"COUNTESS DROMARD AT HOME."
The hall gates were plain enough from the rectory lawn, but plainer
still from the steps whence, on the afternoon of the garden party, Mr.
Holland watched them from under the brim of the first hard hat he had
worn for a fortnight. He was ready, while the ladies were traditionally
late, but he did not lose patience; he was too much entertained in
watching the hall gates and the hedgerow that hid the road leading up to
them. Vehicles were filing along this road in a procession which for the
moment was continuous. Erskine could see them over the hedge, and it was
difficult to do so without sharing some opinions which Mrs. Willoughby
had expressed regarding the comprehensive character of the social
measure taken not before it was time by the noble family within those
gates. There were county clergymen driving themselves in ill-balanced
dogcarts, and county townspeople in carriages manifestly hired, and
county bigwigs--as big as the Dromards themselves--in splendid
equipages, with splendid coachmen and horseflesh the most magnificent.
Greater processional versatility might scarcely be seen in southwestern
suburbs on Derby Day; and the low phaeton which he himself was about to
contribute to the medley made Erskine laugh.
"We should follow the next really swagger turnout--we should run behind
it," he suggested to the girls when at length they appeared; and Ruth
took him seriously.
"No, get in front of them," said Herbert, who was lounging on the steps,
in dirty flannels which Erskine envied him. "Get in front of them and
slow down. That'd be the sporting thing to do! They couldn't pass you in
the drive. It would do 'em good."
However, the procession was not without gaps, and to Ruth's satisfaction
they found themselves in rather a wide one. As they drove through those
august gates a parson's dogcart was rounding a curve some distance
ahead, but nothing was in sight behind. Ruth sat beside her husband, who
drove. She looked rather demure, but very charming in her little
matronly bonnet; her costume was otherwise somewhat noticeably sober,
and certainly she had never felt more sensibly the married sister than
now, as she glanced at Christina with furtive anxiety, but open
admiration. Tiny was neatly dressed in white, and her hat was white
also. "Do you know why I wear a white hat?" she asked Erskine on the
way; but her question proved merely to be an impudent adaptation of a
very disreputable old riddle, and beyond this she was unusually silent
during the short drive. Yet she seemed not only self-possessed, but
inwardly at her ease. She sat on the little seat in front, often turning
round to gaze ahead, and her curiosity and interest were very frank and
natural. So were her admiration of the park, her anxiety to see the
house itself, and even her wonder at the great length of the drive,
which ran alongside the cricket field, and then bent steadily to the
left. When at last the low red-brick pile became visible, Gallow Hill
was seen immediately behind it, which surprised Christina; the lawn in
front was alive with people, which put her on her mettle; and the
inspiriting outburst of a military band at that moment forced from her
an admission of the pleasure and excitement which had been growing upon
her for some minutes.
"I like this!" she exclaimed. "This is first-rate England!"
Countess Dromard stood on the edge of the lawn at the front of the
house, and apparently the carriages were unloading at this side of the
drive. Ruth whispered hurriedly that she was sure they were, but she was
not so sure in reality, and she now saw the disadvantage of arriving in
a wide gap, which deprives the inexperienced of their lawful cue. She
was quite right, however, and when some minutes elapsed before the
arrival of another carriage to interrupt the charming little
conversation Ruth had with Lady Dromard, the good of the gap became
triumphantly apparent. The countess was very kind indeed. She was a
tall, fine woman, with whom the shadows of life had scarce begun to
lengthen to the eye; her face was not only handsome, but wonderfully
fresh, and she had a trick of lowering it as she chatted with Ruth,
bending over her in a way which was comfortable and almost motherly from
the first. She had heard of Mrs. Holland, whom she was glad to meet at
last, and of whom she now hoped to see something more. Ruth observed
that they had the rectory only till September; she was sorry her time
was so short. Lady Dromard very flatteringly echoed her sorrow, and also
professed an envious admiration for the rectory, which she described as
idyllic. That was practically all. What was said of the weather hardly
counted; and a repetition of her ladyship's hopes of seeing something
more of Mrs. Holland and her party was not worth remembering, according
to Erskine, who declared that this meant nothing at all.
Ruth, however, was not likely to forget it; though she treasured just as
much the memory of a certain glance which she had caught the countess
leveling at her sister. She thought that other eyes also were attracted
by the white-robed Tiny, and the smooth-shaven turf was air to Ruth's
tread as she marched off with her husband and that cynosure. Nor was her
satisfaction decreased when the first person they came across chanced to
be no other than Mrs. Willoughby. This meeting was literally the
unexpected treat that Ruth pronounced it to be, for the clergyman's wife
was smiling in a manner which showed that she had witnessed the
countess' singular civility to her friend.
"Yes, I'm here after all," said Mrs. Willoughby grimly. "Henry made me
very angry by insisting on coming, but of course I wasn't going to let
him come alone. I hope you think he looks happy now he's here!" (Mr.
Willoughby and a brother rector might have been hatching dark designs
against their bishop, who was himself present, judging by their looks.)
"_I_ call him the picture of misery. Well, Mrs. Holland, I hope you are
gratified at your reception! Oh, it was quite gushing, I assure you; we
have all been watching. But wait till you meet them in Piccadilly, my
dear Mrs. Holland."
Mrs. Holland left the reply to her husband, who, however, contented
himself with promising Mrs. Willoughby a telegraphic report of the
proceedings at that meeting, if it ever took place.
"Ah, there won't be much to report," said that redoubtable woman; "they
won't look at you. But I shouldn't be surprised to see them make a deal
of you in the country, if you let them."
It did not seem conducive to the enjoyment of the afternoon to prolong
the conversation with Mrs. Willoughby. The party of three wandered
toward the band, admiring the scarlet coats of the bandsmen against the
dark green of the shrubbery, and their bright brass instruments flaming
in the sun. The music also was of much spirit and gayety, and it was
agreed that a band was an immense improvement to a rite of this sort.
Then these three, who, after all, knew very few people present, followed
the example of others, and made a circuit of the house, in high good
humor. But Tiny found herself between two conversational fires, for Ruth
would compel her to express admiration for the premises, which might
have been taken for granted, while Erskine called her attention to the
people, who were much more entertaining to watch. As they passed a table
devoted to refreshments, at which a large lady was being waited upon
very politely by a small boy in a broad collar, they overheard one of
those scraps of conversation which amuse at the moment.
"So you're a Dromard boy, are you?" the lady was saying. "I've never
seen you before. What Dromard boy are _you_, pray?"
"My name's Douglas."
"Oh! So you're the Honorable Douglas Dromard, are you?"
The boy handed her an ice without answering as the three passed on.
"I said you'd see and hear some queer things," whispered Mr. Holland;
"but you won't hear anything much finer than that. The woman is Mrs.
Foster-Simpson; her husband's a solicitor, and may be the Conservative
agent, if his wife doesn't disqualify him. She professes to know all
about the Dromards, as you heard the other day. You can guess the kind
of knowledge. Even the boy snubs her. Yet mark him. The mixture of
politeness and contempt was worth noticing in a small boy like that.
There's a little nobleman for you!"
"No, a little Englishman," said Tiny. "Now that's a thing I do envy
you--your schoolboys, your little gentlemen! We don't grow them so
little in the colonies; we don't know how."
They were walking on a majestic terrace in the shadow of the red-brick
house, their figures mirrored in each mullioned window as they passed
it.
"I call Lord Manister the luckiest young man in England," Ruth exclaimed
during a pause between the other two. "To think that all this will be
his!"
"It rather reminds me of Hampton Court on this side," remarked Tiny
indifferently.
"And it's by no means their only place, you know; there are others they
never use, are there not, Erskine?--to say nothing of all those squares
and streets in town!"
But Erskine sounded the thick sibilant of silence as they passed a
shabby looking person with a slouching walk and a fair beard.
"I wonder how _he_ got here?" Tiny murmured next moment.
"He has a better right than most of us."
"What do you mean, Erskine?"
"Well, it's the earl."
"Earl Dromard? I should have guessed his gardener!"
"No, that's the earl. Old clothes are his special fancy in the country.
It's his particular form of side, so they say."
"Well," said Tiny, "I prefer it to his son's, which has always appeared
to me to be the other extreme."
"I am sure Lord Manister is not over-dressed," remonstrated Ruth, with
her usual alacrity in defense of his lordship.
"No, that's the worst of him," answered her sister. "There is nothing to
find fault with, ever; that's what makes one think he employs his
intellect on the study of his appearance."
They had seen Lord Manister in the distance. Presumably he had not seen
them, but he might have done so; and Ruth supposed it was the doubt that
made her sister speak of him more captiously than usual. But the
criticism was not utterly unfair, as Ruth might presently have seen for
herself; for as they came back to the front of the house, Lord Manister
detached himself from a group, and approached them with the suave smile
and the slight flourish of the hat which were two of his tricks.
Christina asked afterward if the flourish was not dreadfully
continental, but she was told that it was merely up to date, like the
hat itself. At the time, however, she introduced Lord Manister to her
sister Mrs. Erskine Holland, and to Mr. Holland, taking this liberty
with charming grace and tact, yet with a becoming amount of natural
shyness. Manister, for one, was pleased with the introduction on all
grounds. From the first, however, he addressed himself to the married
lady, speaking partly of the surrounding country, for which Ruth could
not say too much, and partly of Melbourne, which enabled him to return
her compliments. His manner was eminently friendly and polite.
Discovering that they had not yet been in the house for tea, he led the
way thither, and through a throng of people in the hall, and so into the
dining room. Here he saved the situation from embarrassment by making
himself equally attentive to another party. To Ruth, however, Lord
Manister's civility was still sufficiently marked, while he asked her
husband whether he was a cricketer; and this reminded him of Herbert,
for whom he gave Miss Luttrell a message. He said they had just arranged
some cricket for the last week of the month; he thought they would be
glad of Miss Luttrell's brother in one or two of the matches. But he
seemed to fear that most of the teams were made up; his young brother
was arranging everything. Christina gathered that in any case they would
be glad to see Herbert at the nets any afternoon of the following week,
more especially on the Monday. Lord Manister made a point of the
message, and also of the cricket week, "when," he said, "you must all
turn up if it's fine." And those were his last words to them.
"I see you know my son," said the countess in her kindliest manner as
Ruth thanked her for a charming afternoon.
"My sister met him the other day at Lady Almeric's," replied Ruth, "and
before that in Australia."
"I knew Lord Manister in Melbourne," added Tiny with freedom.
"Do you mean to tell me you are Australians?" said Lady Dromard in a
tone that complimented the girls at the expense of their country. "Then
you must certainly come and see me," she added cordially, though her
surprise was still upon her. "I am greatly interested in Australia since
my son was there. I feel I have a welcome for all Australians--you
welcomed him, you know!"
Christina afterward expressed the firm opinion that Lady Dromard had
said this rather strangely, which Ruth as firmly denied. Tiny was
accused of an imaginative self-consciousness, and the accusation
provoked a blush, which Ruth took care to remember. Certainly, if the
countess had spoken queerly, the queerness had escaped the one person
who was not on the lookout for something of the kind; Erskine Holland
had perceived nothing but her ladyship's condescension, which had been
indeed remarkable, though Erskine still told his wife to expect no
further notice from that quarter.
"And I'm selfish enough to hope you'll get none, my dears," he said to
the girls that evening as they sauntered through the kitchen garden
after dinner; "because for my part I'd much rather not be noticed by
them. We were not intended to take seriously anything that was said this
afternoon; honey was the order of the day for all comers--and can't you
imagine them wiping their foreheads when we were all gone? I only hope
they wiped us out of their heads! We're much happier as we are. I'm not
rabid, like Mrs. Willoughby; but she prophesied a very possible
experience, when all's said and done, confound her! I have visions of
Piccadilly myself. And seriously, Ruth, you wouldn't like it if you
became friendly with these people here and they cut you in town; no more
should I. I think you can't be too careful with people of that sort; and
if they ask us again I vote we don't go; but they won't ask us any
more, you may depend upon it."
"I don't depend upon it, all the same," replied Ruth, with some spirit.
"Lady Dromard was most kind; and as for Lord Manister, _I_ was enchanted
with him."
"Were you?" Tiny said, feeling vaguely that she was challenged.
"I was; I thought him unaffected and friendly, and even simple. I am
sure he is simple-minded! I am also sure that you won't find another
young man in his position who is better natured or better hearted----"
"Or better mannered--or better dressed! You are quite right; he is
nearly perfect. He is rather too perfect for me in his manners and
appearance; I should like to untidy him; I should like to put him in a
temper. Lord Manister was never in a temper in his life; he's nicer than
most people--but he's too nice altogether for me!"
"You knew him rather well in Melbourne?" said Erskine, eyeing his
sister-in-law curiously; her face was toward the moon, and her
expression was set and scornful.
"Very well indeed," she answered with her erratic candor.
"I might have guessed as much that time in town. I say, if we meet _him_
in Piccadilly we may score off Mrs. Willoughby yet! Wait till we get
back----"
"All right; only don't let us wait out here," Ruth interrupted--"or Tiny
and I may have to go back in our coffins!"