In general shape, design, and texture, this primitive article was more like an inverted vegetable basket than anything else. Unmistakably rustic, even in its prime, it was now old, discolored, and misshapen; and the piece of black ribbon that had adorned it in its youth was really not fit for the West End of London. Purchased of the general outfitter of Slocum Magna for the sum of one and elevenpence halfpenny in the spring of 1900, I am not concerned to deny that it was as rudimentary a form of headgear as was ever devised by the very remote district to which it owed its being. It had absolutely no business at all in that chaste thoroughfare which for many years past has been dedicated to the usage of fashion.
I am taking up a lot of time over the hat, although I am aware that my readers are saying, “Bother the hat! Tell us what is underneath it.” Precisely. All in good time. But it is my duty to set down things in the exact order they emerged from the dim recesses of the “growler.” The inverted vegetable basket was the first to emerge undoubtedly. And then came the tip of a chin. It was inclined at a furtive angle of feminine curiosity. Although only the extreme tip of it was visible, the preposterous headgear which overshadowed it really ought not to be mentioned on the same page with it. For there can be no question that the chin was the work of a very great Artist indeed.
The cabman came down from his perch. He was a veteran, with an extremely red visage, and a general look of knowledge which he had a perfect right to assume.
“You are ’ere, miss,” said he, as he opened the door of the “growler” with a spacious air which almost suggested that he was the ground landlord of the whole of the West End of London. “You would like the portmanter down, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, please,” drawled a friendly voice from within.
While the cabman, with great ceremony and an immense display of exertion, was lifting the corded box from the roof, the owner of the inverted vegetable basket emerged from the “growler,” marched up the steps of the Right Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne’s town residence, and rang a loud peal upon the front-door bell.
The front door was opened immediately by no less a person than John, who was rather inclined to expect a duchess. John devoted the greater, the more serious portion of his life to the expectation of duchesses. And with his imperturbable mien, his somewhat supercilious eyes, and his superb suit of livery, which did infinite credit to the most exclusive firm in Savile Row, no man on this planet, whatever point they have reached in Mars, was better fitted to receive one.
John was taken aback. By an inexcusable oversight on the part of the powers that obtained in Hill Street, the personal retainers of the Right Honorable the Countess of Crewkerne had not been informed that her ladyship expected her niece. No carriage had been sent to meet her. The fact was that the old lady expected her on the following day. Whether the Reverend Aloysius Perry had expressed himself obscurely, or whether Lady Crewkerne and her gentlewoman had read his letter carelessly, is a problem not easy to solve. But there the matter stood. The fair visitor from Slocum Magna in the middle of Dartmoor, North Devon, was not in the least expected, and John was taken aback.
It did not take him long to recover, however, for his natural self-possession was considerable, and he was a man of the world. Almost immediately he began to subject the invader to a very severe scrutiny. He began with the crown of her hat. To say the least, the beginning was very unfortunate. From the hat his hostile gaze passed to a very rustic-looking cloak which had a hood to it. If there was one thing that John despised more than another, it was a cloak with a hood.
Then the frock underneath! It was a sort of lilac print arrangement, faded in places, and completely outgrown by its wearer, who—whisper it not in Bond Street!—stood exactly six feet in her stockings. As the intelligent reader will doubtless surmise, the skirt of this nondescript garment displayed a great deal more ankle than is considered correct in the metropolis. And such ankles! Yet the boots which adorned them may have made them appear worse than they really were. The village cobbler at Slocum Magna has always been allowed to be a conscientious and painstaking craftsman, but it is very doubtful whether he will ever be awarded a diploma for his skill in the higher graces of his calling. The ankles of the fair visitor were encased in the stoutest, most misshapen pair of laced-up boots John had ever seen in his life.