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 s.p.a.ce; 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 const.i.tution of the summer-house. And consequently the Owls were the guardians of the Const.i.tution. There are some human owls who reason as they did, and who are, in this respect--as also in respect of s.n.a.t.c.hing smaller birds off their roosts--wonderfully like them.
The const.i.tution of the summer-house had lasted until the spring of the year eighteen hundred and sixty-eight, when the unhallowed footsteps of innovation pa.s.sed that way; and the venerable privileges of the Owls were a.s.sailed, for the first time, from the world outside.
Two featherless beings appeared, uninvited, at the door of the summer-house, surveyed the const.i.tutional 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 Const.i.tution is destroyed!"
They pa.s.sed 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 Const.i.tution--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 pa.s.s a new resolution, namely, "That we do stand by the Const.i.tution," 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 Const.i.tution 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, a.s.sembled 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 b.u.t.terfly-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 s.p.a.ce 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 embarra.s.sed 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 c.o.c.k-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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sembly, 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-b.u.t.toned 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 k.n.o.b at the top--and he was socially dreaded for a hatred of modern inst.i.tutions, 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 t.i.tle 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 b.a.l.l.s 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.