, starched linen collar and cuffs, a silk tie,
and a soft felt hat with a few black quills in it. She walked with
the freedom of movement and swing of limb which indicate great
strength and a body well under control. Her appearance was
extraordinarily unlike that of all the pretty and graceful women
grouped beneath the cedar tree. And yet it was in no sense
masculine--or, to use a more appropriate word, mannish; for
everything strong is masculine; but a woman who apes an appearance
of strength which she does not possess, is mannish;--rather was it
so truly feminine that she could afford to adopt a severe simplicity
of attire, which suited admirably the decided plainness of her
features, and the almost massive proportions of her figure.
She stepped into the circle beneath the cedar, and took one of the
half-dozen places immediately vacated by the men, with the complete
absence of self-consciousness which always characterised her.
"What did you go round in, Miss Champion?" inquired one of the men.
"My ordinary clothes," replied Jane; quoting Punch, and evading the
question.
But Billy burst out: "She went round in--"
"Oh, be quiet, Billy," interposed Jane. "You and I are practically
the only golf maniacs present. Most of these dear people are even
ignorant as to who 'bogie' is, or why we should be so proud of
beating him. Where is my aunt? Poor Simmons was toddling all over
the place when we went in to put away our clubs, searching for her
with a telegram."
"Why didn't you open it?" asked Myra.
"Because my aunt never allows her telegrams to be opened. She loves
shocks; and there is always the possibility of a telegram containing
startling news. She says it completely spoils it if some one else
knows it first, and breaks it to her gently."
"Here comes the duchess," said Garth Dalmain, who was sitting where
he could see the little gate into the rose-garden.
"Do not mention the telegram," cautioned Jane. "It would not please
her that I should even know of its arrival. It would be a shame to
take any of the bloom off the unexpected delight of a wire on this
hot day, when nothing unusual seemed likely to happen."
They turned and looked towards the duchess as she bustled across the
lawn; this quaint old figure, who had called them together; who
owned the lovely place where they were spending such delightful
days; and whose odd whimsicalities had been so freely discussed
while they drank her tea and feasted off her strawberries. The men
rose as she approached, but not quite so spontaneously as they had
done for her niece.
The duchess carried a large wooden basket filled to overflowing with
exquisite roses. Every bloom was perfect, and each had been cut at
exactly the right moment.
