Blanche, who had been children at the time; and the rising
solicitor who had discovered the flaw in the Irish marriage--once
Mr. Delamayn: now Lord Holchester.
THE STORY.
FIRST SCENE.--THE SUMMER-HOUSE.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE OWLS.
IN the spring of the year eighteen hundred and sixty-eight there
lived, in a certain county of North Britain, two venerable White
Owls.
The Owls inhabited a decayed and deserted summer-house. The
summer-house stood in grounds attached to a country seat in
Perthshire, known by the name of Windygates.
The situation of Windygates had been skillfully chosen in that
part of the county where the fertile lowlands first begin to
merge into the mountain region beyond. The mansion-house was
intelligently laid out, and luxuriously furnished. The stables
offered a model for ventilation and space; and the gardens and
grounds were fit for a prince.
Possessed of these advantages, at starting, Windygates,
nevertheless, went the road to ruin in due course of time. The
curse of litigation fell on house and lands. For more than ten
years an interminable lawsuit coiled itself closer and closer
round the place, sequestering it from human habitation, and even
from human approach. The mansion was closed. The garden became a
wilderness of weeds. The summer-house was choked up by creeping
plants; and the appearance of the creepers was followed by the
appearance of the birds of night.
For years the Owls lived undisturbed on the property which they
had acquired by the oldest of all existing rights--the right of
taking. Throughout the day they sat peaceful and solemn, with
closed eyes, in the cool darkness shed round them by the ivy.
With the twilight they roused themselves softly to the business
of life. In sage and silent companionship of two, they went
flying, noiseless, along the quiet lanes in search of a meal. At
one time they would beat a field like a setter dog, and drop down
in an instant on a mouse unaware of them. At another time--moving
spectral over the black surface of the water--they would try the
lake for a change, and catch a perch as they had caught the
mouse. Their catholic digestions were equally tolerant of a rat
or an insect. And there were moments, proud moments, in their
lives, when they were clever enough to snatch a small bird at
roost off his perch. On those occasions the sense of superiority
which the large bird feels every where over the small, warmed
their cool blood, and set them screeching cheerfully in the
stillness of the night.
So, for years, the Owls slept their happy sleep by day, and found
their comfortable meal when darkness fell. They had come, with
the creepers, into possession of the summer-house. Consequently,
the creepers were a part of the constitution of the summer-house.
And consequently the Owls were the guardians of the Constitution.
There are some human owls who reason as they did, and who are, in
this respect--as also in respect of snatching smaller birds off
their roosts--wonderfully like them.
The constitution of the summer-house had lasted until the spring
of the year eighteen hundred and sixty-eight, when the unhallowed
footsteps of innovation passed that way; and the venerable
privileges of the Owls were assailed, for the first time, from
the world outside.
Two featherless beings appeared, uninvited, at the door of the
summer-house, surveyed the constitutional creepers, and said,
"These must come down"--looked around at the horrid light of
noonday, and said, "That must come in"--went away, thereupon, and
were heard, in the distance, agreeing together, "To-morrow it
shall be done."
And the Owls said, "Have we honored the summer-house by occupying
it all these years--and is the horrid light of noonday to be let
in on us at last? My lords and gentlemen, the Constitution is
destroyed!"
They passed a resolution to that effect, as is the manner of
their kind. And then they shut their eyes again, and felt that
they had done their duty.
The same night, on their way to the fields, they observed with
dismay a light in one of the windows of the house. What did the
light mean?
It meant, in the first place, that the lawsuit was over at last.
It meant, in the second place that the owner of Windygates,
wanting money, had decided on letting the property. It meant, in
the third place, that the property had found a tenant, and was to
be renovated immediately out of doors and in. The Owls shrieked
as they flapped along the lanes in the darkness, And that night
they struck at a mouse--and missed him.
The next morning, the Owls--fast asleep in charge of the
Constitution--were roused by voices of featherless beings all
round them. They opened their eyes, under protest, and saw
instruments of destruction attacking the creepers. Now in one
direction, and now in another, those instruments let in on the
summer-house the horrid light of day. But the Owls were equal to
the occasion. They ruffled their feathers, and cried, "No
surrender!" The featherless beings plied their work cheerfully,
and answered, "Reform!" The creepers were torn down this way and
that. The horrid daylight poured in brighter and brighter. The
Owls had barely time to pass a new resolution, namely, "That we
do stand
by the Constitution," when a ray of the outer sunlight flashed
into their eyes, and sent them flying headlong to the nearest
shade. There they sat winking, while the summer-house was cleared
of the rank growth that had choked it up, while the rotten
wood-work was renewed, while all the murky place was purified
with air and light. And when the world saw it, and said, "Now we
shall do!" the Owls shut their eyes in pious remembrance of the
darkness, and answered, "My lords and gentlemen, the Constitution
is destroyed!"
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE GUESTS.
Who was responsible for the reform of the summer-house? The new
tenant at Windygates was responsible.
And who was the new tenant?
Come, and see.
In the spring of eighteen hundred and sixty-eight the
summer-house had been the dismal dwelling-place of a pair of
owls. In the autumn
of the same year the summer-house was the lively gathering-place
of a crowd of ladies and gentlemen, assembled at a lawn
party--the guests of the tenant who had taken Windygates.
The scene--at the opening of the party--was as pleasant to look
at as light and beauty and movement could make it.
Inside the summer-house the butterfly-brightness of the women in
their summer dresses shone radiant out of the gloom shed round it
by the dreary modern clothing of the men. Outside the
summer-house, seen through three arched openings, the cool green
prospect of a lawn led away, in the distance, to flower-beds and
shrubberies, and, farther
still, disclosed, through a break in
the trees, a grand stone house which closed the view, with a
fountain in front of it playing in the sun.
They were half of them laughing, they were all of them
talking--the comfortable hum of their voices was at its loudest;
the cheery pealing of the laughter was soaring to its highest
notes--when one dominant voice, rising clear and shrill above all
the rest, called imperatively for silence. The moment after, a
young lady stepped into the vacant space in front of the
summer-house, and surveyed the throng of guests as a general in
command surveys a regiment under review.
She was young, she was pretty, she was plump, she was fair. She
was not the least embarrassed by her prominent position. She was
dressed in the height of the fashion. A hat, like a cheese-plate,
was tilted over her forehead. A balloon of light brown hair
soared, fully inflated, from the crown of her head. A cataract of
beads poured over her bosom. A pair of cock-chafers in enamel
(frightfully like the living originals) hung at her ears. Her
scanty skirts shone splendid with the blue of heaven. Her ankles
twinkled in striped stockings. Her shoes were of the sort called
"Watteau." And her heels were of the height at which men shudder,
and ask themselves (in contemplating an otherwise lovable woman),
"Can this charming person straighten her knees?"
The young lady thus presenting herself to the general view was
Miss Blanche Lundie--once the little rosy Blanche whom the
Prologue has introduced to the reader. Age, at the present time,
eighteen. Position, excellent. Money, certain. Temper, quick.
Disposition, variable. In a word, a child of the modern
time--with the merits of the age we live in, and the failings of
the age we live in--and a substance of sincerity and truth and
feeling underlying it all.
"Now then, good people," cried Miss Blanche, "silence, if you
please! We are going to choose sides at croquet. Business,
business, business!"
Upon this, a second lady among the company assumed a position of
prominence, and answered the young person who had just spoken
with a look of mild reproof, and in a tone of benevolent protest.
The second lady was tall, and solid, and five-and-thirty. She
presented to the general observation a cruel aquiline nose, an
obstinate straight chin, magnificent dark hair and eyes, a serene
splendor of fawn-colored apparel, and a lazy grace of movement
which was attractive at first sight, but inexpressibly monotonous
and wearisome on a longer acquaintance. This was Lady Lundie the
Second, now the widow (after four months only of married life) of
Sir Thomas Lundie, deceased. In other words, the step-mother of
Blanche, and the enviable person who had taken the house and
lands of Windygates.
"My dear," said Lady Lundie, "words have their meanings--even on
a young lady's lips. Do you call Croquet, 'business?' "
"You don't call it pleasure, surely?" said a gravely ironical
voice in the back-ground of the summer-house.
The ranks of the visitors parted before the last speaker, and
disclosed to view, in the midst of that modern assembly, a
gentleman of the bygone time.
The manner of this gentleman was distinguished by a pliant grace
and courtesy unknown to the present generation. The attire of
this gentleman was composed of a many-folded white cravat, a
close-buttoned blue dress-coat, and nankeen trousers with gaiters
to match, ridiculous to the present generation. The talk of this
gentleman ran in an easy flow--revealing an independent habit of
mind, and exhibiting a carefully-polished capacity for satirical
retort--dreaded and disliked by the present generation.
Personally, he was little and wiry and slim--with a bright white
head, and sparkling black eyes, and a wry twist of humor curling
sharply at the corners of his lips. At his lower extremities, he
exhibited the deformity which is popularly known as "a
club-foot." But he carried his lameness, as he carried his years,
gayly. He was socially celebrated for his ivory cane, with a
snuff-box artfully let into the knob at the top--and he was
socially dreaded for a hatred of modern institutions, which
expressed itself in season and out of season, and which always
showed the same, fatal knack of hitting smartly on the weakest
place. Such was Sir Patrick Lundie; brother of the late baronet,
Sir Thomas; and inheritor, at Sir Thomas's death, of the title
and estates.
Miss Blanche--taking no notice of her step-mother's reproof, or
of her uncle's commentary on it--pointed to a table on which
croquet mallets and balls were laid ready, and recalled the
attention of the company to the matter in hand.
"I head one side, ladies and gentlemen," she resumed. "And Lady
Lundie heads the other. We choose our players turn and turn
about. Mamma has the advantage of me in years. So mamma chooses
first."
With a look at her step-daughter--which, being interpreted,
meant, "I would send you back to the nursery, miss, if I
could!"--Lady Lundie turned and ran her eye over her guests. She
had evidently made up her mind, beforehand, what player to pick
out first.
"I choose Miss Silvester," she said--with a special emphasis laid
on the name.
At that there was another parting among the crowd. To us (who
know her), it was Anne who now appeared. Strangers, who saw her
for the first time, saw a lady in the prime of her life--a lady
plainly dressed in unornamented white--who advanced slowly, and
confronted the mistress of the house.
A certain proportion--and not a small one--of the men at the
lawn-party had been brought there by friends who were privileged
to introduce them. The moment she appeared every one of those men
suddenly became interested in the lady who had been chosen first.
"That's a very charming woman," whispered one of the strangers at
the house to one of the friends of the house. "Who is she?"
The friend whispered back.
"Miss Lundie's governess--that's all."
The moment during which the question was put and answered was
also the moment which brought Lady Lundie and Miss Silvester face
to face in the presence of the company.
The stranger at the house looked at the two women, and whispered
again.
"Something wrong between the lady and the governess," he said.
The friend looked also, and answered, in one emphatic word:
"Evidently!"
There are certain women whose influence over men is an
unfathomable mystery to observers of their own sex. The governess
was one of those women. She had inherited the charm, but not the
beauty, of her unhappy mother. Judge her by the standard set up
in the illustrated gift-books and the print-shop windows--and the
sentence must have inevitably followed. "She has not a single
good feature
in her face."
There was nothing individually remarka
ble about Miss Silvester,
seen in a state of repose. She was of the average height. She was
as well made as most women. In hair and complexion she was
neither light nor dark, but provokingly neutral just between the
two. Worse even than this, there were positive defects in her
face, which it was impossible to deny. A nervous contraction at
one corner of her mouth drew up the lips out of the symmetrically
right line, when, they moved. A nervous uncertainty in the eye on
the same side narrowly escaped presenting the deformity of a
"cast." And yet, with these indisputable drawbacks, here was one
of those women--the formidable few--who have the hearts of men
and the peace of families at their mercy. She moved--and there
was some subtle charm, Sir, in the movement, that made you look
back, and suspend your conversation with your friend, and watch
her silently while she walked. She sat by you and talked to
you--and behold, a sensitive something passed into that little
twist at the corner of the mouth, and into that nervous
uncertainty in the soft gray eye, which turned defect into
beauty--which enchained your senses--which made your nerves
thrill if she touched you by accident, and set your heart beating
if you looked at the same book with her, and felt her breath on
your face. All this, let it be well understood, only happened if
you were a man.
If you saw her with the eyes of a woman, the results were of
quite another kind. In that case you merely turned to your
nearest female friend, and said, with unaffected pity for the
other sex, "What _can_ the men see in her!"
The eyes of the lady of the house and the eyes of the governess
met, with marked distrust on either side. Few people could have
failed to see what the stranger and the friend had noticed
alike--that there was something smoldering under the surface
here. Miss Silvester spoke first.
"Thank you, Lady Lundie," she said. "I would rather not play."
Lady Lundie assumed an extreme surprise which passed the limits
of good-breeding.
"Oh, indeed?" she rejoined, sharply. "Considering that we are all
here for the purpose of playing, that seems rather remarkable. Is
any thing wrong, Miss Silvester?"
A flush appeared on the delicate paleness of Miss Silvester's
face. But she did her duty as a woman and a governess. She
submitted, and so preserved appearances, for that time.
"Nothing is the matter," she answered. "I am not very well this
morning. But I will play if you wish it."
"I do wish it," answered Lady Lundie.
Miss Silvester turned aside toward one of the entrances into the
summer-house. She waited for events, looking out over the lawn,
with a visible inner disturbance, marked over the bosom by the
rise and fall of her white dress.
It was Blanche's turn to select the next player .
In some preliminary uncertainty as to her choice she looked about
among the guests, and caught the eye of a gentleman in the front
ranks. He stood side by side with Sir Patrick--a striking
representative of the school that is among us--as Sir Patrick was
a striking representative of the school that has passed away.
The modern gentleman was young and florid, tall and strong. The
parting of his curly Saxon locks began in the center of his
forehead, traveled over the top of his head, and ended,
rigidly-central, at the ruddy nape of his neck. His features were
as perfectly regular and as perfectly unintelligent as human
features can be. His expression preserved an immovable composure
wonderful to behold. The muscles of his brawny arms showed
through the sleeves of his light summer coat. He was deep in the
chest, thin in the flanks, firm on the legs--in two words a
magnificent human animal, wrought up to the highest pitch of
physical development, from head to foot. This was Mr. Geoffrey
Delamayn--commonly called "the honorable;" and meriting that