The Rosary | Page 5

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.
CHAPTER II
INTRODUCES THE HONOURABLE JANE
The only one of her relatives who practically made her home with the
duchess