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The Rosary
BY
Florence L. Barclay
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I ENTER--THE DUCHESS
II INTRODUCES THE HONOURABLE JANE
III THE SURPRISE PACKET
IV JANE VOLUNTEERS
V CONFIDENCES
VI THE VEIL IS LIFTED
VII GARTH FINDS HIS ROSARY
VIII ADDED PEARLS
IX LADY INGLEBY'S HOUSE PARTY
X THE REVELATION
XI GARTH FINDS THE CROSS
XII THE DOCTOR'S PRESCRIPTION
XIII THE ANSWER OF THE SPHINX
XIV IN DERYCK'S SAFE CONTROL
XV THE CONSULTATION
XVI THE DOCTOR FINDS A WAY
XVII ENTER--NURSE ROSEMARY
XVIII THE NAPOLEON OF THE MOORS
XIX THE VOICE IN THE DARKNESS.
XX JANE REPORTS PROGRESS
XXI HARD ON THE SECRETARY
XXII DR. ROB TO THE RESCUE
XXIII THE ONLY WAY
XXIV THE MAN'S POINT OF VIEW
XXV THE DOCTOR'S DIAGNOSIS
XXVI HEARTS MEET IN SIGHTLESS LAND
XXVII THE EYES GARTH TRUSTED
XXVIII IN THE STUDIO
XXIX JANE LOOKS INTO LOVES MIRROR
XXX "THE LADY PORTRAYED"
XXXI IN LIGHTER VEIN
XXXII AN INTERLUDE
XXXIII "SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN!"
XXXIV "LOVE NEVER FAILETH"
XXXV NURSE ROSEMARY HAS HER REWARD
XXXVI THE REVELATION OF THE ROSARY
XXXVII "IN THE FACE OF THIS CONGREGATION"
XXXVIII PERPETUAL LIGHT
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.